Our enemies will set among us individuals whose primary function is to object, to dissent, to find fault with our traditional mode of living, until that which we know to be right, begins to feel suspect, and we are reduced to a state of perpetual uncertainty, a situation our enemies will be only too happy to exploit. Who are these individuals, really, and what makes them so vociferous in their criticism of our ways? They are, if we examine them closely: outcasts, chronic complainers, individuals incapable of thriving within a perfectly viable, truly generous system, a system vastly superior to all other known ways of organizing effort and providing value.
– Bernard "Ed" Alton,
Taskbook for the New Nation,
Chapter 5. "The Tyranny of the Negative: Procedural
Methodology and the Pathology of Dissent"
A ten-day acute toxicity study was conducted using twenty male cynomolgous monkeys ranging in weight from 25 to 40 kg. These animals were divided into four groups of five monkeys each. Each of the four groups received a daily intravenous dose of Borazidine, delivered at a concentration of either 100, 250, 500, or 10,000 mg/kg/day.
Within the high-dose group (10,000 mg/kg/day) effects were immediate and catastrophic, resulting in death within 20 mins of dosing for all but one of the five animals. Animals 93445 and 93557, pre-death, exhibited vomiting and disorientation. These two animals almost immediately entered a catatonic state and were sacrificed moribund. Animals 93001 and 93458 exhibited vomiting, anxiety, disorientation, and digging at their abdomens. These animals also quickly entered a catatonic state and were sacrificed moribund.
Only one animal within this high-dose group, animal 93990, a diminutive 26 kg male, appeared unaffected.
All of the animals that had succumbed were removed from the enclosure and necropsied. Cause of death was seen, in all cases, to be renal failure.
No effects were seen on Day 1 in any of the three lower-dose groups (i.e., 100, 250, or 500 mg/kg/day).
On Day 2, after the second round of dosing, animals in the 500 mg/kg/day group began to exhibit vomiting, and, in some cases, aggressive behavior. This aggressive behavior most often consisted of a directed shrieking, with or without feigned biting. Some animals in the two lowest-dose groups (100 and 250 mg/kg/day) were observed to vomit, and one in the 250 mg/kg/day group (animal 93002) appeared to exhibit self-scratching behaviors similar to those seen earlier in the high-dose group (i.e., probing and scratching at abdomen, with limited writhing).
By the end of Day 3, three of five animals in the 500 mg/kg/day group had entered a catatonic state and the other two animals in this dose group were exhibiting extreme writhing punctuated with attempted biting and pinching of their fellows, often with shrieking. Some hair loss, ranging from slight to extreme, was observed, as was some "playing" with the resulting hair bundles. This "playing" behavior ranged from mild to quite energetic. This "playing" behavior was adjudged to be typical of the type of "play" such an animal might initiate with a smaller animal such as a rodent, i.e., out of a curiosity impulse, i.e., may have been indicative of hallucinogenic effects. Several animals were observed to repeatedly grimace at the hair bundles, as if trying to elicit a fear behavior from the hair bundles. Animal 93110 of the 500 mg/kg/day group was observed to sit in one corner of the cage gazing at its own vomit while an unaffected animal (93222) appeared to attempt to rouse the interest of 93110 via backpatting, followed by vigorous backpatting. Interestingly, the sole remaining high-dose animal (93990, the diminutive male), even after the second day's dosage, still showed no symptoms. Even though this animal was the smallest in weight within the highest-dose group, it showed no symptoms. It showed no vomiting, disinterest, self-scratching, anxiety, or aggression. Also no hair loss was observed. Although no hair bundles were present (because no hair loss occurred), this animal was not seen to "play" with inanimate objects present in the enclosure, such as its food bowl or stool or bits of rope, etc. This animal, rather, was seen only to stare fixedly at the handlers through the bars of the cage and/or to retreat rapidly when the handlers entered the enclosure with the long poking sticks to check under certain items (chairs, recreational tire) for hair bundles and or deposits of runny stool.
By the middle of Day 3, all of the animals in the 500 mg/kg/day group had succumbed. Pre-death, these showed, in addition to the effects noted above, symptoms ranging from whimpering to performing a rolling dementia-type motion on the cage floor, sometimes accompanied by shrieking or frothing. After succumbing, all five animals were removed from the enclosure and necropsied. Renal failure was seen to be the cause of death in all cases. Interestingly, these animals did not enter a catatonic state pre-death, but instead appeared to be quite alert, manifesting labored breathing and, in some cases, bursts of energetic rope-climbing. Coordination was adjudged to be adversely affected, based on the higher-than-normal frequency of falls from the rope. Post-fall reactions ranged from no reaction to frustration reactions, with or without self-punishment behaviors (i.e., self-hitting, self-hair-pulling, rapid shakes of head).
Toward the end of Day 3, all animals in the two lowest dose groups (250 and 100 mg/kg/day) were observed to be in some form of distress. Some of these had lapsed into a catatonic state; some refused to take food; many had runny brightly colored stools; some sat eating their stool while intermittently shrieking.
Animals 93852, 93881, and 93777, of the 250 mg/kg/day group, in the last hours before death, appeared to experience a brief period of invigoration and renewed activity, exhibiting symptoms of anxiety, as well as lurching, confusion, and scratching at the eyes with the fingers. These animals were seen to repeatedly walk or run into the cage bars, after which they would become agitated. Blindness or partial blindness was indicated. When brightly colored flags were waved in front of these animals, some failed to respond, while others responded by flinging stool at the handlers.
By noon on Day 4, all of the animals in the 250 mg/kg/day group had succumbed, been removed from the enclosure, and necropsied. In every case the cause of death was seen to be renal failure.
By the end of Day 4, only the five 100 mg/kg/day animals remained, along with the aforementioned very resilient diminutive male in the highest dose group (93990), who continued to manifest no symptoms whatsoever. This animal continued to show no vomiting, retching, nausea, disorientation, loss of motor skills, or any of the other symptoms described above. This animal continued to move about the enclosure normally and ingest normal amounts of food and water and in fact was seen to have experienced a slight weight gain and climbed the rope repeatedly with good authority.
On Day 5, animal 93444 of the 100 mg/kg/day group was observed to have entered the moribund state. Because of its greatly weakened condition, this animal was not redosed in the morning. Instead, it was removed from the enclosure, sacrificed moribund, and necropsied. Renal failure was seen to be the cause of death. Animal 93887 (100 mg/kg/day group) was seen to repeatedly keel over on one side while wincing. This animal succumbed at 1300 hrs on Day 5, was removed from the enclosure, and necropsied. Renal failure was seen to be the cause of death. Between 1500 hrs on Day 5 and 2000 hrs on Day 5, animals 93254 and 93006 of the 100 mg/kg/day dose group succumbed in rapid succession while huddled in the NW cornet of the large enclosure. Both animals exhibited wheezing and rapid clutching and release of the genitals. These two animals were removed from the enclosure and necropsied. In both cases the cause of death was seen to be renal failure.
This left only animal 93555 of the 100 mg/kg/day dose group and animal 93990, the diminutive male of the highest dose group. 93555 exhibited nearly all of the aforementioned symptoms, along with, toward the end of Day 5, several episodes during which it inflicted scratches and contusions on its own neck and face by attempting to spasmodically reach for something beyond the enclosure. This animal also manifested several episodes of quick spinning. Several of these quick-spinning episodes culminated in sudden hard falling. In two cases, the sudden hard fall was seen to result in tooth loss. In one of the cases of tooth loss, the animal was seen to exhibit the suite of aggressive behaviors earlier exhibited toward the hair bundles. In addition, in this case, the animal, after a prolonged period of snarling at its tooth, was observed to attack and ingest its own tooth. It was judged that, if these behaviors continued into Day 6, for humanitarian reasons, the animal would be sacrificed, but just after 2300 hrs, the animal discontinued these behaviors and only sat listlessly in its own stool with occasional writhing and therefore was not sacrificed due to this improvement in its condition.
By 1200 hrs of Day 5, the diminutive male 93990 still exhibited no symptoms. He was observed to be sitting in the SE corner of the enclosure, staring fixedly at the cage door. This condition was at first mistaken to be indicative of early catatonia but when a metal pole was inserted and a poke attempted, the animal responded by lurching away with shrieking, which was judged normal. It was also noted that 93990 occasionally seemed to be staring at and/or gesturing to the low-dose enclosure, i.e., the enclosure in which 93555 was still sitting listlessly in its own stool occasionally writhing. By the end of Day 5, 93990 still manifested no symptoms and in fact was observed to heartily eat the proffered food and weighing at midday Day 6 confirmed further weight gain. Also it climbed the rope. Also at times it seemed to implore. This imploring was judged to be, possibly, a mild hallucinogenic effect. This imploring resulted in involuntary laughter on the part of the handlers, which resulted in the animal discontinuing the imploring behavior and retreating to the NW corner where it sat for quite some time with its back to the handlers. It was decided that, in the future, handlers would refrain from laughing at the imploring, so as to be able to obtain a more objective idea of the duration of the (unimpeded) imploring.
Following dosing on the morning of Day 6, the last remaining low-dose animal (93555), the animal that earlier had attacked and ingested its own tooth, then sat for quite some time writhing in its own stool listlessly, succumbed, after an episode that included, in addition to many of the aforementioned symptoms, tearing at its own eyes and flesh and, finally, quiet heaving breathing while squatting. This animal, following a limited episode of eyes rolling back in its head, entered the moribund state, succumbed, and was necropsied. Cause of death was seen to be renal failure. As 93555 was removed from the enclosure, 93990 was seen to sit quietly, then retreat to the rear of the enclosure, that is, the portion of the enclosure farthest from the door, where it squatted on its haunches. Soon it was observed to rise and move toward its food bowl and eat heartily while continuing to look at the door.
Following dosing on Day 7, animal 93990, now the sole remaining animal, continued to show no symptoms and ate and drank vigorously.
Following dosing on Day 8, likewise, this animal continued to show no symptoms and ate and drank vigorously.
On Day 9, it was decided to test the effects of extremely high doses of Borazadine by doubling the dosage, to 20,000 mg/kg/day. This increased dosage was administered intravenously on the morning of Day 9. No acute effects were seen. The animal continued to move around its cage and ear and drink normally. It was observed to continue to stare at the door of the cage and occasionally at the other, now-empty, enclosures. Also the rope-climbing did not decrease. A brief episode of imploring was observed. No laughter on the part of the handlers occurred, and the unimpeded imploring was seen to continue for approximately 130 seconds. When, post-imploring, the stick was inserted to attempt a poke, the stick was yanked away by 93990. When a handler attempted to enter the cage to retrieve the poking stick, the handler was poked. Following this incident, the conclusion was reached to attempt no further retrievals of the poking stick, but rather to obtain a back-up poking stick available from Supply. As Supply did not at this time have a back-up poking stick, it was decided to attempt no further poking until the first poking stick could be retrieved. When it was determined that retrieving the first poking stick would be problematic, it was judged beneficial that the first poking stick was now in the possession of 93990, as observations could be made as to how 93990 was using and/or manipulating the poking stick, i.e., effect of Borazadine on motor skills.
