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**PRINT: SMALL COUNTRY, by Lauren Pretnar, is No. 28 in our broadsheet series. Pretnar, a frequent contributor in recent months, has crafted a grand wedding tale, a deft rendition of the raw emotion of life forever tugged by the past, present and future. This issue comes with an excerpt from Spencer Dew's wonderful new book, Songs of Insurgency **WEB: THE PLATYPUS: PART 6 Zach Plague
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THE PLATYPUS: PART 6
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Zach Plague
In the previous installment, art-world czar the Platypus did not listen to any sort of music -- and he had a headache, brought on by the elusive Ollister and his gray papers. Plague will be starting his boring boring tour of his pre-Illinois home state of Texas July 24. Visit the book's publisher's site for more.
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He stood outside, smoking. It was a golden gray dusk and the raindrops were few and far between. He could see the trees bending, but there was no breeze on his own skin. In the tree above him the sparrows were having their monotone conversations about what to eat or where to sleep or how to get inside a human being.
Every so often he would imagine himself, 50 years on, the wrinkles of his grandfather superimposed on the not-dissimilar topography of his own face. He would look back through those deteriorating eyes and smile, with an understanding comprised of respect and pity, upon his former selves. He would laugh at his old thoughts and ideas, so far off the mark. He would laugh at his old daydreams. Especially the one in which he imagined an older version of himself looking back, laughing.
Today, though, he was looking forward to the future. Which is why he had invited Punk here.
He had watched his friend wander around the park for a better part of a half hour, waiting for him, before he finally decided to emerge from the shadows to address him.
"Punk!"
"Shit!" Jumping about a foot in the air.
"Come over here."
"Fuck, man, you scared the shit. . ."
"You've been sleeping with Matilda."
"Uh. . . um. . . man. . . I. . . uh, I'm sorry."
"Hm. Here's what you're going to do…"
"I found this." Punk held the gray papers out to Ollister. Maybe it would be like an apology, and Ollister would let him be.
Ollister slowly shut his mouth. The trees stopped dripping, and the wind died down to nothing.
"I, uh, took these from your girlfriend's apartment. I, uh, found the key somewhere, so yeah, it seems like people want this."
Ollister grabbed the papers. They were blank. He flipped wildly through them. They were all blank.
"It's a dummy. Fuck. Punk, where did you get this?"
"I told you, I got it. . ."
"No matter. We can use this. This, we can use. Ok, let me think." He sat down in the wet grass, and gripped his forehead with long fingers. Punk, not knowing what else to do, sat down with him. "OK, change of plans, this is what I want you to do. Take these papers, break into The Platypus's mansion, I'll write the address down for you. Find the stack that looks exactly like this. The only difference is it'll have my handwriting on it. You know my handwriting?"
"Well, kinda, I guess. . ."
"Of course you do. Wherever that stack is, take it, replace it with this one, and bring me the real one. Bring me the gray papers!" He was really getting worked up now.
"Uh, OK, but aren't mansions usually pretty, like, heavily guarded, or whatever?"
"Also, stop sleeping with Matilda."
"Aw man, I don't. . ."
"Go!"
So Punk leapt off into the night, fake papers in hand.
PART 7
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