Bombshell in a covert coat looks back. Seas her doppelgänger drowning in rage. Pregnant with violence. Bombshell tries to kill the baby. She is too late to stop the birth. Alice gives birth. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. BIRTH. Bombshell in a covert coat dies. Yes, she leaves the hospital. Left a pulp magazine. Doppelgänger Alice who’s a lice goes to check it out. A magazine inside. That’s the hope. Dashed for she finds no bullet inside. It’s all fiction. Fiction that spells it out, in no uncertain terms, that she is fiction. That she is fiction like a Tarantino sophomore. That her life is measured in minutes. That she’s got 154 minutes and the countdown has begun. That that’s her running time and that she should start running.

She runs.

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Runs to her dead double in a covert coat and dispossesses her of it. Runs to the Covert shop and trades the covert coat for a Covert. Drives the car dangerously fast till she runs into an eldritchian quizzity so shifty and phantasmal, blurry and vague that the only thing to be said with certainty is its profoundly incomprehensible whims that are equal parts pulchitridinous, ghastly, vandablack, kalon, smilesmerk, zonky and entirely too nebulous to ever be fathomed by the ephemeral, finite mind. Blind humanity dismissively calls it a stoplight which currently, has its red on. There is a SHEEP there too. Riding on the shimmering horse is Boy. The Shimmering Horse Experimental Experimental Prototype’s rider turns to the Covert as the window opens and sees

A LICE: Wanna race?