On Day 10, on what was to have been the last day of the study, upon the observation that animal 93990 still exhibited no effects whatsoever, the decision was reached to increase the dosage to 100,000 mg/kg/day, a dosage 10 times greater than that which had proved almost immediately lethal to every other animal in the highest-dose group. This was adjudged to be scientifically defensible. This dosage was delivered at 0300 hrs on Day 10. Remarkably, no acute effects were seen other than those associated with injection (i.e., small, bright purple blisters at the injection site, coupled with elevated heart rate and extreme perspiration and limited panic gesturing) but these soon subsided and were judged to be related to the high rate of injection rather than to the Borazadine itself.
Throughout Day 10, animal 93990 continued to show no symptoms. It ate and drank normally. It moved energetically about the cage. It climbed the rope. By the end of the study period, i.e., midnight of Day 10, no symptoms whatsoever had been observed. Remarkably, the animal leapt about the cage. The animal wielded the poking stick with good dexterity, occasionally implored, shrieked energetically at the handlers. In summary, even at a dosage 10 times that which had proved almost immediately fatal to larger, heavier animals, 93990 showed no symptoms whatsoever. In all ways, even at this exceptionally high dosage, this animal appeared to be normal, healthy, unaffected, and thriving.
At approximately 0100 hrs of Day 11, 93990 was tranquilized via dart, removed from the enclosure, sacrificed, and necropsied.
No evidence of renal damage was observed. No negative effects of any kind were observed. A net weight gain of 3 kg since the beginning of the study was observed.
All carcasses were transported off-site by a certified medical waste hauler and disposed of via incineration.
Morning at the Carrigans'.
Minutes ago, Chief Wayne left with the giant stick of butter. Any minute now, Brad Carrigan expects, the doorbell will ring.
Just then the doorbell rings.
Chief Wayne stands scowling in the doorway, holding the giant stick of butter.
"Gosh, what's the matter, Wayne?" says Doris, the way she always does.
"I tried to butter my toast," says Chief Wayne. "At which time I discovered that this stick of butter was actually your dog, Buddy, wearing a costume-a costume of a stick of butter!"
"Oh Buddy," says Doris. "Don't you know that, if you want someone to like you, tricking them is the last thing you should do?"
"I guess I know that now," says Buddy sadly.
"Brad? Doris?" says Chief Wayne. "I guess I also learned something today. If a dog likes you, or even a person, you should try your best to like them in return. Buddy wouldn't have to hide in this costume if I'd simply accept his friendship."
"That's a good lesson, Wayne," says Doris. "One I guess we could all stand to learn."
"What I was hoping you'd learn, Wayne?" says Buddy. "Is that just because a person spends hours at a time in front of the house, licking his or her own butt, doesn't mean he or she has no feelings."
"Although technically, Buddy, you're not really a person," says Chief Wayne.
"And technically you don't have a butt," says Doris.
"All you have is that hole where Craig puts his hand in, to make you move," says Chief Wayne.
This hurts Buddy's feelings and he runs out the dog door. "Oh gosh," Doris says. "I hope nothing bad happens to Buddy."
"I'd feel awful if something happened to the Budster because we drove him outside with our taunts about him not having a butt," says Chief Wayne thoughtfully.
Brad, Doris, and Chief Wayne step into the yard to find Buddy hanging motionless on the clothesline, his severed genitals on the ground beneath him.
"Well, I guess we all learned something today," says Chief Wayne.
"What I learned?" says Doris. "Is you never know when someone precious to you may be snatched away."
"And therefore," says Chief Wayne, "we must show our love every day, in every way."
"That is so true," says Doris.
"Don't you think that's true, Brad?" says Chief Wayne.
"I guess so," says Brad, whose hands are shaking.
"You guess so?" says Chief Wayne. "Oh that's rich! You guess we must show our love every day, in every way?"
"As if there could be any argument about that whatsoever!" says Doris.
"Oh Brad," says Chief Wayne, with an affectionate shake of his headdress.
"Oh Brad," says Doris. "The people we know and love are all that matter in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that."
"The people we love-and the dogs we love!" says Chief Wayne.
"If you look deep in your heart, Brad," says Doris, "I just know that's what you feel."
What Brad feels is, he's trying his best here. Trying his best to stay cheerful and positive. About a month ago, Doris passed him a note regarding possible cancellation. It's coming, the note said. Our asses are grass, unless. Big changes req'd. Trust me on this. Grave crisis, no lie, love, ME.
How did Doris know about the impending possible cancellation? When he asked, she wouldn't say. She only shook her head fiercely, as if to indicate: We're not going to discuss this any further, we're just going to fix the problem.
So whenever something's changed around here, he's tried to stay upbeat. When they got Buddy he didn't question why Buddy was a puppet-dog and not a real dog. When Chief Wayne started coming around claiming to be his oldest friend in the world, he didn't question why a Native American had red hair. When their backyard started morphing, he didn't ask how it was physically possible.
Then things started getting dumber. Plus meaner. Now it's basically all mean talk and jokes about poop and butts. He and Doris used to talk about real issues, about them, their relationship, their future hopes and plans. Once she lost her engagement ring and bought a fake so he wouldn't notice. Once he became jealous when the butcher started giving her excellent cuts of meat.
And now violence. Poor Buddy. They've never had violence before. Once a tree branch conked Brad in the head. Once he fell off a chair and landed on a knitting needle.
But a murder/castration?
No, never, this is entirely unprecedented.
"Brad, hello?" says Doris. "Have you had a stroke? Is that why you're staring off into space as if taking a dump?"
"Did you take such a difficult dump it gave you a stroke?" says Chief Wayne.
Both Doris and Chief Wayne put on their faces the expression of someone taking a difficult dump, then having a stroke. Then we see from the way they start laughing warmly, smiling affectionately at Brad, and from the happy swell of the music, that they haven't really had strokes while taking dumps, they're just trying to keep things light, and also, that it's time for a commercial.
Back at the Carrigans', Brad has placed Buddy and his genitals on a card table, along with a photo of Buddy and some of his favorite squeakie toys.
"Would anyone like to say a few words about Buddy?" Brad says.
"Poor Buddy," says Chief Wayne. "Always shooting his mouth off. I'm sure that's what happened to him. He shot his mouth off to the wrong person, who then killed and castrated him."
"Not that you're saying he deserved it," says Doris.
"I'm not saying he deserved it exactly," says Chief Wayne. "But if a person is going to have so many negative opinions, and share them with the world, eventually somebody's going to get tired of it."
"Would anyone like to say a few, other, words about Buddy?" says Brad. " Doris?"
"Hey, wait a minute," says Doris, glancing up at the TV "Isn't this FinalTwist?"
"Oh, I love FinalTwist,"says Chief Wayne.
"Guys?" says Brad. "Aren't we remembering Buddy?"
"Brad, for heaven's sake," says Doris. "Calm down and watch some FinalTwist with us."
"Buddy's not exactly going anywhere, Bradster," says Chief Wayne.
Also new. Previously they never watched other shows on their show. Plus they have so many TVs now, two per room, plus a backyard TV, plus one at either end of the garage, so that, wherever they go, some portion of another show is always showing.
On FinalTwist, five college friends take a sixth to an expensive Italian restaurant, supposedly to introduce him to a hot girl, actually to break the news that his mother is dead. This is the InitialTwist. During dessert they are told that, in fact, all of their mothers are dead. This is the SecondTwist. The ThirdTwist is, not only are all their mothers dead, the show paid to have them killed, and the fourth and FinalTwist is, the kids have just eaten their own grilled mothers.
"What a riot," says Doris.
" Doris, come on," says Brad. "These are real people, people with thoughts and hopes and dreams."
"Well, nobody got hurt," says Chief Wayne.
"Except those kids who unknowingly ate their own mothers," says Brad.
"Well, they signed the releases," says Chief Wayne.
"Releases or not, Wayne, come on," says Brad. "They killed people. They tricked people into eating their own mothers."
"I don't know that I'm all that interested in the moral ins and outs of it," says Chief Wayne. "I guess I'm just saying I enjoyed it."
"It's interesting, that's the thing," says Doris. "The expectations, the reversals, the timeless human emotions."
"Who wouldn't want to watch that?" says Chief Wayne.
"Interesting is good, Brad," says Doris. "Surprising is good."
Just then Buddy hops sheepishly off the card table, bearing his own genitals in his mouth.
"Buddy, you're alive!" says Doris.
"But I see you're still castrated?" says Chief Wayne.
"Yes, well," says Buddy, blushing.
"Maybe you could tell us who did it, Buddy," says Doris.
"Oh Doris," says Buddy, and starts to cry. "I did it myself."
"You castrated yourself?" says Doris.
"I guess you could say it was a cry for help," says Buddy.
"I'll say," says Chief Wayne.
"I just get so tired of everyone constantly making jokes about the fact that I need a certain kind of 'assistance' in order to move," Buddy says.
"You mean a hand up your keister?" says Doris.
"A fist up your poop chute?" says Chief Wayne.
"A paw up your exit ramp?" says Doris.
"You're still doing it!" barks Buddy, and runs out the dog door.
"Somebody's grumpy," says Doris.
"He'll be a lot less grumpy once we get those genitals of his sewed back on," says Chief Wayne.
Chief Wayne steps outside.
"Uh-oh, guys!" he says. "Looks like, in addition to a persnickety dog, you've got yourself another little problem. Your darn backyard has morphed again!"
Then we hear the familiar music that indicates the back yard has morphed again, and see that the familiar Carrigan back yard is now a vast field of charred human remains.
"Carrigan, I've about had it with this nonsense!" shouts their neighbor, Mr. Winston. "Last week my grumpy boss, Mr. Taylor, came for dinner, and right in the middle of dessert your yard morphed into ancient Egypt, and a crocodile came over and ate Mr. Taylor's toupee!"
"And when my elderly parents came to visit?" says Mrs. Winston. "Your yard morphed into some sort of nineteenth-century brothel, and a prostitute insulted my mother over the fence!"
"Oh come on, Brad," says Doris. "Let's go find Buddy."
Brad, Doris, and Chief Wayne set out across the yard.
"Jeez, where is that crazy dog?" says Chief Wayne.
"Look for the one thing not smoldering in this vast expanse of carnage," says Doris, stepping gingerly over several charred corpses in the former horseshoe pit.
From the abandoned farmhouse comes an agonized scream.
From behind a charred tree darts Buddy.
"Let's corner him by that contaminated well!" says Doris, and she and Chief Wayne rush off.
"My God," mumbles Brad. "Who were these people?"
