She blurbed through her Moms-All-Purpose-Adjustable-List-Of-Horrors that might have happened whenever a child… — Katherine Dunn

The molasses voice pours into the sponge ear of the microphone and is transformed into silent, pulsing waves that radiate over a hundred miles.

And they looked at her, watched her, wanted to squirt her full of baby juice.

Papa had looked bad last time. This time he looked like Death's rectum.