A sallow man in trench coat, collar turned up, hat's brim turned down, arrived with an empty box of Jell-O torn in half. Served as credentials, tender blossoms molded and chilled to the shape of his cause, he rapped on the door and was invited to the kitchen and handed the caricature of a nuclear bomb's lens, envisioned with ears like a clock's alarm.


Cockroaches scurried behind the cold gas stove, secreting evidence of the undercover act, an army of ants ferried transcripts (one word, one ant) to a classified formicary under the foundation of Washington, D.C., while a fly clung to a greasy wall, a tiny transmitter planted in his brain.


In the Kremlin's big belly, laughing uncontrollably, Uncle Joe Stalin was dining on a dish of gelatin dessert in the form of an enemy's heart, red flecks clinging to his moustache's stiff broom.