" The poets talk about love," Machine said, running the straight-razor back and forth along the strop in a steady, hypnotic rhythm, " and that's okay. There is love. The politicians talk about duty, and that's okay, too. There is duty. Eric Hoffer talks about post- modernism, Hugh Hefner talks about sex,Hunter Thompson talks about drugs, and Jimmy Swaggart talks about Gosd the father almighty, maker of heaven and earth. Those things all exist and they are all okay. Do you know what I mean Jack?" "Yeah. I guess so," Jack Rangley said. He really didn't know, didn't have the slightest idea, but when Machine was in this sort of mood, only a lunatic would argue with him. Machine turned the straight-razor's edge down and suddenly slashed the strop in two. A long section fell to the pool-hall floor like severed tongue. " But what I talk about is doom," he said." Because ,in the end, doom is all that counts."

-smirks slowly- wouldn't you like to know