All over the Midwest and even out on the coast, down south and up north, out west, back east, work boots hit the ground every morning. Tool men in pickup trucks and vans in Dickies or blue jeans. Six packs or beer guts, ironically not the same thing, hot or not, smoldering or moldering, buns of steel or plumber cracks. Caps, tuques, Stetsons, bandanas or hard hats. They sweat or freeze all day, grunting and laughing and shrugging off minor flesh wounds and sore muscles. They all turn into werewolves at night when the moon is full and rip the throats out of terrified victims, energized as much by the screams and struggles as by the warm, wet blood. Rough leather gloves and tool belts and white cotton briefs. Weaving slang, jargon and profanity into a kind of patois of manhood and extreme lesbianism. Call them if you need repair work or maybe a good schtupping, but not when the moon is full.
Hello, friends. I need you to be well. Please do so.
Later. Love.
