Push, Nevada
Storybook Hero

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One Night in Prufrock and the World's Your Oyster

Back at Sheriff Relaxo's office, the namesake of said office barges in and prevents yet another scene of Exposition, Lies, and Videotape from becoming a reality as he curtly informs Jim, "Prufrock, you're being moved. Let's go." Jim stands, because he's a pushover, and Not His Lawyer follows them outside, asking, "Where are you taking my client?" Sheriff Relaxo explains, "Vegas Pen. We're out of room here." Out of room? There's no one else there. And I don't even mean that in a they're-giving-away- the-only-money- they-have-so-they- can't-even-afford- to-hire-any-extras- to-be-imprisoned kind of way; I mean that in a literal, smarty-who-knows-the-show kind of way: no one else would be held in the Push Sheriff's Department prison because no one else does anything wrong. There's only one troublemaker, and all cameras are pointed at him. So where are we going and what's going on? Sheriff Relaxo grabs Jim's arm as they walk outside, the sheriff whispering, "You know what they do to tax men in the Pen, Prufrock?" They ask what the K in 401K stands for? What? Tell me you've never wondered. Jim asks Not His Lawyer if there's anything he can do, and Not His Lawyer at least insures, "I'll call the Vegas office. You won't go into the general population." Oooh, Genpop. Tough crowd. Pawn, standing aside, comforts Jim with the knowledge, "Cheer up, Jimbo. It's only a four-hour drive." Jim steps into a dank and crowded van as Sheriff Relaxo adds helpfully and cluefully, "Through the Valley of Fire." Jim is shackled in a seat next to two stank-looking prisoners, and the truck zooms down a lonely stretch of highway past The Three Product-Placed Ross-Dress-For-Less-Suit-Wearers Of The Apocalypse, one of whom observes, "Goodbye, Jim Prufrock." The truck continues on past a highway sign reading, "Welcome to the: Valley Of Fire." Oooh, the: Valley of Fire. Where superfluous colons can kill with a glance.

Inside the: Truck of Fire, a handcuffed Jim sits between an enormous African-American man and a guy of some kind of Hispanic origin (I swear I'm not just arbitrarily profiling here...these details are important for the context of the scene. And, in fairness, you do have to admit that I did report just how white the trash was). The larger of the men kicks things off, asking, "We heard you a taxman." That's right. And it's one for you, nineteen for me. Personally, I'm of the belief that "Think for Yourself" is George's best work during the Rubber Soul/Revolver period, but both songs deserve equal praise and it was good to finally see him getting recognized for his contributions to the band. Wing? Thoughts? ["Oh, I know better than to take you on, Beatles Geek." -- Wing Chun] The man on the other side of Jim asks, "So you're good with numbers? You can keep a lot of them in your head all at once?" Yes, Jim answers, practically crowded out of his seat so egregiously he might have to remind them that if they try to drive in the: Truck of Fire, he'll tax the street. If they try to sit in the: Truck of Fire, he'll tax the seat. If they get too cold in the: Truck of Fire, he'll tax the heat. If they try to take a walk in the: Truck of Fire, he'll tax their feet. Taxman! Kick it up, guitar solo! 'Cause I'm the taxman! Yeah yeah, I'm the taxman. And you're working for no one but me.

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Push, Nevada

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