Oh, it's the 26th printing! I totally spaced on that very important detail. That's the edition where Bukowski decided he hadn't done it quite right the first time and ran the whole book through the typer again, but this time he pulled out all the stops, he let it blow, and when he was done he mailed it off to Martin, and Martin called and said "I can't print this, Hank. They'll shut me down. The Catholic church will collapse. All the dock workers will go on strike. Shipping will come to a standstill. School girls in plaid dresses will riot. I can't publish it!" And Bukowski screamed into the receiver "Print the muther!" So Martin printed it, and when copies started to hit the streets, the news spread like wild fire. Federal authorities were called in and they managed to round up all but 18 copies that had been sent out in advance to retired English teachers. Those copies could not be retrieved. Oh sure, the feds paid a visit to each teacher's palatial home in the hills, but in each and every case, the prof was found murdered and the book was no where to be seen. Since that day, it's been extremely dangerous to even admit you've seen a copy, let alone own one. The most any sane person would allow is that they've read a 10th generation photocopy, but they didn't keep it, and they don't know where it is now! It's THAT printing. Well, sure, $609 is a damned steal.