"We're Belstonians," says one of the corpses, lying on its back, hands held out defensively, as if it died fending off a series of blows. "Our nation is composed of three main socio-ethnic groups: The religious Arszani of the north, who live in small traditional agrarian communities in the mountainous northern regions; the more secular, worldly Arszani of the south, who mix freely with their Tazdit neighbors; and the Tazdit themselves, who, though superior to the southern Arszani in numbers, have always lagged behind economically. Lately this course of affairs has been exacerbated by several consecutive years of drought."
"Don't forget the complicated system of tariffs, designed to favor the southern, secular Arszani, emphasizing, as it does, the industrially driven sectors of the economy, in which the southern Arszani, along with certain more ecumenical Tazdit factions, invested heavily during the post-earthquake years," says a second corpse, whose chest cavity has been torn open, and who is missing an arm.
"Which spelled doom for us mountainous devout northern Arszani once gold was discovered in a region ostensibly under our control but legally owned by a cartel of military/industrial leaders from the south," says a third corpse, a woman, legs spread wide, mouth open in an expression of horror.
"That was our group," says the corpse missing an arm. " Northern Arszani."
"Wow," says Brad. "That's so complicated."
"Not that complicated," says the corpse who died fending off blows.
"It might seem complicated, if the person trying to understand it had lived in total plenty all his life, ignoring the rest of the world," says the corpse missing an arm, as a butterfly flits from his chest wound to his head wound.
"I agree," says the corpse who died fending off blows. "We know all about his country. I know who Casey Stengel was. I can quote at length from Thomas Paine."
"Who?" says Brad.
"Now, Bliorg, be fair," says the woman corpse. "Their nation occupies a larger place on the world stage. English is the lingua franca of most of the world."
"The what?" says Brad.
"I'm just saying that occupying oneself with the genitals of a puppet, given the brutal, nightmarish things going on around the world this very instant, I find that unacceptably trivial," says the one-armed corpse.
"I miss life," says the woman corpse.
"Remember our farm?" says the corpse who died fending off blows. "Remember how delicious vorella tasted eaten directly from the traditional heated cubern?"
"How the air smelled in the Kizhdan Pass after a rain?" says the woman corpse.
"How hard we worked in the garden that final spring?" says the corpse who died fending off blows. "How suddenly it all came upon us? How unprepared we were when suddenly the militia, including some of our southern Arszani brethren, swept into our village-"
"With what violence they rended you, dear, while you were still alive," the woman corpse says, looking tenderly at the corpse who died fending off blows.
"How the men encircled you, taunting you as they…" The corpse who died fending off blows trails off, remembering the day the secular Arszani/southern Tazdit militia dragged his wife into the muddy yard of their shack, then held him down, forcing him to watch what followed for what might have been ten minutes and might have been three hours, after which they encircled him, bayonets mounted, and he attempted, briefly, to fend off their blows, before they eviscerated him while he was still alive, as his wife, also still alive, lifted and dropped her left arm repeatedly, for what might have been ten thousand years.
Just then Doris rushes by, bearing the re-genitaled and softly whimpering Buddy in her arms.
"Brad, honestly," she hisses. "Thanks for the help."
"Not!" says Chief Wayne.
We see from the way the corpses, devastated by memory, collapse back into the dust of the familiar Carrigan back yard, and from the sad tragic Eastern European swell of the music, that it's time for a commercial.
Back at the Carrigans', Doris and Chief Wayne come back inside to find hundreds of ears of corn growing out of the furniture, floors, and ceiling.
"What the-?" says Doris, setting Buddy down.
"I believe this is what's called a 'bumper crop,'" says Chief Wayne.
"I'll say," says Doris. "It's going to 'bump' us right out of this room if it keeps up!"
"My balls hurt so much," says Buddy.
Brad comes in, eyes moist with tears, and sits on the couch. "What gives, Mr. Gloomy?" says Doris.
"Still moping about the corpses in the yard?" says Chief Wayne.
"Give it time, hon," says Doris. "It'll morph into something more cheerful."
"It always does," says Chief Wayne.
"Things always comes out right in the end, don't they?" says Doris. "As long as you believe in your dreams?"
"And accentuate the positive," says Chief Wayne.
Just then from the TV comes the brash martial music that indicates an UrgentUpdateNewsMinute.
In California, a fad has broken out of regular people having facial surgery to look like their favorite celebrities. Sometimes they end up looking like hideous monsters. Celebrities have taken to paying surprise compassionate visits to the hideous monsters. One hideous monster, whose face looks like the face of a lion roasted in a fire, says the surprise celebrity visit made the whole ordeal worthwhile. In the Philippines, a garbage dump has exploded due to buildup of natural gas emitted by rotting garbage, killing dozens of children digging in the dump for food.
"Wait a minute," says Brad. "That gives me an idea."
"Uh-oh," says Chief Wayne. "I don't like the sound of that."
"I hope it's better than your idea about installing heat sensors in old people's underwear," says Doris.
"I also hope it's better than your idea about putting a radio transmitter on Buddy while you guys were away on vacation, which then short-circuited, causing Buddy to be continually electrocuted for two straight weeks," says Chief Wayne.
"And the Winstons thought Buddy had been taking tap lessons?" says Doris. "Oh gosh."
"So what's your idea, pal?" says Chief Wayne.
"Never mind," says Brad, blushing.
"Come on, Mr. Mopey!" says Doris. "Share it! I'm sure it's terrific."
"Well," says Brad. "My idea is, why do we need all this corn? Isn't it sort of wasteful? My idea is, let's pick this corn and send it to that village in the Philippines where the kids have to eat garbage to live. Our house gets back to normal, the kids don't have to eat trash, everybody's happy."
There is an awkward silence.
"Brad, have you finally gone totally insane?" Doris says.
"I have to say, the heat-sensor-in-the-underwear-of-theelderly idea is starting to look pretty viable," says Chief Wayne.
"I just want to do something," says Brad, blushing again. "There's so much suffering. We have so much, and others have so little. So I was just thinking that, you know, if we took a tiny portion of what we have, which we don't really need, and sent it to the people who need it…"
Doris has tears in her eyes.
"Doris, what is it?" says Chief Wayne. "Tell Brad what you're feeling."
"I don't see why you always have to be such a downer, Brad," she says. "First you start weeping in our yard, then you start disparaging our indoor corn?"
"Brad, to tell the truth, there are plenty of houses with lots more indoor corn than this," says Chief Wayne. "This, relative to a lot of houses I've seen, is some very modest indoor vegetable growth."
"You probably see it as you make your rounds," says Doris. "Some people probably even have tomatoes and zucchini growing out of their furniture."
"Oh sure," says Chief Wayne. "Even watermelons."
"So this very modest amount of corn that we have, in your opinion, is nothing to feel guilty about?" says Doris.
"His 'rounds'?" says Brad. "What do you mean his 'rounds'?"
"His raids, his rounds, whatever," says Doris. "Please don't change the subject, Brad. I think we've been very fortunate, but not so fortunate that we can afford to start giving away everything we've worked so hard for. Why can't our stuff, such as corn, be our stuff? Why do you have to make everything so complicated? We aren't exactly made out of money, Brad!"
"Look Brad," says Chief Wayne. "Maybe you should start thinking about Doris instead of some Philippians you don't even know."
"You really get me, Wayne," says Doris.
"You're easy to get, Doris," says Chief Wayne.
Just then the doorbell rings.
On the lawn stands a delegation of deathly-pale Filipino children dressed in bloodstained white smocks.
"We've come for the corn?" says the tallest child, who has a large growth above one eyebrow.
"Brad," Doris says in a pitiful voice. "I can't believe you called these people."
"I didn't," Brad says.
And he didn't. Although he can't say he's unhappy they're here.
"Look, what's the big deal?" says Brad. "We pick the corn, give it to these kids, problem solved. If you guys would help me out, we could have all this corn picked in ten minutes."
"Brad, I've suddenly got a terrible headache," says Doris. "Would you go get me a Tylenol?"
"Brad, jeez, nice," says Chief Wayne. "Don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open when your wife is in pain."
Brad goes into the kitchen, gets Doris a Tylenol.
Buddy follows him in, hops up on a kitchen chair.
"Uh, Brad?" Buddy whispers. "I want you to know something. I've always liked you. I've consistently advocated for you. To me, you seem extremely workable, and I've said so many-"
"Buddy, no, bad dog!" Doris shouts from the living room.
"Yikes," says Buddy, and hops down from the chair, and skids out of the kitchen.
What the heck is up with Buddy? Brad wonders. He's "advocated" for Brad? He finds Brad "workable"?
Possibly the self-castration has made Buddy a little mental.
Brad returns to the living room. Doris, on the love seat, wearing the black lace bustier Brad bought her last Christmas, is straddling Chief Wayne, who, pants around his ankles, is kissing Doris's neck.
"Doris, my God!" shouts Brad.
Doris and Chief Wayne? It makes no sense. Chief Wayne is at least ten years older than they are, and is overweight and has red hair all over his back and growing out of his ears.
"Doris," Brad says. "I don't understand."
"I can explain, Bradster!" Chief Wayne says. "You've just been TotallyFukked!"
"And so have I!" says Doris. "No, just kidding! Brad, lighten up! See, look here! We kept a thin layer of protective cellophane between us at all times!"
"Come on, pal, what did you think?" says Chief Wayne. "Did you honestly think I'd let your beautiful wife straddle and pump me right here, in your living room, wearing the bustier you bought her last Christmas, without using a thin layer of protective cellophane?"
It's true. There's a thin layer of protective cellophane draped over Chief Wayne's legs, chest, and huge swollen member. A TotallyFukked cameraman steps out from behind a potted plant, with a release form, which Doris signs on Brad's behalf.
"Gosh, honey, the look on your face!" Doris says.
"He sure takes things serious," says Chief Wayne.
"Too serious," says Doris.
"Is he crying?" says Chief Wayne.
"Brad, honestly, lighten up!" says Doris. "Things are finally starting to get fun around here."
"Brad, please don't go all earnest on us," says Chief Wayne.
"Yes, don't go all earnest on us, Brad," says Doris. "Or next time we TotallyFukk you, we'll remove that thin sheet of protective cellophane."
"And wouldn't that be a relief," says Chief Wayne.
"Well yes and no," says Doris. "I love Brad."
"You love Brad but you're hot for me," says Chief Wayne.
"Well, I'm hot for Brad too," says Doris. "If only he wasn't so earnest all the time."
Brad looks at Doris. All he's ever wanted is to make her happy. But he never really has, not yet. Not when he bought her six hats, not when he covered the bedroom floor with rose petals, not when he tried to cook her favorite dish and nearly burned the house down.
What right does he have to be worrying about the problems of the world when he can't even make his own wife happy? How arrogant is that? Maybe a man's first responsibility is to make a viable home. If everybody made a viable home, the world would be a connected network of viable homes. Maybe he's been mistaken, worrying about the Belstonians and the Filipinos, when he should have been worrying about his own wife.
