In Great Britain, there is a town powered by a generator that's hooked up to a buried coffin containing the corpse of Karl Marx. The undead commie's still haunted by the man on the box of Lipton Tea. He's been rolling over in his grave since the thirties, spinning with a humming, dynamo fury. He's spitting out blue sparks into the long black, he's spitting out blue sparks but... He's winding down. Over there, in Chicago, a woman lies in a hospital. Carcinoma angels play harp songs of ache in her marrow. She's howling for the false solace of Christ, but then she realizes it's way too late to be born again, and besides she did it right the first time. She's getting ready to dive into the long black, she's getting ready to die 'cause... She's winding down. Down a shady street in Moscow, a hunter sites a drunk young girl. Approaches her, Ted Bundyvich, and he jokes, "Hey, I got time to kill." Back at her basement flat, she becomes his screaming, red pinata. Cuts and bruises falling on her skin just like little candies. She's screaming screaming screaming, screaming screaming screaming, stop! She's winding down.