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At the large house at the end of the block that serves as an apothecary and home of a weird man named Fielden Mousen, an ogre sits atop the chimney and stares out at the smoke-rimmed world around him. Fielden is riding in the tiny elevator, and the house has an elevator because it is so tall, red, and rickety.

Red like the color of dirt-strewn beets fresh from the earth with black trim and loads of windows and balconies. A chrome rooster serves as a lightning rod so Fielden can suck energy from the sky for his chemical experiments.

He recalls the snowy day in Telluride and getting high in a purple hotel and losing his keys but then never really losing them just misplacing them but freaking out anyways because he was high and paranoid and then going to a lodging place at Mesa Verde and getting high there too but this place didn’t have a television set because the only thing worth watching was the atmosphere and the high clouds and the sun and the mesas and the trees and the rocks. Then going to Ouray in the Colorado Alps and getting high in the motel bathroom while looking out the window. Being paranoid again. Thinking someone was going to get him for smoking pot… In a town with luscious pancakes and gorgeous scenery and relentless peace and quiet and everything else good in the world that he could absorb.

But victory never comes easily. It’s like chasing peanuts in a tornado. Swimming in devastation, a trembling noise like death comes asunder, the people are scared, they crawl from the debris like a Texas rattler, and somewhere else far away a Samurai studies the ancient ways in a small-town library where dreams come alive on paper and pages. But then his bad ways kick in, and he gets nervous and rushes off to the restroom to huff gasoline. His nervousness swirls in the sea of toxic inebriation and he’s so messed up he thinks he wants to eat batteries dipped in peanut butter. Oh, the ache of the Samurai’s heart, the sadness, that feeling of unfulfillment. He needs to drink coffee until he’s in a stupor and when he comes to, he will go into battle and chop off some heads. What a heinous act of war. Lopping off heads and they fall to the ground like soccer balls with hair.  

Fielden Mousen wakes from weird dreams. His nerves are on fire. He feels nauseous. It’s severe. He throws up. The chaotic world of chaos has triggered him again. He feels cold in his underwear, sitting there like a stump in the frozen yard of yesterday. One day of breath and freedom and then he must return to the salt mine and dig for salt all day long. Pickaxe and bow. Hammer and chisel. Shovel and a plastic beach pail for sand. And then he recalls the days at the lakefront beach, digging and building, waves rolling, parents watching, other kids running and playing and the big red lighthouse stands and saves. And the sun feels warm and the sky is clear and blowing and then someone is drowning and people are wailing and he closes his eyes and covers his head because his friend Carlton has fallen into the sea and all the ducks have turned blue. It only takes a second to turn our lives upside down.