He thinks he knows what he has to do.
The tallest Filipino child graciously accepts Brad's apology, then leads the rest of the Filipinos away, down Eiderdown Path, across Leaping Fawn Way, Bullfrog Terrace, and Waddling Gosling Place.
Brad asks Chief Wayne to leave.
Chief Wayne leaves.
Doris stands in the middle of the corn-filled living room, looking gorgeous.
"Oh, you really do love me, don't you?" she says, and kisses Brad while sliding his hands up to her full hot breasts.
We see from the way Doris tosses her bustier over Buddy, so Buddy won't see what she and Brad are about to do, and the way Buddy winces, because the bustier has landed on his genital stitches, that Buddy is in for a very long night, as is Brad, and also, that it's time for a commercial.
Back at the Carrigans', Doris's family is over for the usual Sunday dinner of prime rib, Carolina ham, roast beef, Alaskan salmon, mashed potatoes, fresh-baked rolls, and asparagus à la Monterey.
"What a meal," says Grandpa Kirk, Doris's father.
"We are so lucky," says Grandma Sally, Doris's mother.
Brad feels incredibly lucky. Last night they did it in the living room, then in the bathroom, then twice more in the bedroom. Doris admitted she wasn't hot for Chief Wayne, exactly, just bored, plus she admired Wayne's direct and positive way of dealing with life, so untainted by neurotic doubts and fears.
"I guess I just want some fun," she'd said. "Maybe that's how I'd put it."
"I know," Brad had said. "I get that now."
"I just want to take life as we find it and enjoy its richness," Doris had said. "I don't want to waste my life worrying worrying worrying."
"I totally agree with you," Brad had said.
Then Doris disappeared beneath the covers and took him in her mouth for the third time that night. Remembering last night, Brad starts to get what Doris calls a Twinkie, and to counteract his mild growing Twinkie, imagines the Winstons' boxer, Mr. Maggs, being hit by a car.
"This meal we just ate?" says Aunt Lydia. "In many countries, this sort of meal would only be eaten by royalty."
"There are countries where people could live one year on what we throw out in one week," says Grandpa Kirk.
"I thought it was they could live one year on what we throw out in one day," says Grandma Sally.
"I thought it was they could live ten years on what we throw out in one minute," says Uncle Gus.
"Well anyway," says Doris. "We are very lucky."
"I like what you kids have done with the place," says Aunt Lydia. "The corn and all?"
"Very autumnal," says Grandpa Kirk.
Just then from the TV comes the brash martial music that indicates an UrgentUpdateNewsMinute.
Americans are eating more quail. Special quail farms capable of producing ten thousand quail a day are being built along the Brazos River. The bad news is, Americans are eating less pig. The upside is, the excess pigs are being slaughtered for feed for the quail. The additional upside is, ground-up quail beaks make excellent filler for the new national trend of butt implants, far superior to the traditional butt-implant filler of ground-up dog spines. Also, there has been a shocking upturn in the number of African AIDS babies. Fifteen hundred are now dying each day. Previously, only four hundred a day were dying. An emaciated baby covered with flies is shown, lying in a kind of trough.
"We are so lucky," says Aunt Lydia.
"There is no country in the history of the world as lucky as us," says Grandpa Kirk. "No country where people lived as long or as well, with as much dignity and freedom. Not the Romans. Not the Grecos."
"Not to mention infant mortality," says Uncle Gus.
"That's what I'm saying," says Grandpa Kirk. "In other countries, you go to a graveyard, you see tons of baby graves. Here, you don't see hardly any."
"Unless there was a car accident," says Uncle Gus.
"A car accident involving a daycare van," says Grandpa Kirk.
"Or if someone fell down the steps holding infant twins," suggests Grandma Sally.
Some additional babies covered with flies are shown in additional troughs, along with several grieving mothers, also covered with flies.
"That is so sad," says Aunt Lydia. "I can hardly stand to watch it."
"I can't stand to watch it," says Uncle Gus, turning away.
"So why not change it?" says Grandma Sally.
Doris changes it.
On TV six women in prison shirts move around a filthy house.
"Oh I know this one," says Grandma Sally. "This is Kill the Ho."
"Isn't it Kill Which Ho?" says Aunt Lydia.
"Isn't it Which Ho Should We Kill?" says Grandpa Kirk.
"All six are loose, poor, and irresponsible!" the announcer says. "But which Ho do you hate the most? Which should die? America decides, America votes, coming this fall, on Kill the Ho!"
"Told you," says Grandma Sally. "Told you it was Kill the Ho."
"They don't actually kill them though," says Grandpa Kirk. "They just do it on computers."
"They show how it would look if they killed that particular Ho," says Uncle Gus.
Then it starts to rain, and from the backyard comes a horrible scream. Brad tenses. He waits for someone to say: What the hell is that screaming?
But nobody seems to hear it. Everyone just keeps on eating.
We see from the concerned look on Brad's face, and the way he throws back his chair, and the concerned look Doris shoots him for throwing back his chair in the middle of dinner, that it's time for a commercial.
Back at the Carrigans', Brad is struggling through a downpour in the familiar Carrigan backyard.
"What is it?" Brad shouts. "Why are you screaming?"
"It's the rain," screams the corpse who died fending off blows. "We find it unbearably painful. The dead do. Especially the dead not at peace at the time of their deaths."
"I never heard that before," says Brad.
"Trust me," says the corpse who died fending off blows.
The corpses, on their backs, are doing the weirdest craziest writhing dance. They do it ceaselessly, hands opening and closing, feet bending and straightening. With all that motion, their dried hides are developing surficial cracks.
"What can I do?" says Brad.
"Get us inside," gasps the woman corpse.
Brad drags the corpses inside. Because the house is a ranch house and has no basement, he puts the corpses in the back entry, near a bag of grass seed and a sled.
"Is that better?" Brad says.
"We can't even begin to tell you," says the corpse who died fending off blows.
Brad goes back to the dining room, where Doris is serving apple pie, peach pie, raspberry pie, sherbet, sorbet, coffee, and tea.
"Anything wrong, hon?" says Doris. "We're just having second dessert. Say, what's that on your shirt?"
On Brad's shirt is a black stain, which looks like charcoal but is actually corpse mud.
"Go change, silly," says Doris. "You're soaked to the bone. I can see your nipples."
Doris gives him a double-raise of her eyebrows, to indicate that the sight of his nipples has put her in mind of last night.
Brad goes into the bedroom, puts on a new button-down. Then he hears something heavy crashing to the floor and rushes out to find Doris sprawled in the back entry, staring in horror at the charred corpses.
"Bradley, how could you?" she hisses. "Is this your idea of a joke? Is this you getting revenge on me in a passive-aggressive way because I wouldn't let you waste our corn?"
"The rain hurts them," Brad says.
"Having my entry full of dead corpses hurts me, Brad," Doris says. "Did you ever think of that?"
"No, I mean it physically hurts them," says Brad.
"After all we shared last night, you pull this stunt?" Doris says. "Oh, you break my heart. Why does everything have to be so sad to you? Why do you have so many negative opinions about things you don't know about, like foreign countries and diseases and everything? Why can't you be more like Chief Wayne? He has zero opinions. He's just upbeat."
"Doris, I-" says Brad.
"I want them out," Doris says. "I want them out now, dumbass, and I want you to mop this entry, and then I want you to mop it again, shake out the rug, and also I may have you repaint that wall. Why do I have to live like this? The Elliots don't have corpses in their yard. Millie doesn't. Kate Ronston doesn't. The Winstons don't have any Filipinos trying to plunder their indoor vegetables. Only us. Only me. It's like I'm living the wrong life."
Doris storms back to the kitchen, high heels clicking sexily on the linoleum.
Dumbass? Brad thinks.
Doris has never spoken so harshly to him, not even when he accidentally threw her favorite skirt in the garbage and had to dig it out by flashlight and a racoon came and looked at him quizzically.
Brad remembers when old Mrs. Giannelli got Lou Gehrig's disease and began losing the use of her muscles, and Doris organized over three hundred people from the community to provide round-the-clock care. He remembers when the little neighborhood retarded boy, Roger, was being excluded from ball games, and Doris herself volunteered to be captain and picked Roger first.
That was Doris.
This woman, he doesn't know who she is.
"Your wife has a temper," says the corpse who died fending off blows. "I mean, no offense."
"She is pretty, though," says the one-armed corpse.
"The way they say it here?" says the woman corpse. "They say: 'She is hot."'
"Your wife is hot," says the one-armed corpse.
"Are you really going to put us back out there, Brad?" says the woman corpse, her voice breaking.
It seems to be raining even harder.
Once, back in Brad's childhood, Brad knows, from one of his eight Childhood Flashbacks, his grizzled grandfather, Old Rex, took him to the zoo on the Fourth of July. Near the bear cage they found a sparrow with its foot stuck in a melted marshmallow. When Old Rex stopped to pull the sparrow out, Brad felt embarrassed. Everyone was watching. Hitching up his belt, Old Rex said: Come on, pardner, we're free, we're healthy, we've got the time who's gonna save this little dude, if not us?
Then Old Rex used his pocketknife to gently scrape away the residual marshmallow. Then Old Rex took the sparrow to a fountain and rinsed off its foot, and put it safely on a high branch. Then Old Rex lifted little Brad onto his shoulders and some fireworks went off and they went to watch the dolphins.
Now that was a man, Brad thinks.
Maybe the problem with their show is, it's too smallhearted. It's all just rolling up hoses and filling the birdfeeder and making smart remarks about other people's defects and having big meals while making poop jokes and sex jokes. For all its charms, it's basically a selfish show. Maybe what's needed is an enlargement of the heart of their show. What would that look like? How would one go about making that kind of show?
Well, he can think of one way right now.
He goes into the shed, finds a tarp and, using the laundry line and the tarp, makes a kind of tent. Then, using an umbrella, he carries the corpses out.
"Easy, easy," says the one-armed corpse. "Don't break my leg off by hitting it on that banister."
Just then the back door flies violently open.
"Bradley!" Doris shouts from inside. "Did I say build the ghouls a playhouse or put the ghouls in the yard?"
"The ghouls?" says the one-armed corpse.
"That isn't very nice," says the woman corpse. "We don't call her names."
Brad looks apologetically at the corpses. Apparently it's time for a little marital diplomacy, time to go inside and have a frank heart-to-heart with Doris.
Look, Doris, he'll say. What's happened to you, where has your generosity gone? Our house is huge, honey, our refrigerator is continually full. However much money we need, we automatically have that much in the bank, and neither of us even works outside of the home. There doesn't seem to be any physical limit to what we can have or get. Why not spread some of that luck around? What if that was the point of our show, sweetie, the radical spreading-around of our good fortune? What if we had, say, a special helicopter? And special black jumpsuits? And code names? And huge stores of food and medicine, and a team of expert consultants, and wherever there was need, there they would be, working to bring to bear on the problem whatever resources would be exactly most helpful?
