HERE IN THE cave, I attempt to hide from the ever-present battle. It’s almost impossible to focus on the Calcium memories what with all the explosions, nightmarish screaming, and gnashing of teeth. My boss, the editor of the Slammy’s Gazette, appears, suspendered, cigar-chomping, in my head and orders me back onto the battlefield to report on the war. I don’t think I have ever seen him in person, only in my brain. I’m not certain he exists in person. In this way, he is much like the historical Jesus. Still, he is terrifying, with his sleeve garters and green eyeshade.

“Rosenberg, why the hell are you just sitting there like a sack of shit?”

“Sorry, chief. I was just thinking about a movie I saw.”

“Well, get off your goddamn ass! There’s a war on, son! You want the Trunk Trumpet to scoop us?”

“No, sir. I just—”

“I don’t recall asking to hear your pansy excuses! The world needs to know what’s happening!”

“OK, chief. Sorry.”

My editor steps back into his office, also in my brain, and slams his brain door. A framed photo of Truman holding up a newspaper saying Dewey beat him falls off the brain wall outside his office and crashes to the floor of my brain. Broken brain glass everywhere.