I pause to consider the disconnect. My left hand slides across brittle, ancient parchment. My right presses a spit-glued mass of hair and fingernail clippings into moist, vaguely man-shaped clay.
It’s science, really. All quantum entanglement. Plucking at superstrings to make the universe play my song.
A drop of blood is the final note: it’s him. Him enough. I put it (him) in front of the phone. I suggest a few lurid sexts.
They’ll be sent. Found. A scandal for a family man. Enough to put us ahead in the polls.
He should have known. Politics isn’t money…it’s witchcraft.
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