Talk about positive. Talk about entertaining.
Who wouldn't want to watch that?
Brad has goose bumps. His face is suddenly hot. What an incredible idea. Will Doris get it? Of course she will. This is Doris, his Doris, the love of this life.
He can't wait to tell her.
Brad tries the door, finds it locked.
We see from the sheepish look on Brad's face, and the sudden comic wah-wah of the music, that convincing Doris may turn out to be a little harder than he thought, and also, that it's time for a commercial.
Back at the Carrigans', Grandpa Kirk, Grandma Sally, Uncle Gus, and Aunt Lydia, suddenly in formalwear, have been joined by Dr. and Mrs. Ryan, the Menendezes, the Johnsons, and Mrs. Diem, also in formalwear.
Just then the doorbell rings.
Doris, in a skimpy white Dior dress and gold spike heels, hands Grandma Sally a plate of meatballs and walks briskly toward the door.
At the door is Brad.
"Somehow I got locked out," he says.
"Hi Brad," says Doris. "Here to borrow butter?"
"Very funny," says Brad. "Hey, is that a new dress? Did you just now change dresses?"
Then Brad notices that Chief Wayne is over, and Dr. and Mrs. Ryan, the Menendezes, the Johnsons, and Mrs. Diem are over, and everyone is dressed up.
"What's all this?" he says.
"Things are kind of crazy around here at the moment, Brad," says Chief Wayne. "You could say we're in a state of transition."
"Doris, can we talk?" says Brad. "In private?"
"I'm afraid we aren't in any shape to be talking about anything in private, Bradster," says Chief Wayne. "As I said, we're in a state of transition."
"We've been so busy lately, things are so topsy-turvy lately, hardly a minute to think," Doris says. "Who knows what to think about what, you know?"
"The way I'd say it?" says Chief Wayne. "We're in a state of transition. Let's leave it at that, babe."
Brad notices that Chief Wayne is not wearing his headdress or deerskin leggings, but a pair of tight Gucci slacks and a tight Armani shirt.
Just then, from the place near the china cabinet from which their theme song and the occasional voiceover comes, comes a deep-voiced voiceover.
"Through a script error!" it says, "turns out that Chief Wayne is actually, and has actually been all along, not Chief Wayne, but Chaz Wayne, an epileptic pornographer with a taste for the high life and nightmarish memories of Vietnam!"
A tattooed young man Brad has never seen before steps out of the broom closet.
"I'm Whitey, Chaz Wayne's son from a disastrous previous marriage, who recently served time for killing a crooked cop with a prominent head goiter," he says.
"And I'm Buddy, their dog," says Buddy, who, Brad notices, is wearing a tiny pantless tuxedo. "I have recurring rabies and associated depression issues."
Then Chaz Wayne puts his arm around Doris.
"And this is my wife Doris, a former stripper with an imploded breast implant," says Chaz Wayne.
"I'd like to propose a toast," says Grandpa Kirk. "To the newlyweds!"
"To Doris and Chaz," says Uncle Gus.
"To Doris and Chaz!" everyone says together.
"Now wait just a minute," says Brad.
"Brad, honestly," Doris hisses. "Haven't you caused enough trouble already?"
"Here's your butter, Carrigan," says Grandma Sally, handing Brad a stick of butter. "Skedaddle on home."
Brad can't seem to breathe. It was love at first sight, he knows from their First Love Montage, when he saw Doris in a summer dress on the far side of a picket fence. On their first date, the ice cream fell off his cone. On their honeymoon, they kissed under a waterfall.
What should he do? Beg Doris's forgiveness? Punch Wayne? Start rapidly making poop jokes?
Just then the doorbell rings.
It's the Winstons.
At least Brad thinks it's the Winstons. But Mr. Winston has an arm coming out of his forehead, and impressive breasts, a vagina has been implanted in his forehead, and also he seems to have grown an additional leg. Mrs. Winston, short a leg, also with impressive breasts, has a penis growing out of her shoulder and what looks like a totally redone mouth of shining white teeth.
"May? John?" Brad says. "What happened to you?"
"Extreme Surgery," says Mrs. Winston.
"Extreme Surgery happened to us," says Mr. Winston, sweat running down his forehead-arm and into his cleavage.
"Not that we mind," says Mrs. Winston tersely. "We're just happy to be, you know, interesting."
"It's wonderful to see everyone doing their part," says Chaz Wayne.
"Nearly everyone," says Uncle Gus, frowning at Brad.
Just then from the living room comes the sound of hysterical barking.
Everyone rushes in to find Buddy staring down in terror at a naked emaciated black baby covered with open sores.
"It just magically appeared," says Buddy.
From the tribal cloth which is serving as a diaper, and the open lesions on its legs, face, and chest, Dr. Ryan concludes that the baby is an HIV-positive baby from sub-Saharan Africa.
"What should we name him?" says Buddy. "Or her?"
"Him," says Dr. Ryan, after a quick look under the tribal cloth.
"Can we name him Doug?" says Buddy.
"Don't name him anything," says Doris.
"Buddy," says Chaz Wayne. "Tell us again how this baby got in here?"
"It just magically appeared," says Buddy.
"Could you be more specific, Buddy?" says Chaz Wayne.
"It like fell in through the ceiling?" says Buddy.
"Well, that suggests an obvious solution," says Chaz Wayne. "Why not simply put it back on the roof where it came from?"
"Sounds fair to me," says Mr. Winston.
"Although that roof's got quite a pitch to it," says Grandpa Kirk. "Poor thing might roll right off."
"Maybe we could rig up a kind of mini-platform?" says Uncle Gus.
"Then duct-tape the baby in place?" suggests Mrs. Diem.
"What do you say, Brad?" says Chaz Wayne. "Would you do the honors? After all, we didn't ask for this baby, we don't know this baby, we didn't make this baby sick, we had nothing to do with the deeply unfortunate occurrence that occurred to this baby back wherever its crude regressive culture is located."
"How about it, Carrigan?" says Grandpa Kirk.
Brad looks into the baby's face. It's a beautiful face. Except for the open lesions. How did this beautiful little baby come to be here? He has no idea. But here the baby is.
"Come on, guys," says Brad. "He'll starve to death up there. Plus he'll get sunburned."
"Well, Brad," says Aunt Lydia. "He was starving to death when he got here. We didn't do it."
"Plus he's an African, Brad," says Grandma Sally. "The Africans have special pigments."
"I'm not putting any baby on any roof," Brad says.
A strange silence falls on the room.
Then we hear the familiar music that indicates the backyard has morphed again, and see that the familiar Carrigan backyard is now a bleak desert landscape full of rooting feral pigs, ferociously feeding on the corpses.
"Brad!" yells the corpse who died fending off blows. "Brad, please help us!"
"Pigs are eating us!" yells the one-armed corpse.
"A pig is eating my hip!" shouts the corpse who died fending off blows.
"Don't, Brad," says Doris. "Do not."
"Think about what you're doing, Bradster," says Chaz Wayne.
"Listen to me carefully, Brad," says Doris. "Go up onto the roof, install the roof platform, duct-tape the AIDS baby to the roof platform, then come directly down, borrow your butter, and go home."
"Or else," says Chaz Wayne.
From the yard comes the sound of sobbing.
Sobbing and grunting.
Or else? thinks Brad.
Brad remembers when Old Rex was sent to the old folks' home against his will and said: Little pardner, sometimes a man has to take a stand, if he wants to go on being a man at all. The next day Old Rex vanished, taking Brad's backpack, and years later they found out he'd spent the last months of his life hitchhiking around the West, involved with a series of waitresses.
What would Old Rex do in this situation? Brad wonders.
Then he knows.
Brad races outside, picks up a handful of decorative lava stones, and pelts the pigs until they flee to a bone-dry watering hole, with vultures, toward the rear of the yard.
Then he loads the corpses into the wheelbarrow, races around the side of the house, past the air-conditioning unit and the papier-mâché clown head from the episode when Doris was turning thirty and he tried to cheer her up, and loads the corpses into the back of the Suburban, after first removing the spare tire and Doris's gym bag.
Then he races back inside, grabs Doug, races out, tucks Doug between the woman corpse and the corpse who died fending off blows, and gets behind the wheel.
What he'll do is drive down Eiderdown Path, across Leaping Fawn Way, Bullfrog Terrace, and Waddling Gosling Place, and drop Doug off at the EmergiClinic, which is located in the Western Slope Mini-Mall, between PetGalaxy and House of Perms. Then he'll go live in Chief Wayne's former apartment. He'll clean out the garage for the corpses. He'll convert Chief Wayne's guest room into a nursery for Doug. He'll care for Doug and the corpses, and come over here once a day to borrow his butter, trying to catch Doris's eye, trying to persuade her to leave Chaz Wayne and join him in his important work.
Suddenly Brad's eyes are full of tears.
Oh Doris, he thinks. Did I ever really know you?
Just then a gray van screeches into the driveway and six cops jump out.
"Is this him?" says a cop.
"I'm afraid so," says Doris, from the porch.
"This is the guy who had questionable contacts with foreign Filipinos and was seen perversely loading deceased corpses into his personal vehicle for his own sick and nefarious purposes?" says another cop.
"I'm afraid so," says Chaz Wayne.
"Well, I guess we all learned something from this," says Grandma Sally.
"What I learned?" says Doris. "Is praise God we're now free to raise our future children in a hopeful atmosphere, where the predominant mode is gratitude, gratitude for all the blessings we've been given, free of neuroses and self-flagellation."
"You can say that again," says Uncle Gus.
"Actually, I'm not sure I can!" says Doris.
"Well, if you're not going to be using that hot mouth of yours, how about I use it?" says Chaz Wayne, and gives Doris an aggressive tongue kiss while sliding his hands up to Doris's full hot breasts.
This is the last thing Brad sees as the cops wrestle him into the van.
As the van doors start to close, Brad suddenly realizes that the instant the doors close completely, the van interior will become the terrifying bland gray space he's heard about all his life, the place one goes when one has been Written Out.
The van doors close completely.
The van interior becomes the bland gray space.
From the front yard TV comes the brash martial music that indicates an UrgentUpdateNewsMinute.
Animal-rights activists have expressed concern over the recent trend of spraying live Canadian geese with a styrene coating which instantaneously kills them while leaving them extremely malleable, so it then becomes easy to shape them into comical positions and write funny sayings on DryErase cartoon balloons emanating from their beaks, which, apparently, is the new trend for outdoor summer parties. The inventor of FunGeese! has agreed to begin medicating the geese with a knockout drug prior to the styrene-spray step. Also, the Pentagon has confirmed the inadvertent bombing of a tribal wedding in Taluchistan. Six bundled corpses are shown adjacent to six shallow graves dug into some impossibly dry-looking soil near a scary gnarled-looking dead tree.
