They send out messages in parcels of shit, little pieces of plastic rolled up and swallowed. When the acid factory’s done its task and beckons the body pay its due at the porcelain throne, a simple tap of the flush handle sends the message expressly down a warren of pipes whose outlets into the septic system is minded by intelligent rats in biohazard suits. These rats dig in, take the messages to courier cockroaches that scurry under floorboards and the spaces between walls to their destinations. Sometimes poison gets them, or an angry footstamp, the US postal it isn’t, but it’s reliable. It’s the UShit Express. Ask not what you can do for brown, but what brown can do for you. A bit farfetched? No. It’s weird America, its shadow life. Its secret veins, hidden song.