I can feel the beast closing in, feel it out there making its moves. I'm standing in the center of this dingy apartment listening to the intense howl of the pre-attack silence, too scared to turn on the lights. I bolt the door. I screw shut the windows. I nail down the toilet seat. You never know from where this Black Dog is gonna emerge. Yes, I can feel the beats closing in.

I tape newspaper over the television and computer screens, because you never know who is watching. Then I think I hear a voice, so close, like it's here already . . . with me. There's a snatch of twisted calypso music and then a slow thudding techno beat. There's a shuffling noise and a drawling robotic voice says, "What do people want to listen to? You know . . . everything has been done before." And now I know The Black Dog is here.

I've locked myself into the madness. No escape. I crawl into a corner, hide under a blanket. Go away, go away, I whimper as the stereo shuffles toward me, issuing haunting ambient music -- synths and violins, and then some melodic Arabic pipes. I have an image of a Moroccan souk thick with kef smoke and slowly disrobing she-males. The stereo is breathing, both speakers sucking in and then billowing out as it mumbles like a lunatic stoned on H, "Cookie, cookie, cookie." There's a knock on the door and then a slow ominous tribal drumbeat. I'm drenched in icy sweat, shaking uncontrollably.