Governor Terrance is governor of our brave colony. He reminds us, “You better believe freedom is not free, because it isn’t. It is expensive as stuff.” The governor presses his index finger against the top of the lectern very hard, and he does it again and it becomes a kind of violent stabbing motion, which is not winning over the crowd necessarily.

In chimes Jeremy from nearby the stairs: “As shit, don’t you mean, Governor?” then, “As shit?” he repeats, and it’s clear Jeremy is fond of speaking that word. The governor regards Jeremy—who is after all only fifteen and prone to saying just whatever he feels, whenever it pleases him. Narrowing his Governor eyes to angry slits but nodding pensively, the Governor says, “Yes young man, yes Jeremy, it’s as expensive as how you put it. Thanks so much for that.” And the governor begins to clap gingerly, sarcastically, but no one in the crowd is amused by this, and so shortly after he started clapping the governor stops.

TOP HAT: Hello cellmates! Top Hat, esquire, at your service. It looks as though you will have the pleasure of my company for a little while. You see, I had the utter misfortune of landing on Go to Jail, and well, here I am! But, no worries, I’m sure we will have a grand ol’ time together! So, tell me, what brings the rest of you to this dreadfully decorated place of incarceration?

Shopping grounds me. I interpret my sense of personal success, as usual, on my alacrity and ability to bargain. Striking my Safeway card through the machine like a knife. The checker, a handsome teenager with a faint, pitiful mustache, fails to meet my gaze. Am I really so old? I ask him how his day went. The question misses him, no entry, no exit, no effect. Just fine. He hands me my two plastic bags. Ghosts to carry home.

Our backyard sloped down like the tongue of a thirsty dog. Its steepness made for excruciating leaf raking, impossible lawn mowing, and unbelievable sledding. Of course, my fondest backyard memories are from sledding season. My two brothers and I would fight over the runner sled, which our family had owned for so long that it creaked like a rocking chair and made its own decisions, steering-wise. With enough grease on its runners and a good push, this sled really got going. The company that made it—during Colonial times, we figured—had named it “The AstroGlider.” The paint had mostly worn off, but we could still faintly read the sled’s motto, printed on one side: The Smoothest Ride Around. Our parents thought this was funny.

He manages his finely tuned anti-élan with bureaucratic flair, killing the life out of the walls and people in our tiny office on Porter Street. He stalks the hallways with his organizationally upright diction, walk, and mannerisms. His indefatigable confidence is both boring and compulsive. Skinny, like an assemblage of toothpicks holding up a suit, the visibility of his bone structure shows a love of desk, paperwork, and company–a willingness to persevere to starvation in order to fulfill the demands of a deified “efficiency” and to bring misery to those who don’t.