Nineteen tequilas later we had a deal: Havana goes back to the mob, and the Sunday Comics open a chain of Kentucky Fried Chicken shops. Ain’t life sweet?

She says she knows my kind, she might, maybe so. Oh, yeah, she’s raised you right, your auntie Grizelda: You only read the Sunday Comics for show.

State your case with black or white, but when the Sunday Comics leads to shots, grit your teeth. You run for cover so discreet, why don’t they?

Them surround the place, them dey wait. Wait them helmet and them guns, and them petrol and them matches. Then suddenly, them dey break, steal, loot, burn, them break some some head.

They’re searching for Sunday. They’re grabbing the Comics. Sex and sin, sax and violins; it’s hell: wooden heads, furniture with legs. For sale.

Last night I had that dream again. I dreamed I had to read the Comics, on a Sunday on another planet…and then I looked around, and there was this woman — she was making it all up, she was writing it all down.

You had to piss on our parade; you had to shred our Sunday Comics; you had to ruin it for all concerned in a drunken punch-up at a wedding.

I like to read the Sunday Comics, so I can disappear to run and hide. I like to hide behind my glasses, so in myself I can confide. I like to read the Sunday Comics, so I can make the boss the little man.

We would like to say things go both ways: Sunday Comics; stupid moves, nightmares or dreams come true. Dark clouds in the crystal ball; tension mounts in a foreign place. The screw turns someone calls, “time out for fun.”

Read the Comics from Sunday when nobody was looking; found them locked in a basement when they gentrified Queen Anne. Was left a list of instructions, MPC and a mic, a sci-fi library and utensils to write.