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Episode
One
He
sneaked into the theater through the roof hatch after the last shift
had gone home. This was a nightly ritual, for all the good it did,
dodging janitors and other security-minded personnel to attempt a
sponge-bath in the sink. Tar-man looked in the mirror. He was dirty,
but no worse than yesterday, or the day before. Sometimes he noticed
the tar accumulation reaching a kind of plateau, as though for a
while it were not subject to increase but contented with it's
abundance. Of course, he thought, once the world stopped seeing you
the degree of soilage was no longer of importance. Nor was the
imaginary quality of the word "soilage." He was alone with
his filth. Washing was painful, because although the dirt was
removable, the tar was not. As long as the dirt remained, it was
possible to deceive oneself about the actual extent of the tar
accumulation, or, looked at another way, one's potential for
cleanliness. But once the dirt was washed away he had only his face,
wrinkled and blackened, only the truth staring back in all of its
grim, petroleum-clad horror. If only…no. It would never be.
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