(For an explanation of what Camelot East is and why I am writing crazy stuff about it, see the Camelot East #1 entry on October 15.)

Camelot East strutted into my office, a cigarette clutched in her mitt and a lie dangling from her lips, bouncing more than the cigarette even.

“Sit down,” I said, but it was no use. My tongue dried up like a sponge dropped in the desert. It came out a croak.

“Exactly,” she purred, crossing her legs and sitting on the corner of my desk in one move. They say Jesus did something like that to make the disciples follow him. Or maybe I’ve got it all mixed up.

Later I found out she was more mixed up than I was even, but my oak desk beneath her beckoning flesh obscured that fact temporarily.

“Camelot East,” she chuckled, and extended her hand. I took it, and she pulled me down into a luscious hell of my own making.

That’s always the make of things, ain’t it?