I've been working madly on a kind of richochet unarchitecture
and non-design at my Web site, jya.com. No, not the repugnant
architecture profferings but the far more unnerving and
assaultive section entitled "Cryptome," which is houses the forbidden
munitions of cryptography and encryption -- ab-drawing and an-design
to conceal the greatest fools' thievings.

New cannonballs and dupes' clues are put in play there every day,
to hop and leap and crash around the moto-double-cross crotches and
bedfellows of politics, commerce and warfighting. These are globalish
information-wargames of ghoulish planning and design, intelligence
blathering and counter-intelligence dekunst; tic-tactics and strategies
of malinformaton and beaux diinformation; false confessions and mind-
tortiousness; misclassified and belying national security foobar; and
whatever sushi and dophin material I can dig out of cyberspace seas
and whaling-ship swill or is sent to me anonymously to be molded into
weak bricks and pitted steel for tottering, tumbling fortresses and
tots' playpens of hopelessness and nightsweaty inpaternity.

So, what I catapult for Winter Animals is this hyperlink to this
Cryptome of hypery-designery:

http://jya.com/crypto.htm

This is the sleaziest unarchitecty work I've got to offer. It's luring
top
dogs of the the US government who visit regularly to pee: the White
House, US Congress, US Courts, Department of Defense, National
Security Agency, the CIA; professors, spooks and spies and scientists
and gangster cops and disloyal generals from every continent and outer
space -- no joke, the site log is documenting every sneak thief and
archeological transgressor career-pilfering the fakery.

These remarks are an intro for the transition from bad to worse animals.

Driving non-stop from Dallas to Manhattan for Columbia grad, I was caffein-staring in 35-mile zone when a black cat shot flat out across the road, then came a ear-back mutt losing
the struggle.

I slowly stiff-necked after the two, when a perihperal blur registered and adrenalin over-rode java to warn death was near.

Not mine, the kid's chasing the strivers, right into my chrome.

Thud, her breast met Buick and her headlocks rolled up the hood to splat windshield, sraying blood and mucus, then flying over the top before I could react to the slo-mo vision.

Jamming pedals I jerked the car askew, cascading top-racked books and goods opposite the victim. I swore, tore out of the tin and ran to the twisted lump and limbs.

No head in that shape could live, I trembled and peed.

Squatting to the rag-doll, I searched her pulse.

There, it's there. She's ticking.

Racing back to the car, I cellphoned 911 but couldn't tell the operator where to send the van, nothing was familiar.

Slow down, son, she mothered, tell me what you see, describe me the scene, any signs, the water tower?

Whirling 360 I began listing the houses, the cat, the dog, the girl, when she yelled, stop!

Oh, she blew and choked.

Oh! No! Don't tell anymore, mister!

Oh, Jesus, Sheila! Is she hurt?

...

Now, thirty years later, I'm stilling making payments to Sheila's account, seen her recover, attended her graduation and marriage and kissed her daughter, the beautiful grandchild of the operator and me, united by horror and guilt and terrifying love.