[**FLASH**] RONALD PUMP, boy-wonder of real estate biz, slain in broad daylight, dateline Manhattan. He can't, or couldn't if he still could, say that he wasn't warned, that I didn't warn him, directly, to-the-point, in person, man to man, tête à tête.

I badgered him at every opportunity, via every means postal, telegraphic, telephonic, telepathic, explaining that he was such a reprehensible fathead, and if he didn't stop and desist with being so fat-headed I'd just have to kill him. Not to say we didn't try to work things out, that he didn't try to placate me, once finally convinced of the seriousness of my intent. Over hot dogs from a cart, I insisted he pay, I had one and he had a dozen, he said, "I'll tell you what, to prove I'm not such a fathead, I've got just the deal for you, I'll get you into Pump Plaza for a steal of a price." I countered the offer with a look of sheerest incredulity. "The Plaza?!" I sneered. "Okay, okay, so maybe then I've got a place just for you . . . at fabulous Pump Tower, huh huh, whadya say, hey high hue, Fifth Avenu-ue! Now I tell you, officially the Tower is already centuries gone hundred percent, but I've kept a few aside, you know, for moments like this, little favors to toss about, and we will toast," he said, "I present it to you as a bottle from my cache of ancient and old, rare and famous vintage French champagnes I feign affection for when, just between us, as far as I go Andre's tastes just as good and would be my sole stock if only they didn't underprice it so dreadfully $147.01 a bottle or is that a glass? Oh yes, and as for the unit price, think of the largest number you can fathom, then keep multiplying it by itself until you beleaguered brain collapses in on itself. Then don't forget taxes, title transfer and monthly maintenance of close, most close proximity to your initial figure." I parleyed and parlayed $225/mo. h/h incl. lifetime lease, all of which he refused, as also the request for a public retraction of and apology for, in all the dailies worldwide, literally, his previous statement of astounding fat-headedness that since it costs almost as much to build low-income housing as luxurious splendor . . . he completely missed all the points, no future action could extricate him, it was too late for him, his head had swolled with immense fattiness; we irreconcilably parted company, both quite aware that I would have to kill him.

I climbed up to a good perch in the tree, a good old sturdy tree planted for this specific destiny years and years and years ago by my intuitive forebears, growling even then, set in there at the corner, conveniently on a straight unimpeded diagonal from a very nice, or so's told, restaurant. As per obligation, Mr. Pump arrived impeccably to perform his duty, function, to be photographed, 1) stepping out of his limousine, 2) hurrying back-turned into the entrance of the exclusive habitat, 1) and 2) often enough accompanied by one or fleet of beautiful women who tended to glitter in the crackle of flashes, pops and pops. Half the town stood around in a semi-circle around them cheering its utmost adulation, parting like a herd of domestics as he proceeded from 1) to 2). Precisely at mid-point I let loose my arrow, flying truth of heart true to the mark, to the truth of the matter, deflating his head in an orgasmic splatter. Many people in the front rows got a nasty viscous fluid all over their clothes.

The tree couldn't turn state's evidence; after the initial shock wave, someone pointed at the tree and shouted above the throng, "The tree, the tree! It came from the tree! I saw it happen. The tree did it!"

"GET THE TREE! GET THE TREE!!"

As quick as clever I was already down and quite a few steps away, stuffed in disguise, dressed nicely for a change, the crossbow fashioned into a headpiece. I just stood by and watched as chaos stampeded the tree. In the blur of several million arms, they'd chopped down the tree, such a big old tree, there were enough twigs to go around, they ate the entire tree in less than five minutes.

I watched: inconspicuous, amused, gasping in mischievous horror, just dying every second or two.

EPILOGUE: What with the tree down and gone and all and disappeared to lay no claim on its former plot holding, no longer hog-tied the market went hogwild with competing plans for the memorial--the memorial being the first thing to ferment in every hogshead. It was a hog calling time of a rush by developers seeking the honor of accomplishing such a building, or the other way around, not to mention the prestige and profits of such hogwash. Now minding, it was not exactly the largest parcel of land, what with leaving room for a foyer enough to accommodate a doorman, then counting in ladder space and that left barely one square foot, per floor, standing-room-only stacked one atop another rising to the heavens, and heavens was it beautiful all glass and gold, and what more chic address than to blithely let slip at the appropriate moment for a killer impression, "Oh, sorry, not tonight; I'll be standing at my place in Pump Tube." We all wear our finest of fashion fineries, because, dearie, we are on display you know.

"Hog jowls," is what I say. Really, this is not so much what I say as how I sound, the sound when I suddenly expel a long deeply held breath. I blow and it comes out, "Hog jowls."

The merry devil-twinkling crinkling corners of my eyes, I simply cannot resist, every time I chance to pass by the Tube, I have to, I do it. I turn about martially, snap a crisp salute without a hoot, and give out with one monstrous huff, chuckling underneath that even a puff from my smoke enfeebled lungs is squallishly sufficient, proof through repetition, to send Pump Tube tottering, toppling, crashing, breaking glass and the bevy of faces careening falling past wrankled with distress. Their expressions: thinking of them intoxicates me, forces me every time. The sound I make is hog jowls. I sneeze pigs' feet and can yawn like sow's ear. Chittlins refers to the act of brushing my teeth immediately upon returning home. As for the rest, I keep that all very private.