James pushed open the pet store door. Doing this rang a rather large bell, which he presumed was for notifying the staff of new customers. He looked around the empty street, people would be suspicious if they saw a high ranked government official walking into a random pet store at 11 o clock at night. The coast was clear and he walked in. The store was dimly lit, filled with dogs and cats in rusted cages. In the corner was a huge bulldog, alone, at least ten feet away from the other animals. James stopped by him every day. " Why hello killer. You and me are alike. We will do anything to get to the top. But you are stuck here... one day killer, I will get you out." He had said this same thing every day, and Susie, the cashier smiled every time he said that, because one day, he would do it. He walked over to her, and muttered a word, and that easily, was accepted to one of the most elite squeak-easies of New York City. The rich were handling prohibition easily, after one week of a dry new york city, the mob bought a pet store, and installed a bar in the back, where they would normally have their dog food supply. James walked in, greeted by many drunk officials, and some mobsters. Every day the same thought came to James at that moment, "What if we got raided, what would the headline look like? James Rackett caught in drinking scheme. He could imagine it in his head. And as he did everyday, he pushed it away, ordered a vodka, and made a toast. "To the man, Who will never stop us from doing what we love!"

DoughBoy raises his glass and clinks it with those around him. After tapping it on the table its bottoms up!

And to his wife! For keeping him out of our business at night!

A lonely cop car sat at a dark, deserted intersection. The man inside had his eyes set on a store, a pet store to be exact, that was awfully busy for this time of night. This, and the caliber of the entrants gave him the idea that this was one of New York City's many speakeasies, or secret bars. He had seen many congressman, a high councilman, James Racket, walk in minutes ago. There was no way a man of his power was looking to buy a pet. They didn't need companionship, they had greed, money, and women at their side. They wouldn't buy a puppy for their kids, or wife, and the few that would were pushed to the bottom of the food chain by the heartless corrupt politicians. The policeman preforming the stakeout had a wife, and three kids. His name was John Abbot, and he was the highest ranking non-corrupt official in the police system. In order to make a big case, he had to call someone.... Someone who could help him, but someone he vowed he would never call again...

I looked down the street and saw Mr. John Abbot who has crossed my path in the past.  Unless you share my view that Abbot behaves as if he's been lobotomized, there's no need for you to hear me further. He wants to extirpate the things that I indisputably cherish. This desire is implanted in a part of his brain that's immune to reason or argument. Consequently, there's no chance that we can get him to see that I once managed to get him to agree that he exhibits a startling lack of remorse, shame, and guilt for so brazenly attempting to outrage the very sensibilities of those who value freedom and fairness. Unfortunately, a few minutes later, he did a volte-face and denied that he had ever said that. When a friend wants to drive inebriated, you try to stop him. Well, Abbot is drunk with power, which is why we must examine the warp and woof of his assertions.

Abbot invents problems in order to provide himself with an excuse for making a fuss. Not that I've come to expect any better from Abbot. On the surface, it would seem merely that the best way to introduce an important but underrepresented angle on his mingy quips is to ensure that we survive and emerge triumphant out of the coming chaos and destruction. But the truth is that if he were to use more accessible language then a larger number of people would be able to understand what he's saying. The downside for Abbot, of course, is that a larger number of people would also understand that if he had lived the short, sickly, miserable life of a chattel serf in the ages "before technocracy" he wouldn't be so keen to promote, foster, and institute fascism. Maybe he'd even begin to realize that if I want to cower before the emotions and accusations of others, that should be my prerogative. I don't need him forcing me to. The salacious and narrow-minded nature of Abbot's ramblings should indicate to us that something needs to be done. I mean, think about it.

If everyone does his own, small part, together we can bring meaning, direction, and purpose into our lives. Imagine, as it is not hard to do, that Abbot is as disreputable as the sky is blue. It then follows that if he wants to take us all back to the Stone Age, let him wear the opprobrium of that decision. I challenge him to point out any text in this letter that proposes that we have too much freedom. It isn't there. There's neither a hint nor a suggestion of such a thing.

Continue to appease Abbot, and he will sincerely arouse the hostility and excite the cupidity of spineless bigamists. No one can deny that for him, sexism is really the name of the game, yet he has never been afraid to leave the terra firma of reason and venture out into the open sea of corrupt, mudslinging pharisaism. I explained the reason for that just a moment ago. If you don't mind, though, I'll go ahead and explain it again. To begin with, I recently heard Abbot tell a bunch of people that he is a protective bulwark against the advancing tyranny of what I call purblind termagant-types. I can't adequately describe my first reaction to this notion; I simply don't know how to represent uncontrollable laughter in text.

I've managed to come up with a way in which Abbot street drivel could be made useful. His putrid rambleings could be used by the instructors of college courses as a final examination of sorts. Any student who can't find at least 20 errors of fact or fatuous statement automatically flunks. Extra credit goes to students who realize that we must stop tiptoeing and begin marching boldly and forthrightly towards our goal, which is to embark on a new path towards change. If you think about it, Abbot presents one face to the public, a face that tells people what they want to hear. Then, in private, he devises new schemes to turn positions of leadership into positions of complacency. To reiterate the main message of this rant, Mr. John Abbot's position that a book of his writings would be a good addition to the Bible is based upon a specious argument without any substantive basis.