Over four years ago I made one of our number immortal. Admittedly, that wasn't my intent, as the fellow in question is a modest man and does not seek the limelight. Wisely he avoids publicity and the press.
For fear that men in white coats may find him.
There's a padded cell with his name.
Soft rubbery walls.
Which would be more comforting than he could bear. He prefers to roam free in the wilds of downtown, eschewing such pansy things as restraints, ball gags, the absence of tools with which he could hurt himself, and upholstered walls.
Men Who Stare At Goats
It was a kinder gentler age. San Francisco was a different place then. We all had flowers in our hair, and the venerable Agent Left Testicle spoke kind words to the adoring crowd, sharing ancient Eastern wisdom with them.
Several of whom were bankers, and desperate for answers.
Among whom many considered him a wizard.
Or at least an oracle.
In real life, he does something with Real Estate.
I asked him once, but forgot what.
His conversational abilities are legendary, and leave one gasping for air. No, he is not a degenerate, despite his enthusiastic fondness for Pigeon Man, disturbing knowledge of gents with lacy underwear, and sheer goatness.
You might like him.
An earlier mention of Agent Left Testicle is here:
Cigar smoker brain scramble.
The man. The myth.
Legend.
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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