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Javert

Chris, you'd better not wear yours through Heathrow. (Best.comment.ever.) Somewhat related is the dream I had this morning, where I was in attendance at a town hall-type meeting with Dubya, getting grilled by mostly anti-war types in the small, Jerry Springer-sized audience. One young woman with an eye patch asked for an explanation for her dead brother. I was dressed in a Gerald Ford mask and an oversized suit and expected to provide clownish antics to mock the executive office, but thought them too childish. When it was my turn to ask a question I was addressed by name, I approached the throne, but guess what, it wasn't me, after all, but a Frenchman who had come to serve an international war crimes subpoena on our Commander-in-Chief [most likely a deformation of this Norman's ambitions]. The scene went all last-episode-of-The Prisoner, and in the calamity I snuck out the back, but realized for my part in allowing the use of my identity to thwart the administration I wasn't safe until I at least left the capital grounds. I felt the regret of leaving everything behind as I walked off into the night as a narrator described how I was never to be seen again. Easier said than done, for the construction site leading to the city was crawling with Austin PD, and I wouldn't escape until I convinced one of them who found me hiding under the sand that my cause was just.

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