They will tell you, with a perfectly straight face, that Smokey’s friends don’t play with matches.

But this of course is a lie, just like the ones about Santa Claus, and communism, and apple pie.

Everyone plays with matches.

In fact, they’ll be very pissed with you if you refuse to play, and you well might starve, in the factual world that is run by the commanders themselves and by their rules, which are preached relentlessly by their children, alongside the gospel that there is no such place as Palestine.

Thank you for your service.

***

There isn’t much proof that Monday happened. Regardless, we got up very early, the three of us, and I drove very hard, northward into the last bleeding edge of the monsoonal hurricane.

The reward for the journey was to pay out the nosebleed for something that was, admittedly, an improvement.

And as soon as that was done, to get more gas, in exchange for more money, and complete the journey to the motel at Bullfrog, and as you know, all motels are insanely expensive now; no more six bucks a night in Tucumcari for you, sunshine, and really you’d be better off in every way bringing your own bed with you, provided you can afford that much.

***

The truth is that my teddy bear was, in fact, a Smokey.

My name is Liony, Alexandre, sometimes even El León.

I am the Magdalenian.

And I am here

To Testify.