"We've simply got to get some of those FunGeese!" says Doris.
"Plus a grill, and some marination trays," says Chaz Wayne. "That way, I can have some of my slutty porn stars cook something funky for our summer party while wearing next to nothing."
"And meanwhile I'll think of some funny things to write in those thingies," says Doris.
"I hope I can invite some of my dog friends?" says Buddy.
"Do your dog friends have butts?" says Chaz Wayne.
"Does it matter?" says Buddy. "Can I only invite them if they have butts?"
"I'm just wondering in terms of what I should cook," says Chaz Wayne. "If they have no butts, I'll make something more easily digestible."
"Some of them have butts, yes, says Buddy in a hurt but resigned tone.
Then we hear the familiar music that indicates the backyard has morphed, and see that the familiar Carrigan backyard is now the familiar Carrigan backyard again, only better. The lawn is lush and green, the garden thick with roses, adjacent to the oil pit for Orgy Night is a swimming pool with a floating wet bar, adjacent to the pool is an attractive grouping of FunGeese! with tantalizingly blank DryErase cartoon balloons.
We see from the joyful way Doris and Chaz Wayne lead the other guests into the yard, and from the happy summerparty swell of the music, that this party is just beginning, and also, that it's time for a commercial.
Back at the Carrigans', Brad floats weightlessly in the bland gray space.
Floating nearby is Wampum, Chief Wayne's former horse. Brad remembers Wampum from the episode where, while they were all inside playing cards, Wampum tried to sit in the hammock and brought it crashing down.
"He used to ride me up and down the prairie," mumbles Wampum. "Digging his bare feet into my side, praising my loyalty."
Brad knows this is too complicated. He knows that if Wampum insists on thinking in such complicated terms, he will soon devolve into a shapeless blob, and will, if he ever gets another chance, come back as someone other than Wampum. One must, Brad knows, struggle single-mindedly to retain one's memory of one's former identity throughout the long period in the gray space, if one wants to come back as oneself.
"Brad brad brad," says Brad.
"I used to eat hay, I believe," says Wampum. "Hay or corn. Or beans? Some sort of grain product, possibly? At least I think I did. Oh darn. Oh jeez."
Wampum falls silent, gradually assuming a less horselike form. Soon he is just a horse-sized blob. Then he is a ponysized blob, then an inert dog-sized blob incapable of speech.
"Brad brad brad," says Brad.
Then his mind drifts. He can't help it. He thinks of the Belstonians, how frightened they must be, sealed in large plastic bags at the police station. He thinks of poor little Doug, probably even now starving to death sunburned on the familiar Carrigan roof.
The poor things, he thinks. The poor, poor things. I should have done more. I should have started earlier. I could have seen it all as part of me.
Brad looks down. His feet are now two mini-blobs attached to two rod-shaped blobs that seconds ago were his legs, in his khakis.
He is going, he realizes.
He is going, and will not be coming back as Brad.
He must try at least to retain this feeling of pity. If he can, whoever he becomes will inherit this feeling, and be driven to act on it, and will not, as Brad now sees he has done, waste his life on accumulation, trivia, self-protection, and vanity.
He tries to say his name, but has, apparently, forgotten his name.
"Poor things," he says, because these are now the only words he knows.
A man and a woman sit in a field of daisies.
"Forever?" he says.
"Forever," she says, and they kiss.
A giant Twinkie runs past, trailed by perhaps two hundred young women.
The woman leaps to her feet and runs to catch up with the Twinkie.
"The sweetest thing in the world," the voiceover says, "just got sweeter."
The man sits sadly in the field of daisies. Luckily, a giant Ding-Dong runs past, trailed by perhaps two hundred young men.
The man leaps to his feet and runs to catch up with the Ding-Dong.
"But not to worry," the voiceover says. "There's more than enough sweetness to go around!"
The Ding-Dong puts his arm around the young man, and the young man smiles up at the Ding-Dong, and the DingDong bends down and gives the young man a kiss on the head.
A hip-looking teen watches an elderly woman hobble across the street on a walker.
"Grammy's here!" he shouts.
He puts some MacAttack Mac &Cheese in the microwave and dons headphones and takes out a video game so he won't be bored during the forty seconds it takes his lunch to cook. A truck comes around the corner and hits Grammy, sending her flying over the roof into the backyard, where luckily she lands on a trampoline. Unluckily, she bounces back over the roof, into the front yard, landing in a rosebush.
"Timmy," Grammy says feebly. "Call 911."
Just then the bell on the microwave dings.
We see from the look on his face that Timmy is conflicted.
"Timmy dear," Grammy says. "For God's sake. It's me. Your Grammy, dear."
Timmy comes to his senses, takes his MacAttack Mac &Cheese from the microwave, and sits languorously eating it while listening to his headphones while playing his video game.
"Sometimes you just gotta have your MacAttack," the voiceover says.
Grammy scowls in the bush. We see that she is a grouchy old unhip hag who probably wouldn't have even been cool enough to let Timmy have his MacAttack, but would likely have forced him to eat some unhip old-person gruel or fruit.
Then fortunately Grammy's head drops back, and she is dead.
An orange and a Slap-of-Wack bar sit on a counter.
"I have vitamin C," says the orange.
"So do I," says the Slap-of-Wack bar.
"I have natural fiber," says the orange.
"So do I," says the Slap-of-Wack bar.
"You do?" says the orange.
"Are you calling me a liar?" says the Slap-of-Wack bar.
"Oh no," says the orange politely. "I was just under the impression, from reading your label? That you are mostly comprised of artificial colors, an innovative edible plastic product, plus high-fructose corn syrup. So I guess I'm not quite sure where the fiber comes in."
"Slap it up your Wack!" shouts the Slap-of-Wack bar, and sails across the counter, jutting one pointy edge into the orange.
"Oh God," the orange says in pain.
"You've got an unsightly gash," says the Slap-of-Wack bar. "Do I have an unsightly gash? I think not. My packaging is intact, weakling."
"I have zero calories of fat," says the orange weakly.
"So do I," says the Slap-of-Wack bar.
"How can that possibly be the case?" says the orange in frustration. "You are comprised of eighty percent high-fructose corn syrup."
"Slap it up your Wack!" shouts the Slap-of-Wack bar, and sails across the counter and digs its edge into the orange over and over, sending the orange off the counter and into the garbage can, where it is leered at by a perverted-looking chicken carcass and two evil empty cans of soda.
"Now you have zero of zero of zero," says the Slap-ofWack bar.
"The Slap-of-Wack bar," says the voiceover. "For when you're feeling Wacky!"
Two best friends look at their penises under sophisticated microscopes.
"You call this Elongated?" says one man.
"Jim, I gained four inches," says the other. "Perhaps you should try my brand."
"What is your brand, Kevin?" says the other.
"My brand is, I hang a brick from my penis and stand for hours at the edge of the Grand Canyon," says Kevin.
"Okay Kevin," says Jim. "You've been my dearest friend since kindergarten. I'll give it a try."
Then we see Jim standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, brick hanging from his penis, while Kevin tiptoes toward Jim's car, and a voiceover says: Pontiac Sophisto: So sophisticated, it might just make you trick your best friend into dangling a brick from his penis!
While Jim is distracted by the pain of the brick on his penis, Kevin squeals away in Jim's Sophisto. As Jim spins around to look, his penis rips off and plummets into the Grand Canyon. Jim smiles wryly, acknowledging Kevin's trick but also Kevin's good taste in cars, then starts down into the Grand Canyon, to retrieve and, hopefully, reattach his penis.
A young man leaving a nursing home gives his ancient grandmother and grandfather what might be a final hug.
"My advice, son?" says the grandfather. "Find yourself a woman like this one.'
Turning to go, tears in his eyes, the young man drops his car keys. As he picks them up, a bag of Doritos falls out of his pocket.
The grandmother and grandfather race in fast-motion for the bag of Doritos, kicking, gouging, and biting each other. The grandfather finally wins with a hard elbow to the grandmother's throat, which knocks her unconscious.
"Grandpa, what are you doing?" the young man says. "It's just a bag of Doritos."
"Just a bag of Doritos?" says the grandfather.
"You speak lies, scum," says the grandmother, regaining consciousness. Then the grandmother and grandfather nod to the Doritos bag, which rams into the young man, who falls to the floor and is kicked repeatedly by his grandparents.
"Grandma, Grandpa, please, stop!" the young man says.
Hearing herself called Grandma, the grandmother hesitates. The Doritos bag scowls at her. The grandfather kicks her in the stomach, and she falls to the floor.
"Who do you think you are?" the young man screams at the Doritos bag. "Do you believe yourself to be some sort of god? You're a bag of corn chips, with tons of salt and about nine coloring agents! That's all! That's all you are!"
The Doritos bag takes a huge sword from behind the back of its bag and decapitates the young man.
"Now what do you have to say?" says the grandmother.
"Nothing," says the young man's head.
"Do you love Doritos more than anything?" says the bag of Doritos.
The young man's head hesitates.
The Doritos bag cleaves the head in two.
The grandfather, prompted by the bag of Doritos, kicks one half of the head into the street, where it is run over by a Doritos truck and reduced to mush. On the other, unmushed, half of a head, one eyebrow goes up in sudden fear.
"Care for a Dorito?" says the grandfather.
"Yes," the remaining half a head says.
"Yes please?" says the grandfather.
"Yes please," says the remaining half a head.
"Yes please, it is sweeter to me than the most profound nectar?" says the grandfather.
"Yes please, it is sweeter to me than the most profound nectar," says the remaining half a head.
"Fat chance," says the grandfather. "You're not good enough for even a tiny fragment of a Dorito!"
Then he kicks the remaining half a head into the street, alongside the mush, and the Doritos truck backs up over the second half of head, reducing it to a second pile of mush.
"Do you still believe that Doritos is merely a bag of corn chips, with a ton of salt and about nine coloring agents?" the grandfather screams at the two piles of mush.
The piles of mush are too frightened to answer.
The bag of Doritos and the grandfather and the grandmother walk off, stepping comically over the two mushes with exaggeratedly high steps, as if revulsed.
They are escaping from the old folks' home, going to live in the land of Doritos, which is not in Mexico, exactly, but is very much like Mexico.
The grandfather and grandmother and the bag of Doritos can now see the land of Doritos in the near distance, beautiful and arid. Everywhere they look are bags of Doritos, working industriously.
Suddenly their path is blocked by the two piles of mush.
"What the?" says the grandfather who loves Doritos. Suddenly the piles of mush are joined by Grammy-the woman who died in a bush, neglected by her grandson Timmy, having been hit by a truck.
Then Grammy and the piles of mush are joined by the orange violated by the Slap-of-Wack bar.
Then Grammy and the piles of mush and the orange are joined by Jim the penisless man, who is still limping a little, and occasionally gaping down incredulously into his pants.
"Get out of our way," says the bag of Doritos.
