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**PRINT: A LITTLE MONEY DOWN, by Doug Milam, is No. 27 in our broadsheet series and marks our 8th anniversary. Milam's a frequent contributor and wizard of experimentally styled prose that still burns bright around the campire -- this issue comes with a new design, an excerpt from Susannah Felts' first novel, and more.

**WEB: DJINN DUMMY David Gianatasio
MEDUSA Kate Duva
INTRUDER Sean Ruane
TRAIN Senesequore
THE ANTIPURPOSE DRIVEN LIFE: BILLY, I | Andrew Davis
WITHOUT GRACE, AMEN Rebekah Lyn Cowell
WING AND FLY: INTERVIEW WITH DOUG MILAM | Todd Dills
HOROSCOPE FOR THE MORNING AFTER Nick Ostdick

DJINN DUMMY
---
David Gianatasio

David Gianatasio is a frequent contributor to THE2NDHAND and author of the Swift Kicks collection from So New Media and another, Mind Games, soon out from our friends at Word Riot.

The genie emerged from the lamp in a plume of smoke. "What are your three wishes, master?"

I sneezed. The genie rolled his eyes.

DecomP Magazine

If legend and reruns have taught me anything, it's the danger of a genie offering three wishes. Even if I chose wisely, the wishes would work out for the worst. If I asked to be tall and handsome, I'd shoot straight up and impale my head through the ceiling, or end up with the face of some fugitive on the FBI's Most Wanted List. Asking for wealth would land me in a bank vault short of oxygen, lacerated by diamonds or crushed beneath an iron safe stuffed with banknotes and gold bars. Eternal life could be a bust -- I'd probably be stuck with this stupid head cold for the next 10,000 years.

Even if I managed to emerge unscathed, the genie would lie in wait and hand the next unsuspecting schlub his doom.

And there were plenty of nut cases who would wish for wars and pestilence and famine and such.

I shut my eyes tight. "I wish you weren't a genie anymore and had no power to grant wishes!"

I peeked through one half-open lid. The genie sat on the couch, polishing the lamp in his lap.

"That's it? You can't grant wishes anymore?"

He nodded, grabbed the remote and surfed through some channels. "You got On-Demand?"

An hour later, the genie had broken my recliner (he was a tad rotund), eaten every crumb of food and insulted my mom, who called to firm up our Thanksgiving plans. (They disagreed over the best way to candy yams.)

He put his arm around my shoulder. "Why so uptight? You know how many guys have SCREWED UP THEIR ENTIRE LIVES with just one wish? Like I said to O.J. in '94..."

"Look, I wish you'd just...get back into that lamp."

The genie laughed. "Yeah, well. If wishes were horses, pal. And if you wish for a horse, I can't help you."

The genie slumped on the sofa and tore through the fabric. He swam in a sea of springs and foam.

"How'd you get to be a genie anyway?"

"You really want to know?"

I nodded. He snapped his fingers and said, "I wish I had a place to stay. Can I hang around here for a while?"

"O-kay..."

"Man, I wish I could borrow a pair of clean socks. I've been wearing this get-up for 1,000 years. My feet are REALLY sweaty. Can I borrow socks?

"I guess so, but..."

"Finally, I wish you'd sit down. What I have to tell you next may come as a shock."

As I sat, smoke billowed up from nowhere and I felt myself sucked downdowndown into the lamp.

"That's how it works," the genie said. "Free a genie, grant him three wishes, you become a genie yourself. The magic's in the lamp. That's why it's called, that's right: a magic lamp!"

I cried out hysterically and beat my fists against the walls.

"Keep your pants on," the genie said. "I've got to think this through. If experience has taught me anything, it's the danger of asking a genie for three wishes..."

I sat quietly in the darkness. I had all the time in the world. *Eternity.*

That's when my eyes overflowed, sinuses exploded and the sneezing fit began.

A NOTE TO PRES. BUSH

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