BILLINGSGATE POST: The silence was deafening. All was quiet on the Western front. Not even the the Banshee rag pickers were howling. It was worse than that. Mice were nibbling on Velveeta cheese with rubber-tipped teeth so that their sounds were muffled.
In Beaver Crossing, Nebraska, where, in normal times, the town would be brimming with eager beavers waiting petulantly for the town’s one stoplight to turn green before they attempted to waddle across Main Street, now everything was at a virtual standstill.
The Livery in Beaver Crossing was likewise silent. Those faced with making a Hobson’s Choice didn’t have to. They had no place to go.
Downtown, inebriated dipsomaniacs shambled aimlessly from shuttered groggery to shuttered groggery, mumbling umbrageous mumbo-jumbo. They were a f*cking mess.
Reported sightings of rats running across the roofs of houses with raw liver in their mouths were noted in the local fish wrap.
Even the bells at Notre Dame in Paris were silent. Quasimodo had been quarantined.
In dramatic lore, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were aptly named; Famine, Pestilence, Destruction and Death. Today, their names have been incorporated into one: Coronavirus.
Slim: “You got any advice, Dirty?”
Dirty: “Yo, Dude. Here’s how I handle it:”
Countin' flowers on the wall
That don't bother me at all
Playin' solitaire till dawn with a deck of fifty-one
Smokin' cigarettes and watchin' Captain Kangaroo
Now don't tell me I've nothin' to do
