The butcher-surgeons, fallen doctors from long-abandoned hospitals, were now encamped in the lobby, surrounding the surrogate with dubious intentions, filling me with relief at having picked up the package just in time. Packed within a crumbling block of white powder were two cassette tapes, each of which I loaded into the small stereo routed into the PA, turning the volume up while sucking the powder off my hands. My ears began to numb while the butcher-surgeons prepared their tarps and buckets beneath a surrogate, used by automated businesses which dealt with potentially dangerous clients instead of actual onsite clerks. The mouth-speaker of the surrogate burst into smashing sounds, muted explosions, triggering memories of when these once-magnificent doctors had been contaminated during emergency FEMA-mandated service, where every body developed its own specific isolated pathologies, new organs, completely invalidating years of study and practice, wounding the doctors in a way from which they would never recover. A nostalgic mania swept them, a faraway look in the eyes, kitchen knives falling from their hands, filled with the memory of when it was blood and not water which flooded the streets. The largest of the doctors began to quietly weep, his fists knotted and trembling with all those who had made a home within a temporary confluence of spectacle and violence which would never be returned to once it had gone, no matter the rate of attack, no mater the skin notches up the arms, muscular exhaustion from well-timed veve. Sidereal precision. Murmur wisdom.

the exit is hidden within the exit