A man walks into a bar and murders the bartender. Four patrons watch the murder. Four rush out the door as soon as the murder begins. The four who remain don’t drink the drinks the man pours them once he’s finished murdering the bartender. Instead, they stare and stare and stare and stare. They stare and they think. They all stare and they all think the same thought: It’s so long, so wet, so so so so so. They think this thought like a song, a song without music. Later, they all go home to their wives and crawl into their beds and piss themselves and shit themselves and in the morning the sun is wrong. The sun is wrong. No one will understand this. They have no one to tell this to but each other. They meet at a bus station every night for the next two years and they tell each other that the sun is wrong. Sometimes they cry when they say it. Sometimes they laugh. Sometimes they just say it without any emotion whatsoever. After the two years, one man leaves his wife and becomes a prostitute. Another cuts off his left hand. Another becomes a pilot. The last man returns to the bar and stares at the bartender and wants to talk to the bartender but can only think: Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh.
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