Pepkin had begun seeing things, so he made an appointment with his analyst.
Doc, I’ve begun seeing things, he said.
Old movies? his analyst asked. Those have fallen out of fashion. I’m cancelling your prescription.
No Doc, mostly chickens.
Free range? his analyst asked.
Mainly at home. Injun chiefs are riding them, hunting buffalo in my backyard.
Ah, this could be very good. Or possibly very bad. The analyst consulted his curious volume of forgotten lore, a solander filled with chicken bones.
The analyst rolled the bones on his desk and divined their secret alphabet.
I see what you mean, the analyst said.
(I wish I didn’t, Pepkin replied.)
I see waterfalls growing numberless heads…
(It’s the buffalo, Doc, I never knew they cry when they die…)
I see mirrors reflecting backwards instead…
(Shout their last will and testament the sky…)
Mummies busking for tar and glue…
(Will to their children their bleaching white bones…)
Zombies tapdancing the old soft shoe…
(Lament the probate of their memory in stones…)
I predict you will meet a tall park ranger, the analyst diagnosed.
I predict a reboot will dance in the streets.
I predict the chickens will come home to roost.
At least, sighed Pepkin, I can use the eggs.
I’m redacting your script for vaudeville as well, the analyst raged.
Then I will face black abridgement when I drum to it.