I Always Carry A Pistol When I

We're All Not Quite As Sane As We Pretend To Be.

I Always Carry A Pistol When I Go [to The New York Public Library]. Never Did Trust Those Stone Lions.

Funny How We Take It For Granted That We Know All There Is To Know About Another Person, Just Because We See Them Frequently Or Because Of Some Strong Emotional Tie.

Then She Did See It There - Just A Face, Peering Through The Curtains, Hanging In Midair Like A Mask. A Head-scarf Concealed The Hair And The Glassy Eyes Stared Inhumanly, But It Wasn’t A Mask, It Couldn’t Be. The Skin Had Been Powdered Dead-white And Two Hectic Spots Of Rouge Centered On The Cheekbones. It Wasn’t A Mask. It Was The Face Of A Crazy Old Woman. Mary Started To Scream, And Then The Curtains Parted Further And A Hand Appeared, Holding A Butcher’s Knife. It Was The Knife That, A Moment Later, Cut Off Her Scream. And Her Head.

I Haven't Had This Much Fun Since The Rats Ate My Baby Sister