 
### Awful, Ohio

authored by

Sirloin Furr

An unfilmable story:

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by Sirloin Furr

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 "Let's blow it up" – Lacy Slushy

Chapter 2 Perseverance is much more eminent

in accomplishing a goal than feasibility.

Chapter 3 "The colors" – Theodore Sphinctor

Chapter 4 We are here,

because we live in fear,

and being in here

brings us

peace and cheer.

Chapter 5 Deliver hearts to those who are lacking,

until they begin to ripen with hearts of their own.

Chapter 6 "I'll write a script." – Troy Slushy

Chapter 7 "I love you, Lacy." – Troy Slushy

Chapter 8 A script needs to be authentic and accurate

with its story, exposing the plot and characters honestly.

Chapter 9 Your purpose in life is to discover the purpose of your self.

Chapter 10 The Merger.

Chapter 11 Peace is Anti-Action Batter.

Chapter 12 This is Art.

Chapter 13 The Aliens are Coming to Destroy us all!

Chapter 14 As fate would have it.

Chapter 15 "Clearly, none of this is a coincidence."

Chapter 16 "Mad, can I call you Mad?"

Chapter 17 Operation: Blackout

## Chapter 1

" **Let's Blow it Up" – Lacy Slushy**

What once was a vacant, humanless land, housing nothing more than tumbleweeds and grazing mammals, quickly erected into a worldwide enterprise of distributable and collectable goods that would be exchanged for government printed monies. All of the government printed monies increased with every transaction, which created a pulsating economy. The lively economy attracted a plethora of humans that exponentially increased with every passing year, indirectly causing the land and wealth to expand. And with every passing year that would earn more government printed monies, attracting more plethoras of humans, more collectable goods would be created and distributed, increasing the amount of exchanged government printed monies.

All of this exchanging and creating and manufacturing of goods helped create wealth for those who ran the industries. But the more wealth that was earned by the individuals running the industries, the more jobs the industries had that needed to be completed. These jobs would be granted to the plethora of humans who were unable to create their own goods. In return, the plethora of humans would be given government printed monies that was earned by the individuals running the industries. There were a lot of monies being earned, and there were a lot of jobs being done. The concentration of wealth and jobs rose quickly in this consolidated area, endowing the thriving land with reputations of "amazing," "marvelous," "prodigious," and "exceptional." The land's amazing success would overwhelm the dwellers and the governors with so much bewilderment, and _fill_ them with so much _awe_ that the land's epithets had enriched the land with the title of _Awful, Ohio_.

Awful, Ohio was a birthing place of factories, industries, warehouses, and plantations that provided occupations for the residents that honored their town. The job sector was plenty and the work force was strong, building a strong heart that pumped life from the center of Awful, Ohio, into the surrounding land. The workers would disband from their jobs, scattering through the surrounding land in the evening to their spouses and homes. This became known as their lives. The routine would continue daily, with the sun leading the way, emitting rippling wakes that would whip everyone from their slumber, unionizing them in the morning, back into the city where their jobs awaited them, then returning them home to their lives during the evening time. It was industrial and banal. Of the thousands upon thousands that made up the work force, most of them resided on the surrounding areas of Awful, Ohio, with the few exceptions of those who grew so connected to their careers in the warehouses that they used the conveyor belts as resting units.

However, the wonderful sound to all of this glory and conveniences was not attractive to every member dwelling in Awful, Ohio. For Troy Slushy, he had found nothing but limping banality. Day after day, his soul-enriching rest would end, as his job would demand his attention and time. There wasn't any freedom in Awful, Ohio. Troy Slushy couldn't do what he wanted to do. He was forced from his peaceful slumber, entering into a concentration camp of productivity and profit. His life was reduced to imitating a peg, posted in front of a conveyor belt, handing out his time to every manufactured good that moved past his being. He despised his job, loathed his home, and resented every pathetic paycheck that was supposed to be a fair trade for his god given time and energy. He experienced liberation five times a week, when his shift would end, as he would return to the home that sheltered him, sharing it with his wife, whom he loved dearly. Her name was Lacy Slushy. They were high school sweet hearts, each desperately holding on to one another for purpose. But this disheartening routine suppressed every attempt to muster any kind of excitement for one another.

