The raiders hit early this morning, banging the door about 4 AM, me groggily peeking out, a subpoena wadded into my shirt, then the bastards barged in. My ex-wife holding back, grinning like shit, saying you're fucked this time Johnny wee-dick. The black suits took all of it, computers, backup disks and tapes, printers, scanners, plotters, fuck, even the phones and message box -- jeez, why those? Harassment, teaching you a lesson, Bess my shark phoned just now, they shut your business down, take weeks to rummage the equipment and data, give it back slowly, one at a time, no hurry, wanting you to ache in case they find nothing. Swift justice, she hisses, even if you're innocent, cause nobody really is, they want you to scream, use you to broadcast a scare. Fuckups are getting gutted all over that Net Playboytoy. Six others this week, Bess coughs on, dragging deep, it's gonna rain even heavier in Exon's maelstrom, sweet darling maryjesus, prayers pay.