It was somewhere in the Mid-west, like, Iowa or Ohio. East Jesus, just west of Bumblefug. I was shooting film for a public service announcement for the US Army. After the shoot me and this guy from the Army’s PR firm went to a piano bar in the motel. The PR guy got drunk really fast and took a swing at the piano player, who said he was a Republican. The piano player ducked and the PR guy hit the floor. Moments later he crawled out of the bar. I left with the fat lady. She had very red hair, very white skin and a lilac dress. She had a nice face and great smile, but she had had far too many lasagna dinners. In the room, she asked me to turn off the light. I resisted but she assured me I really wanted to turn off the light. It was very dark in there with no light. It was overcast outside and there wasn’t even any moonlight coming through the window. I couldn’t see a thing. “C’mere, big boy,” she said. Moments later there was a knock at my door. I groped my way to it, opened it, and there stood the PR guy, naked except for a bloody T-shirt. There was a ball-point pen stuck into his chest, like a throwing-knife stuck in a tree. “What the…?” I said. “The piano player,” he said. Then he passed out and collapsed to the floor. The fat lady zipped past me like there was a posse of zombies right behind her. She didn’t say anything as she jumped over the PR guy and galloped down the hall, her shoes and bag in one hand and her dress in the other. Mandala Blanca is a tribute to her sprightly Rubenesque pulchritude.