Milton, as most of us do, lived in the space between angels and demons. Some days he was himself and other days he was not himself. The people in his Brooklyn neighborhood tell his tales without restraint. The mere mention of Milton’s name can send the neighbors rolling on the ground with howls of laughter.
After years of surviving Milton’s abuse his wife was told of her husband’s amorous adventures with her four sisters.
Each week, while filling up the gas tank, Milton’s wifebought an extra quart of motor oil from the local gas station. By the end of the month she gathered her stockpile, boiled it on the stove and poured it over Milton’s genitals while he slept.
Six years later, upon her release from prison, she returned to the neighborhood accompanied by thunderous applause.