She was Lacy Boiler before becoming Lacy Slushy. She was a thin girl, standing upon the earth like a newborn tree, thin and limber, with crimson hair that ignited Troy's mind with wild dreams of their first romantic encounter that occurred in a pile of raked October leaves. She reminded him daily of autumn, his favorite season. She too had become a victim of the false advertisements that suggest that the American dream would lead to a wonderful life, that Awful, Ohio was a wonderful place to reside. She had fought gravity every day by getting up to provide support to Troy. But all the fighting had brought wear to her body, as it was turning into a one sided victory. What used to be tight, firm skin, began to drag from her upright flesh, stretching closer to the floor. She had developed cellulite, bags, and jowls. This become understood as aging, and was considered normal. The only things that Troy and Lacy wanted to do was lay with each other on the beach, listening to the ocean. They wanted to fill their heads with knowledge of personal interests, pursue their existential purpose, and drift further away into the abyss of personal enlightenment. They wanted to go to sleep knowing that they had nothing to wake up to. But instead, their lives were obediently structured into minutes, hours and days for Awful, Ohio, and its industrial purpose. They subliminally begged for liberation, but their time was running out, as the exalting flesh that encapsulated their beings was crumbling away.

***

The sun had spotted the Slushy house that morning, which rested on the environs of Awful, Ohio. It was pale and banana yellow, lacking the original spirit and luster that had ordinarily been there when the first coats of paint were applied. It was covered in age, decorated with faded shutters, shingles, and siding, all worn down, all in eager need of repair. But the occupants were preoccupied with other hindrances of depression.

Between the window blind and the molding of the window inside of Troy's and Lacy's bedroom, there was a sliver of space that morning which the light of the sun took shape in, squeezing through, and laying across Troy's closed eyes like a blindfold. That space was there every morning. And every morning the sun would enter like a cat burglar, finding Troy and Lacy sleeping peacefully. Crust was neatly rolled up into little balls, tucked away into the corners of Troy's eyes. Those balls of crust were the collected shit of Awful, Ohio that Troy's closed eyes were able to keep from contaminating his mind, robbing him of his dreams.

The blindfold beam was bright and menacing, too much for thin eyelids to hold off. Troy's eyes reacted with gentle floods of tears, flowing through the crevices of every crafted wrinkle in Troy's face. The start of a new day was worth cringing for. His eyes squinted open, breaking the dam, as his irises were penetrated with every sharp ray of invasive light that sifted poison through his cones and rods, tunneling through his optic nerve, implanting images of awakening torture into his mind. At that very moment is when Troy gets raped of his dreams every morning, Monday through Friday, because he has to wake up and go to his life-decimating job.

"Lacy?" Troy was trying to see if Lacy was awake. She normally woke when Troy woke. Troy had been aware of the Awful, Ohio shackles for some time now, and knew that something had to be done to break free from the force. His thoughts were clear during rest that night, and an epiphany overcame him. He was eager to relay his enlightenment to Lacy, thinking that this would be the beginning of their freedom.

"Yes, Troy?" said Lacy. She wasn't fully awake, but awake enough to respond to Troy.

"Well, you know how we've been miserable with the way things have been going lately?"

Lacy didn't want to admit that she was miserable. But as soon as the earth became lit, it exposed everything that Lacy had, which was nothing. She would glance around the room every morning and see the clothes or crafts or cosmetics that her husband's paychecks had been bartered for. And it all sat there without any ability to inject a sliver of happiness that she had been desiring, back into her existence. She would fall into depression. Every little bit of purchased character that their home had was nothing more than a terrible reminder of the meaningless life that she was living. She would cry every morning as soon as Troy's legs crawled from their home and into their blue hatchback, driving back into Awful, Ohio for work, leaving her there to be alone with her trash. She didn't respond to Troy's question.

"It's because we're victims," Troy continued, without the signal of Lacy's acknowledgment. "We are victims to the menace that forces us to live accordingly to the way that the ultimate, divine menace thinks our lives should be dictated. We deserve justice from this culprit."

