[In which our superstitions discover they haven’t a ghost of a chance against the surrealism of the Big House….]

It’s Friday the 13th again. I’m scared. Should I go inside today? Or bang out and stay in bed? I can’t decide. But I must, and soon.

Can the superstition about this particular number and this particular day of the week be any worse than a typical prison work shift? In other words — how could it be worse?

I’ll find out soon enough….