Rudimentary Henchmen by Brian Foley fr. The Tornado Is Not A Surrealist I have never grown out of it, the need for applause at certain junctures of the day. Even as I turnover two eggs in a pan there is a knock at the door and I think it's the Academics come to comment on the craftsmanship in my ability to keep the yolk from snapping. But not so. Two men have entered the room. They announce they have come to take back what has been stolen Ð namely, my dinner Ð and their intent to return it to the original owner, whom they refer to as 'the Frau.' Without trepidation I motion us into my office where epistolary receipts are kept, but they're quick to produce a petition of names signed by neighbors, baby-sitters, half-acquaintances demanding my acquiescence on the matter. I image a mysterious collector in a skybox, eating my eggs with pepper, doling out bites to the dental assistant who has betrayed me. As I haunt the corner of the kitchen with arms folded across my chest, cold and hungry, I watch them as they carelessly spill the yellow center across the pan and into a briefcase. Then they leave, but not without first wiping the spatula on the drapes { airforce joyride }