Troy spoke with a fluffy force. He didn't want to be too intimidating, but he did want to be taken seriously. Troy's rants are usually about his job, or the car, or wages with work, something boring that Lacy was incapable of relating to, making it hard for her to pay attention. But Troy was right. She did feel like a victim. She felt like she was lied to her entire life, as those moments of happiness that were supposed to happen never showed up. And Lacy kept listening.

Troy paused after his statement. He was fearful that he would be alone, and looked towards Lacy, hoping that her reaction wouldn't be alienating. Her eyes were open, glaring at the ceiling, as she silently continued resting on her back. Her hopes for salvation voided her routine disinterest. Troy fearlessly continued.

"Lacy, why is it that we have to live like this. All we want is to live simply, to simply live! All of this crap that we purchase is nothing that makes us happy. All of this money I earn isn't anything that puts a smile on my face. I can't stand having to wake up this early, trudge to work, and leave you here by yourself. I want to spend my days with you, laying on a beach, resting near savannahs, staring at the stars, driving endlessly into new locations, towards cultures that we can observe and witness the beauty that they behold."

Troy's moments of drama are rare and never well expressed when they do show up. But Lacy was enjoying what she was listening to. The amassing disgruntled diatribe evoked from Troy was soothing, as they would never willingly speak of their disgust of their situation, fearful of exposing the truth. But Troy's epiphany had begun to put a smile on her face, as she had finally started to feel the happiness that she knew she was seeking. She was anticipating that Troy was going to suggest moving from this work-horse area, and move to an area that possessions and bank accounts weren't the only things on everyone's mind. But Troy was implying something else for him and Lacy to engage in.

"Lacy, we are not victims of greed, or Awful, Ohio, or even America. They too are all victims of the culprit who forces us, people with awareness and existence through dull and monotonous suffering. Every being is only trying to get by the best way it knows how. The culprit isn't shy; it shines its big, bright, illuminating face every day, and disguises its maliciousness with deceiving rays of hope! It mocks and torments all of us, and puts it under the spotlight for everyone else to see! The world's enemy is the sun!"

Lacy turned her head towards Troy. She had to stare at the figure that had made that statement. She was wondering if she should start fearing that Troy's sanity had vacated his body. She thought that the years of work had begun to get to him, and that maybe craziness was all that he had left. She began to feel nervous that she was going to be permanently alone, imagining living by herself, having to work long hours just to support the house, and the bills that the mental hospital would mail to her on a monthly basis to rehab her husband. She was thinking of living with depression or medication or both. Her worries began to inflate. She started to lose hope.

"Think about it, Lacy. The sun rotates every day, driving our dream-filled nights into disheartening days, gutting the innards of our personal dreams and desires," Troy continued, reinforcing his theory. "It dissipates them into nothing but dust, Lacy, dust! And we just sit here, day to day working our lives into permanent abeyance, allowing it to happen. Lacy, we need to discover happiness, we need to find it, and hold on to it as tight as we can, because we have wasted so much of our time into making other things happy. We need to find a way to live in our dreams, and surround ourselves with darkness so that our souls will no longer be lost into bright and blinding oblivion! The light that exposes everything before us isn't as good as advertised. The source needs to be obliterated. If we didn't have the sun, then we'd never have to wake up to the sun and its light forcing itself upon our eyes and minds, revealing this Awful life that we are forced to live in. The answer is obvious, Lacy, if we wish to regain the happiness that we both know that we want. We need to destroy the sun so that we can save our selves!"

Lacy kept listening to Troy. Her eyes studied the deep contours that were printed through his face. His face was catatonic, cemented with seriousness like a general seeking war. She listened beyond the words she was hearing, deconstructing the presupposed meanings that she had inaccurately injected into those words. Lacy wasn't listening to insane ideas or thoughts. And she wasn't losing hope. All she could hear was passion, care, and love. Troy wanted to save the both of them from the lives that they both had grown to despise. Lacy reexamined Troy's intentions and found them to be heroic and noble. Troy's passion became her enlightenment.

