Nezua smiles slightly and looks at the package under the crook of his arm.

SOLILOQUY:
NARRATOR—
Yes, I realize this sounds utterly crazy. But hey, it was a crazy conversation. Anyway, it rhymed with "Adam and Eve". And sometimes this shit is about rhythm. Debate in high school may be about practice and decorum and technique. This kind of stuff is just about performance. And rhythm. Much rhythm. And I was rollin up on my solo. But dig, we were both smiling the whole time. We both knew it was an arena, and with the clouds, the dimming tourmaline skydome, the boy listening (sort of) and the world's salvation at stake, we knew we what we were doing. We knew it was a match, and it was about dogma, anti-dogma dogma, conversion, and preachifying. And I knew I had him the minute he said "Oh, so you're some kind of philosopher or something," which is something like saying "Tell mommy I ate my spinach all up" after someone knocks you in the head with a bat. It's a gasp as you realize you have miscalculated and now you're nine feet past the sandbar and staring at a dark hole in the ocean floor, it's what you say as your knees go weak, as you meet the mat with your hands bent back. I realize it sounds like I am taking far too much delight in sparring with this cat, but see I was in a private mood, walkin in an indigo-fog mood, black tree claws white moon pensive mood, a bit of a lone cat sneakin' 'round the toolshack mood. Perhaps one could go so far as to say a moody mood. Additionally, it's pretty well known that I don't like being sold religion. The whole notion of converting people to your Holy Religion brings up some clotty history in my mind. Plus, it always feels so condescending.

You should see how quick I close the door on people. Listen, I don't push my way into anybody's livingroom and start freaking out the household with my weird rituals and beliefs. Why do you assume your shit doesn't absolutely offend and inflame nine generations of outrage in me? You know nada, busting in like some summery, well-groomed conquistador; like some insistent and chalky-lidded missionary. I've shut the door on people before they've drawn the leaflet out tha bag, I'm like fuckin' Billy the Kid on that doorknob. But this one woman the other day (and she wants to tell me about salvation with some crazy boredom sagging her face and spirit, pushing a dusty leaflet gainst muh nariz) and I looked down on it and my face must have looked revolted, because I pulled my hands away and said "Why are you showing me this? I have children here, please!" because it was a hand with a fuckin 'piece of steel in it! A nail or something, this woman was pushing snuff shit at me in the middle of the day! I was grossed out and let the card fall to the floor. I shut the door right away because you can't talk to these kinds of sick maniacs. They will pollute the minds of your kids and just leave all kinds of sick fetish pix around, blood, crosses, nails, thorns. They are a really tetched crowd.

Those people don't come for a genuine conversation. So I feel no obligation to abide by Regular Conversation rules.

SOLILOQUY: