A Letter to Kilgore Trout
At this very moment, I am writing you this
letter upon a series of glossy fliers promoting
various ethnic massages. The windshield of
my sedan is so littered with these distractions
that I possess little hope of seeing oncoming
traffic ever again. In short sir, I am asleep.
I have lodged myself in Ilium, New York, &
I cannot awake. Do you know a way out,
a secret off ramp, or perhaps some direct
route that requires a complete lack of vision?
I have a keen suspicion that I'm snoring
rather loudly, & am undoubtedly annoying
my fellow passengers in the nearby Dining
Car, so I shall be brief: Help. I am located in
the third row of the Red Light Lot of the Pan-
Amorous Mall in North by North West Ilium.
The crowds of shoppers are swirling around
me, Kilgore, so time is of the essence. You see,
last night a vote was cast by the Ruling Party
which decreed that all non-reproductive sexual
fetishes would, not only be legally sanctioned,
but receive monetary government sponsorship.
The only catch is that all likeminded partners
must be paired up within an allotted time.
Oh Kilgore, I have no partner. I have no time.
My last hope is to be directed out of Ilium.
I have simple wishes: I merely wish to wake
up beside the Dining Car window; I simply
wish to consume my whole wheat tuna melt
while a harsh landscape, that I cannot help
but distinguish, zips by me in glorious reverse,
like a malfunctioning teleportation device.