She felt a feeling that hadn't been present in her mind and body since she had married Troy. Troy's passion had finally resurrected a feeling of hope, salvation, and contentment, and Lacy loved every sense of it. These were the feelings that she wanted to sustain, and these were the feelings that she wanted to commit her life to once again, regardless of the intentions behind them. She supported and encouraged Troy with every idea that was exhumed from his body, as she rolled closer to Troy's stoic body, smiling, and whispering into his cold ear, "let's blow it up."

Troy stared back at Lacy, reading deeply into her eyes. The cemented contours of his face shattered, smiling for the support that Lacy had to offer. He progressed towards her, kissing her feverishly. The passion for one another was exchanged back and forth that morning, as they laid there in bed, making love to one another for the first time in many orbits.

## Chapter 2

Perseverance is much more Eminent in accomplishing a Goal than feasibility.

After the love, Troy's body had flooded with urgency. He had envisioned a better life with Lacy, exposing her to his idea, as he now needed to do what was necessary in accomplishing what needed to be accomplished. He kissed Lacy farewell, departing from the sheets of their bed in deep pursuit of their purpose, as Lacy watched, tangled in the covers, with her hopes restored.

Troy's mind and thoughts were focused on how to blow up the sun, unaware of what his body was actually doing, as the years of mechanical routine dressed him, fed him, took him from his home, placed him in his car, merging him onto the highway, and parking him directly into the parking lot of his place of employment. Troy was unaware that any of this had happened, as he was still focused on his plans of destroying the sun.

His place of employment was the largest contributor to the thriving economy that bloomed from Awful, Ohio. It had the most jobs that needed to be done, occupying the largest portion of the plethora of humans that entered into Awful, Ohio. It was a manufacturing plant that created, packaged, and distributed food condiments, advertising to specialize in hot sauce. _Mad Ted's Uckin Hot Auce_ was the name of the cardinal condiment that the factory manufactured. The name was derived from its creator, Mad Ted, who wasn't mad or displayed any signs of mental imbalance, but it went with the entire gimmick. The slogan was to suggest just how hot the hot sauce was, _uckin' hot_ , which was to imply that it could burn away one's ability to pronounce consonants.

Troy sat inside of the car and stared at the circular formation of the steering wheel. Every molded groove that encrusted the wheel to fit with the ripples in his closing fist coruscated like a blinding penumbra, washing away his mechanized objective to enter into the warehouse. Troy remained seated in the hatchback, parked in the parking lot, focusing on his newly devoted purpose of destroying the sun. His mind and thoughts were constructing various plans, ideas, blue prints, and concoctions, each invested into the same result of destroying the sun.

The parking lot was warm, soaking up all of the heat that the sun was deploying onto the pavement. The heat was rising from the pavement, and into the car. Troy began to sweat, feeling the temperature rise in the hatchback. He looked out the window, glaring up at the sun that stared down at him, like the watchful eye staring at all of its children. It knew what Troy was trying to do, and did everything that it could to prevent Troy from engaging further into cosmic anarchy.

The temperature kept rising, increasing the heat in the hatchback, but it wasn't enough, as Troy remained committed to his new conversion, remaining devoted to meticulously constructing the most efficient solution to what he dubbed as his and Lacy's problem, extinguishing the sun.

Troy's first plan did not involve any destruction. What it did involve was shading the earth from the sun's deceiving rays of warmth. The plan involved the construction of a large umbrella rocket that would launch into space, locking into orbit around the sun. The umbrella rocket would line up perfectly in front of the earth, orbiting at the same velocity. Once detonated, the umbrella rocket would expand, shielding the earth from the sun's light, pluming into a shading penumbra, blocking all of the sun's rays and warmth from entering into the earth, shading the earth from the exposed for the rest of eternity. "Out of sight, out of mind" was acceptable for Troy, even if it still allowed the sun to sustain existence, because as long as Troy was able to extinguish it from the mind, then it wasn't possible for it to impose its hazardous influences onto the earth's population. There would be no destruction, and there would be no end. Troy was more often than not a kind and warm hearted person, very willing to share the large universe with other floating bodies. The sun would still be there, but as long as he couldn't see it or experience any evidence that the sun would normally leave, he would be content with the results. This was the least destructive, and probably the most environmentally friendly approach to the entire objective. But the self's contentment was the only thing constituting the mind and body. Passive aggressive behavior isn't always the easiest solution.

