Like a purple mockingbird mooning the Sunday morning congregation, Ed Bleeker dropped trou at the reception for Queen Elizabeth. The palace guards were on his tail immediately, and though Ed was an Olympic sprinter, the rains had left his getaway route as slow as a medieval highway drowning in a sea of honey. He veered toward the forest, covered in sweat and mud and honey; from a distance he looked two-dimensional, like a fetid photograph running through the woods. Then he got an idea. He stoppe
Published on June 21, 2009 07:19