Tony Todd's Pacification, Gently

Well, my new hire just triggered my ringtone, but I did not swipe to take the call. I'm broke, and can care less. Maybe she is wondering if I fired her. That doesn't matter, but I just disconnected with her anyway, in droll and dilatory fashion, disgruntled with my inanity and self pity, not that I'm incapable of taking the scarred humanity of my own ego out of the picture, or discussing the masturbation on a piece of liver, which was, in its time, an original evasion from the threat of being rendered pornographic, debating whether or not to make that easy for you, to what I allude. If emancipation is one of the salutary values of story telling, then the man from earth is a brazen exhibition in that vein, proving that much can be done with simple monastic values of good dialogue, one in which Tony Todd juxtaposes urban horror and demonic vengeance in the face of torture with that of testosterone mitigation in the ensemble surrounding David Lee Smith. It was an interesting role, a contention that black men have softer sentiments, streaking their faces just like the rest of us, specious and overwhelmed, dried saline sticky on the outermost layer of our epidermis. Jerome Bixby had an integral authenticity in his art. And this is how it should be, triumphant and transcendent. One way or another, I am determined to achieve vindication.