But as the heat increased inside of the blue hatchback, Troy's brain began to swell, boiling inside of his skull. The warmth was consuming his compassion, as the sun remained directly above the blue hatchback, emitting its power and punishment onto Troy. But Troy was fearless, remaining focused, seeking immediate resolution, fighting back. Mass annihilation crept through the expanding tissue of Troy's brain, thinking that destruction was the most easily accessible way to attain the goal, regardless of how barbaric it was. A large nuclear missile was the first sun-destroying method that Troy conjured up. There wasn't much complexity behind the theory. Troy had seen many missiles being launched into space through fictional and non-fictional media. He just wanted to launch a big ass nuclear weapon towards the sun, blowing up the object, so that it dissects into millions of particles floating in multiple directions, releasing the manifested power within the great, fiery being that floated directly above his revealed existence.

Troy understood that the destruction wouldn't be well received by the deceived population, but he justified his maliciousness with deep philosophical thought, designing a system of morals that would tolerate such a heinous act. Troy concluded that that sun was not one large entity, but billions of tiny entities imprisoned together against their will. It wouldn't be mass annihilation, but mass liberation. He convinced himself that blowing the object to smithereens would be liberating for the billions of particles that are being restrained from living an independent life. Destruction wasn't a sin, but a blessing. The image replayed through his head, a large missile colliding into the plasmic core of the sun, erupting into the center, exploding and catapulting the billions of particles into every direction, expanding through the deepest parts of space. The solar system would be released from its orbital restraint, disarming the earth, endowing it with the freedom to float freely in every infinite direction that space had to offer, engulfed in the peace of the abysmal belly of black space. The image was toothsome and beautiful.

"Hey Troy, soaking up the morning's last minutes of freedom before stepping inside?" These words were exhausted from the mouth of Lou Stooles. Lou Stooles was a coworker. He had walked over to Troy's beat up hatchback, noticing Troy still sitting in the driver's seat. Lou Stooles offered a friendly morning expression, blending with a smile and soft chuckle. His round, forty-three year old stomach sagged over the tightened belt holding up his pants. His waist and legs were much too small for the mid-section that was blooming from his torso. He would never hesitate to express what was on his mind, crack a joke, or even toss out a harmless insult. His stomach would always gyrate with waves from the over friendly glee. Today, those waves ran through a pin striped, short sleeved, button down shirt. The wave was almost strong enough to buckle the space and time spectrum, causing irreversible changes to existence. Whether they be harmful or beneficial were unknown.

Lou acted as if Troy was a major entity within his life, as they had known each other since Lou had entered into the hot sauce workforce. However, Troy was emotionless regarding Lou. He didn't hate or despise the man, but he never found anything enticing enough about Lou Stooles for him to want to spend time with him outside of work. Lou Stooles was nothing more than a flesh locker, patrolling through Awful, Ohio, encasing organs and muscle that collectively created everything that Lou Stooles was, without creating the collective consciousness that is required in rejecting the demands of Awful, Ohio. Troy would never admit such an affront to Lou, but he indirectly thought that his relationship with Lou was expendable.

The relationship would sometimes become strenuous on Troy because he didn't want to waste time pretending to be something that he wasn't, a friend. But Troy never wanted to come off as being callous, so he would make a friendly effort to avoid Lou. As long as Troy did not make eye contact with Lou Stooles, then he would not be obligated to acknowledge Lou's existence. Troy never wanted reimbursement for providing Lou with this favor, but Lou was either persistent or stupid, because lacking eye contact never halted his frequent interactions with Troy. As long as Troy had work, Troy had Lou.

