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A train is racing out of control. There’s a switch that can divert the train between two different tracks. Tied up on the first track are five people: ordinary, boring people. You don’t know most of them, except one is your former high school principal. On the other track is a luscious blonde with bazooms out to here. Her tight red sweater is ripped a little, exposing a long line of milky white cleavage; her black leather skirt is riding up over her hips. Shit. I forgot where I was going with this. Anyway it turns out you were the one who tied them all up and are driving the train. That’s what reading Robert Pritchard’s work is like.
Early signs were inauspicious. At the hour of his birth a serpent and a raven fought under a blood-red moon, and later both were made into burritos. His childhood was difficult. He lacked the capacity for abstract thought; also he kept writing the number 5 backwards.
Yet somewhere, deep within his soul, was a voice that said, “Pepsi: Generation Next!” Now, even as you read this, he lights a cigarillo and sinks into a green leather armchair in the library of his mansion. He sips a gin and tonic. Spring comes. People marry and die. Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie. And, in the fullness of time, another Robert Pritchard is born.