He struck out with his claws extended, hissing and spitting his poison with his pretentious personal attacks towards anyone who dared not enjoy his works – for he saw himself on par with Papa and Count No ‘Count, and he fantasized about having no fear of flying with the just-as-faux Isadora Wing.

But every Friday night, he lay in his lacy bed, gazing upon posters of Wilde, Capote, and Lynde, sending his fantasies elsewhere just to mix things up in his otherwise vapid existence.

Poor Jimmy Yokum.

©Colcannon Metropolis.