"Oh, no," Troy responded subtlety. "I was just thinking about something." His response was delayed, but the delay went unnoticed because of the altered time caused by Lou's stomach gyrations. Habitual activity overpowered Troy's body, as he was removed from the hatchback, abandoning the ideas that were going to remove him and Lacy from the exposed. His expressionless face buckled under the pressure of reality as he was appalled at the hideous blue shade that his car was colored in. For a moment, Troy had forgotten what kind of car he was driving, and even forgot about his home, and the dreadful job that he instinctively drove to every morning. His inability to focus on his surroundings was a blessing, allowing him to progress further with his sun-destroying liberation. But it was all demonically interrupted by Lou Stooles. Lou Stooles noticed Troy and his mannerisms, responding with another laugh, as he had always thought to know Troy for having a dry sense of humor.

"Yeah, I hear that buddy!" Lou responded with enthusiasm, spewing phlegm from his mouth in toxic cackles, attempting to indoctrinate Troy into accepting their careers. Lou was an avid smoker, finding that his time was best utilized in coating his lungs with tar. He removed a cigarette from the breast pocket of his striped, buttoned down shirt, placing it into his mouth. Lou had exceptionally small hands, causing the cigarettes to appear much larger. Often, Lou would be approached by random members of Awful, Ohio, requesting the location of where they could find the larger cigarettes. They were always saddened and perturbed to discover that they had been deceived by Lou and his small hands.

Lou's excitement to inhale a lit cigarette would cause his flesh-filled limbs to flap recklessly, fumbling the cigarette through his miniature fingers, while simultaneously attempting to release the matches. Because of his infantile hands, Lou Stooles always had to strike the match multiple times before it sprung fire. A funny, conflicting image would display in the minds of spectators, as it would often resemble an adolescent attempting to smoke a cigarette for the first time. Troy would always fill with installed temptation of ripping the cigarette from the boy's hand, and scolding him mercilessly for the careless mistake that the boy was inflicting onto his own life. But he always stopped when he remembered that it was Lou, who was a forty-three year old man with a family and nothing else going for him in life. Troy would stand there and stare, watching Lou like a meat closet, with every parable of flesh and organ on display like a window dummy without any existential awareness. "Take it all in, big fella," Troy mumbled silently, as he stared at Lou, carelessly fumbling his life support tools with his small hands.

"Does the boss still have you working in D3?" asked Lou. His question was laced with fabricated confidence. The cigarette danced up and down in his mouth, in sync with every syllable enunciated from his mouth. It was hypnotic and enticing, and Troy stood still, star struck at the seductive image. Lou grabbed a match, pressing it against the rough strip on the pack, striking it multiple times before igniting the tip. He pulled the flame to the edge of the cigarette, breathing in the fire like sipping cold soda from a straw. The flame stretched into the end of the cigarette, as if it was looking for a place to hide. A cold, dark cavern, shelter from the exposed. But the flame would illuminate everything that was there, exposing the tobacco and the irony stuffed into the tip. It could never hide. The lit cigarette remained in Lou's mouth, as he brought his fingers to his mouth, wetting each tip. The tip of the lit match was centered between the moist index finger and the thumb. Lou merged the moist fingers together, extinguishing the flame.

"Yeah, I think so," was the response that crawled from Troy's disinterested mouth, forgetting what he was responding to. He was enraptured by the vision of Lou's moist finger tips extinguishing the flame. It was provocative and influential. Again, Troy Slushy's mind separated itself from his surroundings, blue printing more ideas, envisioning a large space ship containing two prongs erecting from the front of the space craft. Each arctic pole would be dissected from the earth's body, fused to the ends of each prong. The earth had to sacrifice something for the reward. The spacecraft would float up to the sun, with each prong mounted by one of the ice filled poles. The two prongs would close together, extinguishing the sun forever, reenacting Lou's moist finger tips extinguishing the match.

After spending another morning with Lou Stooles, Troy was no longer interested in a quick and painless liberation, separating the billions of sun-particles for their own personal destiny, but instead, something as cold as permanent removal from existence, extinguishing the light of every particle, and the ability for each particle to expose anything ever again. Of course, Troy would first need to find a way to dissect each pole from the earth, and mount them to the prongs with an adhesive stronger than chewed bubble gum. Perseverance is much more eminent in accomplishing a goal than feasibility, which was unquestionably in Troy's favor.