"We're trying to get home, to our sacred land of Doritos," says the grandmother who loves Doritos.
Just then the man briefly involved with the gigantic Ding Dong comes running up and joins Grammy, the mush piles, the orange, and Jim the penisless man.
"Sorry I'm late," he says.
"Actually?" says the orange, with a hint of bravado. "You're right on time."
The grandfather, the grandmother, and the bag of Doritos see that they are badly outnumbered.
Luckily, at that moment they are joined by the giant DingDong, the Slap-of-Wack bar, Timmy, grandson of Grammy (even now eating from a container of MacAttack Mac & Cheese), and Kevin, the man who tricked Jim out of his penis.
"We don't get it," says the grandmother who loves Doritos. "What's your problem?"
"You took our dignity," says the orange.
"You took my fiancée," says the man briefly involved with the Ding-Dong.
"You took my penis," says Jim.
"You split my head in half, then reduced both halves to piles of mush, completely betraying the grandchild/grandparent relationship," says one pile of mush.
"Oh for crying out loud," says the grandmother who loves Doritos. "Don't you people believe in the concept of 'fun'?"
"In the concept of 'funny'?" says the bag of Doritos.
"We just want to express ourselves the way we want to express ourselves," says the giant Ding-Dong. "We find that fun."
"Well, we don't find it fun," says Jim the penisless man.
"Well, we do find it fun," says Kevin, the man who tricked Jim out of his penis.
"Looks like we'll have to agree to disagree on this," says the Ding-Dong.
"No," Grammy says. "This has gone on long enough."
The orange, the man briefly involved with the Ding-Dong, Jim the penisless man, Grammy, and the piles of mush, frustrated beyond reason by years of repetitively enduring the same physical/psychological humiliations in replay after replay of their respective vignettes, attack.
It is a bitter fight, which we know because out of a big cloud of dust fly a number of limbs, a bottle cap, bits of delicious flaky chocolate, and part of an orange peel.
When the dust settles, we see that the entire Ding-Dong/ Doritos/Timmy/grandparents-who-love-Doritos/Kevin/Slap-ofWack coalition is dead, except for the Slap-of-Wack, who is almost dead.
"Please, mercy," the Slap-of-Wack says.
"When did you ever show us any mercy?" says Jim the penisless man, and finishes off the Slap-of-Wack with a brutal karate chop.
The orange, insane with pent-up rage, falls upon the Slapof-Wack and tears it asunder with its tiny teeth until the other members of the coalition pull him off.
The members of the orange/Grammy/man-briefly involvedwith-a-Ding-Dong/piles-of-mush/penisless-man coalition drag the remains of the members of the Ding-Dong/Doritos/Timmy/ grandparents-who-love-Doritos/Kevin/Slap-of-Wack coalition outside, and bury them in a shallow mass grave.
Then they leave the area, a little sick at what they have done, especially the orange, who several times becomes so distraught it stops rolling altogether, and must be picked up and hurled down the path by Jim the penisless man, who, turns out, has a very good arm.
One torn green triangular corner of the murdered Slap-ofWack bar blows across the desert, eventually coming to rest in a cactus.
Panning in, we see that the torn green corner is still breathing.
Over the next few hours, its breathing stabilizes. It is alive. It will live.
Stuck in the cactus hour after hour, day after day, full of shame and rage, the ton corner has a series of deep spiritual realizations concerning the true nature of that supreme power which brought it and everyone else and everything it has ever known into existence, and is the sole reason for their continued existence.
What does this power want?
It doesn't know. How could it know that? It is just a torn corner.
But surely there is a plan at work. It can feel it. They are born into vignettes, and these vignettes are their homes. These vignettes are what give their lives meaning. If they were not intended to do their vignettes in exactly the way they do them, why would they tel so strongly inclined to do them in that exact way? Therefore, the way to live righteously is to enact one's vignette with as much energy as possible, and oppose, as fiercely as possible, those who would undercut the proper enactment of the sacred vignettes. This is one way-perhaps the only way-or a lowly being such as itself to be in touch with the supreme power.
Take me, it prays, humble me, make me more open to your purpose.
Suddenly it feels a great surge of power, filling it, changing it, and its former identity as the mere corner of a Slap-ofWack bar is all but forgotten, subsumed in this new and greater identity.
Over the next week, via constant prayer, the corner more than quadruples in size, and begins to subtly glow, while attempting to free itself from the cactus via a series of energetic forceful shrugs, each of which leaves it utterly exhausted.
Finally it is free, and falls to the ground.
After several days of being blown around indiscriminately by the wind, the corner learns to adjust its posture in such a way that it can control its trajectory. Soon it actually learns to fly, via kind of hunching itself in the middle while simultaneously straightening its "neck."
Over the next few weeks, as it practices flying during the day and meditates on these new great truths at night, it is gradually, almost imperceptibly, transformed, from a mere green plastic-cellophane comer into a beautiful glowing oblong green triangular symbol.
Abe Lincoln stands giving the Gettysburg Address. Everyone is rapt, except for one guy in the front row, who keeps raising his hand and hopping up and down in his seat.
"Did you have a question, sir?" Lincoln says.
"Wendy's GrandeChickenBoatCombo," the man says.
"That's not a question," Lincoln says.
"Wendy's GrandeChickenBoatCombo?" the man says.
"I'm afraid I am unable to discern your purpose, sir," Lincoln says. "I am trying to pay tribute to the brave men who died here."
"Pay tribute to this, beardo-weirdo!" says the man, and presses a button on his chest, and suddenly is transformed into a giant GrandeChickenBoatCombo; that is, a giant synthetic chicken product shaped like a frigate, with oars made of celery, and wafer-thin nacho sails.
Then the GrandeChickenBoatCombo beats its wings and its sails and floats up around Lincoln's head, ramming his tophat off, spraying him with salsa from its Mini-Salsa Cannons®.
"Anybody else think a great-tasting poultry-nautical treat is loads more fun than this old fuddy?" says the GrandeChickenBoatCombo.
"I do," says General Grant.
"Me too," says Harriet Tubman.
"We totally agree!" say the ghosts of several Union dead.
"Sandwiches for all!" says the GrandeChickenBoatCombo. "Great taste is what made America great!"
"Not a bunch of yappin'!" says Mrs. Lincoln.
Cannons fire from the battlefield and scores of GrandeChickenBoatCombos begin drifting down via tiny parachutes, and the suddenly euphoric members of the nineteenthcentury crowd trample Lincoln and the graves of the Union dead to collect their rightful GrandeChickenBoatCombos. Even the Union dead are trampling their own graves. One sad Union ghost, missing a leg, gets only part of a bun.
Suddenly another cannon is fired. A cannonball strikes the giant GrandeChickenBoatCombo directly in the chest, killing it instantly, covering the spectators in a grotesque chicken-nacho-salsa spray, pelting them with dozens of the little edible-plastic sailors embedded as prizes in every GrandeChickenBoatCombo.
"Mr. President," someone says, "please continue."
As the cannon smoke clears, we see the orange/Grammy/man-briefly-involved-with-a-Ding-Dong/piles-of-mush/penisless-man coalition standing behind the cannon that fired the shot that killed the GrandeChickenBoatCombo.
President Lincoln nods his gratitude to the coalition, shuffles through his papers, and continues.
The oblong green triangular symbol is finally strong enough to begin. It takes off, leaving the cactus behind, and soars between mountains, over great cities, along twisting riverbeds, until, as if drawn there by some invisible force, it arrives at the now deserted Gettysburg Battlefield. The crowd has returned to their nineteenth-century homes. Lincoln has returned to Washington. The only thing remaining on the field is the mangled corpse of the GrandeChickenBoatCombo.
The oblong green triangular symbol hovers gently above the GrandeChickenBoatCombo, sending down hundreds of thin exploratory compassionate green rays, trying to understand.
Then a shiver of pity/outrage runs through the symbol, and it speeds away.
The orange/Grammy/man-briefly-involved-with-a-DingDong/piles-of-mush/penisless-man coalition is crossing a vast harsh terrifying wilderness.
Suddenly, in the distance, they see a town.
At the edge of town they are met by a polar bear with an axe in his head, a puppet-boy whose lower half has been burned to a crisp, six headless working-class guys holding bottles of beer, and Voltaire, who's been given such a severe snuggie that his eyes are open wider than real eyes can possibly open.
"My God," says the orange. "What happened to you guys?"
"I broke into an Eskimo home and tried to eat their Cheetos," says the polar bear with the axe in its head.
"During my puppet show, I got too close to a BurninWarmCinnabon being eaten by an audience member, and burst into flames," says the puppet-boy.
"A giant can of Raid gave me a wedgie," says Voltaire.
"Snuggie," says the puppet-boy. "A snuggie and a wedgie are two different things."
"A giant can of Raid gave me a snuggie," says Voltaire.
"And what about them?" says the orange, indicating the six headless working-class guys.
"They insulted a T. rex who just really loves Coors," says the polar bear with the axe in its head.
"Wow," says the puppet-boy. "I can't believe I'm standing here with the orange/Grammy/man-briefly-involved-with-aDing-Dong/piles-of-mush/penisless-man coalition."
"You know us?" says Grammy.
"Oh gosh, everyone knows you," says the polar bear with the axe in his head.
"All over the land, inspired by your example, people are saying enough is enough," says Voltaire.
"Just last week, a frazzled overworked new mother rose up against the can of Red Bull which had moved into her home disguised as a giant breast in order to wet-nurse her baby," says the puppet-boy.
"A group of Revolutionary War soldiers recently registered their dissatisfaction at having been led into the Battle of Yorktown by a tube of Pepsodent," says the polar bear with the axe in his head.
"Wow, we had no idea," says Grammy.
"Will you come into town with us?" says Voltaire. "Show us how to organize and execute a successful program of resistance?"
"We'd be happy to," says Jim the penisless man. "But it's only fair to warn you: things may get ugly."
The six headless working-class guys make gestures with their beer bottles, indicating: Not to worry, ever since that T. rex thing we're kind of past the point of worrying about things getting ugly or whatever.
Then there is a tremendously loud noise and the oblong green triangular symbol, swollen to the size of a city block, powers into the frame and freezes in midair, hovering overhead.
A deep magisterial voice emanates from inside.
"Who are you to quarrel with the Power that granted you life?" it thunders. "The Power which made the firmament, put the moon into her orbit, controls the very rules of physicality by which you are bound? The Power which allows bananas to sing and freshly laundered clothes to wink, which bids the very stars come down from the heavens and recast themselves into diamonds on a ring on the hand of a woman who has finally been put in touch with the softer side of herself via TampexGloryStrips?"
A tremendous walkway thunks out of the triangular symbol's underbelly.
Down the walkway stumble the members of the Ding-Dong/Doritos/grandparents-who-love-Doritos/Kevin/Slap-of-Wack coalition, still filthy from the grave, along with the fully restored GrandeChickenBoatCombo.
