First, Crusher Wants You to Know

. . . that Crusher does more than crush. Crusher, when not crushing, also is writing a novel.

For example.

There's a lot of sadness and loss and loneliness in Crusher's novel. Crusher has to write about these things, as well as be silly and stupid a lot of the time, because if Crusher doesn't, Crusher will shoot bullets into Crusher's head as many times as necessary to make Crusher dead. This is because Crusher thinks life, outside of books like the one Crusher is writing, is filled to the brim and then some with sadness and loss and loneliness.

It's unbearable sometimes. Or at least virtually so. Crusher wonders why more people don't kill themselves, through crushing or any means really. And yet they don't.

We don't.

And for reasons Crusher doesn't understand, and doesn't want to play around with too much, writing about sadness and loss and loneliness, as well as being silly and stupid a lot of the time, makes it easier for Crusher to make it through the days given Crusher under heaven.

The big Catholic church down the street from Crusher's house is having some festival tonight. Probably related to some Christian saint or other. Mostly Portuguese-Americans go to this church. They will parade tonight through the streets of Crusher's neighborhood, following a band with a bass drum that bangs slowly. Also with trumpets, played by at least two men who have just now parked their cars across the street from Crusher's apartment. They are dark wearing pants and short-sleeve shirts that put Crusher in mind of what airline pilots wear. But they also have trumpets, and Crusher has never seen an airline pilot with any kind of brass instrument.

Or a woodwind.

Crusher doesn't mind the Christians parading through Crusher's neighborhood. More silliness and stupidity that keeps sad and lonely and lost people from killing themselves, Crusher thinks.

Or not. What the fuck does Crusher know about anyone but Crusher?

And usually not even then.