Lou and Troy's wandering conversation meandered with them towards the warehouse. Troy's eyes looked up the structure of the building as they walked closer to the entrance. Perched above the building was the sun, hanging like a watchman, guiding Lou and Troy towards the warehouse. It woke up bright and early to keep an eye on its children scattered through Awful, Ohio. The warehouse was tall, and the closer Troy got the higher and higher the warehouse would elevate into the sky, reaching for the sun, hoping to touch and experience the architect of existence.

It was clear that the warehouse admired its creator. But the warehouse was confused. It was being deceived. From the perspective of earth, the sun appeared to be a glistening hole, secreting soft lubricants and beautiful aromas, offering infinite peace and comfort. The building would erect closer and closer, wishing to rest inside of the glistening hole for warmth and comfort, absorbing as much of the creator as possible. But the being that was the warehouse was being destroyed, with every ultra violet ray breaking down its physical structure. Troy's heart became swollen and sympathetic. He touched the building with his hand before walking through the entrance doors, hoping to console the being with real love. He placed his face and chest against the brick exterior, holding the building, hoping that the sympathy would transfer from his body, into the warehouse and its being, offering salvation. Lou stopped and stared, confused why Troy was hugging the warehouse. But his confusion never lead to judgment, as he could hear Troy whispering to the structure, "Soon it'll all be OK. I'm going to destroy the sun."

## Chapter 3

" **The Colors" – Theodore Sphinctor**

The innards of the hot sauce warehouse were meticulously structured, exhausting the most efficient efforts of production ever produced in the entire history of recorded production. _Mad Ted's Uckin Hot Auce_ had become an Awful, Ohio icon, proudly presenting itself in every diner, restaurant, and pub in the nation. All of this success garnered attraction and attention. It was a direct result of the unprecedented efficiency that the workers were designed to orchestrate, filtered through the visions of Mad Ted.

Upon the first entrance into the warehouse, workers can be viewed filing in and out of multiple sectors, carrying packages, materials, and pieces of equipment that were necessary to ship and manufacture thousands upon thousands of bottles of hot sauce. There were three divisions in the bottom floor of the warehouse: the brewing division, the packaging division, and the shipping division. Hot sauce would be cooked in the brewing section. Once flawlessly brewed according to Mad Ted's unknown recipe, it was then transferred to the packaging division where it was then packaged. And once packaged, it was then loaded into the shipping division, where it was shipped out from the docks, and off in the direction of its next destinations.

The workers of the warehouse were dressed in hair nets, jump suits, safety glasses, galoshes, and snorkels. Snorkels were not always mandatory in the dress code until the Disaster of '99 occurred in the spring of 1999. There was a severe change in temperature that day, causing the 100,000 gallon drums to crack. _Mad Ted's Uckin' Hot Auce_ had flooded the entire floor of the warehouse. The flood was twenty feet high. Workers were unable to swim to the surface because of how thick and tasty the sauce was. Inevitably, those with a craving for spice wouldn't allow themselves to leave the depth of the tasty oasis. Fourteen members of the workforce died that day. Mad Ted took responsibility for the displeasing occurrence, sponsoring all of their funerals, engraving each headstone with "and here lies (name of the deceased) brought to you buy Mad Ted's Uckin Hot Auce."

Because of this disaster, the union organized an emergency meeting, voting that Mad Ted equip all of the workers with mandatory snorkels, hoping that this would prevent any repeat occurrences. That day became known as "one hot mess."

All of their uniforms were coded in different colors. The discrepancy in color was for identification purposes, so that each member could be identified within each division that that member was working in. Blue was for the brewing division, yellow was for the packaging division, and green was for the shipping division. All of this coding and categorizing allowed Mad Ted to keep track of the work efficiency from a visual perspective from his eagle's nest office.

The eagle's nest was Mad Ted's office. The office protruded directly from the perfect center of the ceiling of the warehouse, hanging like an ornamental glass eye, watching over the workforce. The outside was constructed of mega-reflective, two-sided glass fun mirrors, that prevented anyone from the floor to look inside, allowing Mad Ted to secretly watch the work floor from above, like the inhabitant of a celestial body. The workers would never look up at the eagle's nest, as it was coated in fearful images of their own humility. The reflective image of the fun mirrors would only offer the worker an atrocious view of their own subjugation, dressed in the persecuting uniform that was mandatory. One worker had attempted to stare up at the eagle's nest, in moments of questioning. But immediately, the worker's joints locked, stone-cold, as he remained trapped in the visual ascent of his own demise.

