A few of us get out of the cottage, shotguns in hand, and go to the Gallery. It is a field of infinite span, sparse high grasses. On differently heighted pillars are busts -- today, they are golden Elvis busts. As we blast them back to their plaster beginnings, we make a few remarks about his cultural theft and the general whitening of rocknroll, but more amusing is someone's insulting version of "Hound Dog." Scores are not kept, although some suggest attempting the removal of the head while leaving the shoulders intact -- an interesting variation. Shells are as plentiful as the most gratuitous action flick. The pillars with destroyed targets slowly lower below the grasses, and rise with a new bust; but not so quickly as to diminish the satisfaction of destruction.

As the sun fades, and outlines the ruined symbols, we pick up our empties and head for home. Someone mentiones that he's heard next week's guest will be Ludwig Van, and a grim approval ripples the air like water snake. Tonight, though, we look forward to tending our raw trigger fingers and recoil bruises.

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This was originally published in Burning Ambitions, a Rush Hour Revisions anthology.

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"Uh, if you'd like to give me some comments that'd be great."

"Return to contents and consume more!"