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The Scrambler
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I took a wrong turn and landed in the walled off neighborhood in Scotts Valley, CA. A gaggle
of tricker treaters cut around my car like the wind searing the last piece of meat from a red
bone over sun soaked Arizona pebbles. The heat from their candied energy so thick it drifts
from the ground as algal blooms and mists, growing towards the sun from the earth. A cosmic
display of well-nurtured primitive dome life outside and within the habitat of the rat. The
tricksters and treatsters backed away from, tall white men looked closely at, the headlights
and mustache forcing this fatherhood to ask what kind is it. Is it the kind who wants to touch my
children? Or is it a mustache from the military?

"Thank you for defending our country and our faith sir. We prayed for you. So which is it
mother fucker? Pedophile or Soldier? Stain or hero. If you come any closer to my kid with your
Honda we're all going to kill you, no pray."

I drove quietly from the squared neighborhood. A horse stands in the middle of a field shaking
its head from side to side, perfectly timed with spinning spirals in the starry sky behind and I
drive on to visit with my own Halloweening family.
*Shyner Nybok is a nomad.
Halloween 2007