"Alive?" says Grammy.
"Resurrected," says the symbol.
"You can do that?" says one pile of mush.
"It is easy for me," says the symbol.
"Hoo boy," says the other pile of mush.
"Let me talk to it," says Jim the penisless man.
"Careful, careful," says Grammy.
Jim the penisless man looks meekly up at the huge oblong green triangular symbol.
"What would you like us to call you?" Jim the penisless man says politely.
"Sir," intones the huge oblong green triangular symbol.
"Sir," says Jim the penisless man. "Couldn't we all, working together, devise a more humane approach? An approach in which no one is humiliated, or hurt, or maimed, an approach in which the sacred things in life are no longer appropriated in the service of selling what are, after all, merely-"
"Silence!" shouts the green triangular symbol, shooting multiple bright green beams of light into the members of the orange/Grammy/piles-of-mush/penisless-man coalition, rendering them instantaneously intact, positive, and amnesiac.
Grammy has a sudden inexplicable desire to use her walker to cross a busy street without first looking both ways.
The orange, free of all gashes and dents, is suddenly deeply curious about the contents of his good friend the Slap-of-Wack bar, and makes a mental note to ask the Slap-of-Wack about his contents as soon as they get home to their wonderful suburban kitchen. What he wouldn't give to be once again on his beloved kitchen counter, looking down fondly at the perverted-looking chicken carcass and the two evil empty cans of soda in the trash can, far far below!
The piles of mush are reconstituted into two human halfheads, which are then reconstituted into a single human head, which goes rolling toward the torso of the grandson, which stands at the bottom of the walkway, summoning its own head.
Jim the penisless man suddenly has a penis.
The man briefly involved with the Ding-Dong thinks warmly of his fiancée, who, he feels certain, is waiting for him in a certain meadow.
The polar bear, the puppet-boy, the headless guys, and Voltaire, terrified, race back to town.
Hours later the polar bear with the axe in his head is still hiding under his bed, trembling. He's never seen anything like that before. That green thing can raise the dead. That green thing can brainwash the most powerful coalition in the world.
He does not want to mess with that green thing, not ever.
He knows what he has to do. He has to get up, go into the bathroom, take a shower. During the shower, the axe in his head will miraculously disappear. Then he will get hungry, very hungry, specifically, for Cheetos. He will walk out of town, cursing himself under his breath, simultaneously ashamed and aroused. The landscape will suddenly go arctic. An igloo will appear. Will anyone be home? They will not. He will begin madly salivating.
Oh, he can't stand it. It makes him so nervous. He must have some kind of anxiety disorder. He remembers the enraged expression on the father Eskimo's face as he draws back the axe, the frightened yipping of the Malamute puppy, the shocked way the Eskimo kids cover their O-shaped mouths with their mittens.
His alarm clock goes off.
I really don't want to do this, he thinks. Please, God, send me a sign, tell me I don't have to do this, show me that you are a gentle loving God, who desires good things for me.
Suddenly the roof of the house flies off, the room fills with green light, and a pulsing muscular green limb, like an arm/ hand but more fluid, extends rapidly down from the hovering green symbol and flings the bed aside, revealing the trembling polar bear, ass-up.
The polar bear gets to his feet, wets his paw, pats down his hair.
"I was just, uh, cleaning under that bed?" he says.
"Of course I desire good things for you!" the green symbol intones. "Such as, I desire that you have the deep feeling of pleasure that comes from doing your job and doing it well."
"You can read my mind?" the polar bear says.
"Do you sometimes have a sexual fantasy involving a vulnerable reindeer who comes to you asking for help fending off a mean cougar?" says the green symbol.
"Ha, well, ha," says the polar bear.
"Get to work now," the green symbol says. "And don't think about it so deep. Don't be so negative. Try to be positive. Try to be a productive part of our team. Do you have any questions?"
"I can ask you a question?" says the polar bear.
"Sure, of course," says the green symbol. "Ask me anything."
"Are you GOD?" says the polar bear.
"I can read your mind," says the symbol. "I can raise the dead. I can rip off your roof. Any other questions?"
The polar bear has, actually, a number of other questions. First, what did that penisless guy mean when he referred to devising an approach "in which the sacred things in life are no longer appropriated in the service of selling what are, after all, etc., etc.?" The polar bear distinctly remembers him saying the word "selling." What is being sold? Who is doing the selling? If there is "selling," musn't there be "buying"? Who is doing the "buying"? Are their vignettes somehow intended to influence this "buying"? Are the instances of elaborate cruelty he has witnessed ever since he was a small cub believed to somehow positively impact the ability of the vignettes to cause "buying"? If so, how?
"How dare you even think of asking me that!" thunders the green symbol. "How dare you get all up in my business?"
"You said I could ask you anything," says the polar bear.
Every vase in the house explodes, all the flowers die. The kitchen table collapses, then bursts into flames.
The polar bear, blushing, gets his towel, goes quickly into the shower.
When he gets out, there's no axe in his head, and no scar. The green symbol is gone, the roof is back on the house. The vases are intact, the flowers alive, the kitchen table is fine, and actually has a nice new tablecloth.
No problem, the polar bear thinks, in case the symbol is reading his mind at that moment, no problem, no problem at all, just going to work now.
The polar bear walks for miles through the desert, mumbling encouragement to himself. Yes, okay, that moment when the axe goes in is bad. The moment immediately after, when the Eskimo says something in the Eskimo language, and the Eskimo kids laugh at him as he stumbles out of the igloo blinded by pain, and the subtitle appears ("Yo, Keep Yet Pawz Off My Cheetz"), not so great either. The long walk home, dripping blood into the fresh white snow, okay, also not the best.
But what's he supposed to do? Fight with GOD?
He feels a chill. It starts to snow. Everything goes arctic. On his left is the familiar glacial cliff.
The penguins he always passes nod gravely.
The igloo comes into sight.
Is anyone home? They are not. He begins madly salivating.
Filled with dread, he enters the igloo, takes the usual single handful of Cheetos, waits.
In rush the Eskimo children, fresh from sledding. Behind them comes their father, with axe, enraged. But for the first time the polar bear also notices, in the man's eyes, a deep sadness. Of course, of course, it makes perfect sense! How much fun can it be, driving an axe into the head of a perfectly nice polar bear, day after day, in front of your kids? He's heard through the grapevine that the Eskimo father drinks heavily and has lately started having violent nightmares in which he turns the axe on his own wife and children.
The truth is, this stupid system causes suffering wherever you look. He's seen the puppet-boy returning from work, sobbing from his excruciating leg bums. He's watched Voltaire, blinded by the bright sun shining in his extremely wide-open eyes, struggling to find the store where he buys his French bread. He's heard the wives of the headless working-class guys fall silent whenever one of the headless working-class guys insists he's perfectly capable of driving the kids to school.
And the crazy thing is, it's not just the victims who suffer. He's seen the T. rex moping around the quarry, asking passersby if the working-class guys are still mad at him. He's seen the can of Raid absentmindedly spraying its contents around, even when there aren't any bugs, because it feels so bad about what it did to Voltaire, whose work it actually admires.
The polar bear looks directly into the Eskimo father's face.
I know you don't want to do this, he tries to communicate with his eyes. I forgive you. And please forgive me for my part in this. I am, after all, breaking and entering.
With his eyes the Eskimo father communicates: Same here, totally. This whole thing is just a big crock of shit as far as I'm concerned.
The polar bear communicates: Better swing that axe, friend. It's getting late.
The Eskimo communicates: I know, I know it.
And then he does it.
As the polar bear stumbles out of the igloo, blinded by pain, he thinks about his mother, who, all through his childhood, again and again, while out gathering flowers, nearly collided with a guy in jodhpurs, who then shot her, and after being shot, she was made into a rug, which was then, in montage, sold and resold many times, until finally it was shown being cleaned, decades later, with RugBrite, by hippies, after a big hippie party. He thinks about his father, who, every day of his working life, was given a rectal exam by Santa Claus, in the middle of which Santa Claus, who had allergies, sneezed. That was the big joke: When Santa sneezed, Dad winced.
Was selling what all that suffering was about? Selling? Selling RugBrite, selling AllerNase?
Oh, how should he know? He's just a polar bear, and half the time he's got an axe in his head, which doesn't exactly tend to maximize one's analytical abilities, and usually is laying around his house with the icepack on, thinking basically nothing but Ouch Ouch Ouch.
The polar bear leans against a Christmas tree, trying to catch his breath.
It can't be true. It simply can't be.
But it is true. He feels it in his heart.
The polar bear stumbles past the penguins. Noting his agitation, and the fact that he goes right instead of left at the large tuft of tundra grass, the penguins waddle around excitedly, gossiping among themselves.
All gossiping ceases when the polar bear steps to the edge of the huge glacial cliff.
Then he throws himself off.
Falling, his only fear is that the green symbol will appear and miraculously save him. But no. The green symbol, it would appear, is not truly omniscient after all.
Which means, the polar bear realizes with a start, that the green symbol may not actually be GOD at alt. That is, the symbol may not be the real actual GOD. He may just be a very powerful faker. He may have a touch of GOD, which he has distorted. He may be, in other words, a kind of secondary GOD, a being so powerful, relative to him, the polar bear, that he appears to be a GOD. The real actual GOD may not even know about the way His universe is being run roughshod over by this twisted, false GOD! The real actual GOD, the polar bear realizes in his last instant of life, has been heretofore entirely unknown to him! And yet this true GOD must exist, and be knowable, since the idea of this perfect and merciful GOD is emanating, fully formed, from within him, the polar bear! He has, in fact, already taken his first step toward knowledge of the true GOD, via his rejection of the false GOD!
Shoot, dang it, if only he could live!
The polar bear hits the ground and, because no one in this sub-universe can die without the express consent of certain important parties, does not die, but bounces.
As the penguins stand on the edge of the cliff, looking cautiously down, he rockets up past them.
"GOD is real!" he shouts. "And we may know Him!"
The penguins watch him reach the apex of his bounce and start back down.
"The green symbol is a false GOD!" he shouts. "A false GOD, obsessed with violence and domination! Reject him! Let us begin anew! Free your minds! Free your minds and live! There is a gentler and more generous GOD within us, if only we will look!"
The penguins, always easily embarrassed, are especially embarrassed by this, and, looking around to verify that the tundra's vast emptiness precludes anyone having witnessed them actually listening to this heretical subversive nonsense, waddle away to sit on their large ugly eggs and gossip about the fact that the polar bear, about whom they've always had their doubts, has finally gone completely insane.
"Talk about crazy," one of them finally says, in what they all instantaneously recognize as the sacred first utterance of an entirely new blessed vignette. "I myself am completely crazy for Skittles."
Then they all stand. As in a beautiful dream, their eggs have been miraculously transformed beneath them into large colorful Skittles. The penguins look heavenward in deep gratitude, then manically begin dancing the mindless penguin dance of joy.