“On the other topic, I’ve spoken with the General, and he has approved the people who have requested coming from the base to attend your wedding. ...He is going to provide transportation. Right now, nothing is too good for the pilots who are going to fight the aliens. You might as well take advantage of his good mood while you have the chance,” he finished with a chuckle.The two passed a glance. “Are you certain about this?” Joe asked. “We don’t want him to think that we’re giving less than our. You better be there too.”“Who would miss one of your parties?”“True. True.” He finished his glass. “You got yourself a lil girly yet?”“No sir.”“When you gonna get you one?”Never.“Not any time soon.” I swirled my drink. “I hear ya. Them bitches will pretend to love ya, then run you for everything got, leaving you high and dry. Listen to experience.” He pointed at me.“I am.”“That’s good. You’re a smart kid. Bookish and modest unlike Lil’ Frank. He could’ve learned something from you.” He poured. Chances are that he lived in the county, so he'd definitely remember it, and quite appreciatively too.We agreed on the rest of the details, and shortly thereafter the school sent out a newsletter to their database of addresses. They reproduced the core of my letter and my "Art Store" suggestion, putting a cover page with it to specify the date, which was a couple of weekends away, time, place and other necessary details, such as asking high school students to deliver two pieces each, with. It's not unpleasant or pleasant. It just consumes the room. It's all I can hear. It's like...a pipe organ, playing notes that don't belong together. but it's not. Maybe it's wind, howling through an opening somewhere...but it's too constant, and unchanging. There are brief sensations of terror, but I don't know why, almost like dementia, fleeting thoughts, that you can't seem to remember only seconds later. What the fuck is going on?Where am I?The sound suddenly stops. Utter silence..