Anchors Your four-color cardboard teeth freeze-framing the rigid mouth in a rigor mortis smile. The acrylic glare of those teeth, storyboarded to say "Trust me. I know what's going on." Those formica centerfold teeth, whispering sweet and soothing, spinning a warm silken cocoon. Then, like a mantis lover, tearing into innocent flesh, severing nerves from eye to brain. The approximated soundbite smile stamped across your face like a cheshire bar code, rimmed red to suggest endorphin releasing but more suggestive of recent feeding. It says, "Trust me, lover..." Your red mouth, like a bloody anus, color-coordinates your matronly shoulder-pads, reassuring and wise. I want to grab the corner of that smile and peel it back, like a merchandising sticker, like shrink-wrap. What's underneath that candy bar wrapper of shiny hair, lipstick and earnest eyes? Surprise! A little gray-suited man, 50ish, with comb-over and briefcase, complexion like spoiled custard. Hard, avaricious eyes like buckshot fired into an unbaked loaf of a face. The wizard behind the curtain; the ruler of this world. David W. Aronson November, 2004