To order a copy of
A Horse Will Eat Itself to Death
send $1
(check, money order, stamps, or cash) to:

Willam P. Tandy
c/o Eight-Stone Press
PO Box 11064
Baltimore, MD
21212 USA
wpt@eightstonepress.com
www.myspace.com/eightstonepress

      We emerged from our respective head trips a few minutes later.
      “Did your bathroom have the...”
      “Toilet seat prophylactics?”
      “Nothing less.”
       Casually, we sauntered into the lobby. It was teeming with the Best of Baltimore, who all appeared to be waiting for one reason or another: tightly-wrapped, glittering, coiffed, potentially festive...
      And waiting.
      “They’re in line for the elevator,” said my girlfriend. “Come on, Let’s take the stairs.”
      I followed her through the lingering mass toward the back of the lobby, but before we could voice any sort of protest, a series of courteous but professionally insistent people in matching black shirts herded us into a remote service elevator as the door closed tightly after my heels.
      The heat in the crowded steel box curled my hair. I worked my eyes upward enough to see the little round numbers above the door. Eight.......Nine....Ten.....Eleven.... Like many old hotels, there was no thirteen. Only a circular void to acknowledge the existence of anything beyond twelve. I noticed the gap where number four should have been and was wondering if it bore some sort of ominous overtones when the sweat box inched to a halt. We all stood baking in the heat of each other, looking at the number twelve, over which someone had scrawled in black marker “Ready to Die?”.
       “Have a nice time,” said the operator as the elevator door opened.