He was ashamed to see what he had transformed into, becoming too depressed to allow himself to work, as he then broke free from his locked-joints, removing himself from the warehouse by his own inner ambitions. He went home that day, unable to embrace his family. He entered into a dark hallway closet, locking the door, entrapping his humility in the closet, where he still remains, guarding his humility from ever escaping. The eagle's nest was a fear dispensary, dripping in fear like a celestial utter, dangling above the workforce, installing suppressive remorse, rather than upward guidance, for all that entered onto the work floor.

During work hours, Mad Ted resided in the eagle's nest that hung directly over top all of the work force. There was no elevator, stairs, or rope attached to the office that hung above the heads of the workers. No one was exactly sure how Mad Ted entered into the office, but everyone knew that he was inside. Periodically, through an omniscient intercom, Mad Ted's voice could be heard. It was always hoped by the work force that he was just offering a daily announcement. But sometimes, his announcement would be directed towards a specific individual that was being monitored. The monitored individual was noticed for lacking the necessary care to efficiently execute his or her specific duty with the company. The omniscient voice would boom like a stoic deity, monotone, enraptured with ennui. It was emotionless, smooth, and powerful.

Mad Ted would administer the corrective discipline through the intercom as if he was communicating with the individual directly in a private office, speaking of personal information of the careless worker at his discretion, to enforce the discipline. Justice was served appropriately, as it appeared to Mad Ted that a worker with no care should be treated in the same manor. Mad Ted was cold and mechanical, lacking care or compassion, just as the careless worker. Medical, family, and criminal history were all revealed, humiliating the careless worker in front of the entire work force. The fear of humility installed by Mad Ted would enforce Mad Ted's efficient environment, as everyone kept up the productive pace so not to have personal information revealed over a correction of inefficiency.

The hot sauce warehouse was such a national marvel because of its unprecedented, efficiency production, that it was routinely visited. Visitors and outsiders would enter, anticipating strict, traditional organization, with shelves, single-filed lines, cabinets, and routine labor checks, accordingly to specific times. However, the visitors would be overwhelmed with confusion and perturbation, as they were mentally limited from comprehending the organization that Mad Ted found to be effortlessly clear. The workers were not moving in single file, or straight lines, or anything else that would visually resemble order and structure to a common mind. It resembled mass chaos, similar to an evacuating building caused by a fire. Blue uniforms were mixing with yellow, as green uniforms were mixing with the blue. No one was in their designated location. The visitors would quickly leave, fearing the chaos, thinking that there was actually a fire.

But regardless of the floor's perspective, the chaotic appearance was actually well organized with meaning and purpose. It originated from a formula that was so perplexing and complicated that it existed beyond the realm of language. The only realm that it existed in was inside the mind of Mad Ted. Mad Ted's physiology lacked the required physical structures that were needed to utter the necessary noises to express the formula in a decipherable language. Not only was it impossible for Mad Ted to express the details of the formula, it was also impossible for the formula to be understood by another human being, as human beings lacked the physical properties required to interpret the formula. Mad Ted would forever be the only being with this complex knowledge of organization and efficiency because Mad Ted could never emit the sounds required for expressing the knowledge, nor could any being translate the emitted sounds because of insufficient biological receptors. All of these facts were assumed by the media.

Mad Ted deployed the moniker, "mad," to his product when searching for a name to entitle his creation. The name took deeper meaning with Awful, Ohio, as the media and journalists were perplexed with unexplainable and inexplicable moments of success from a simple hot sauce recipe. Mad Ted would never share details of his operations or actions, which the media assumed was because of the complexity of the assumed formula, rendering him helplessly innocent from sharing his knowledge. However, this assumed information was too insipid to publish in the newspapers. The media and journalists never found innocence or helplessness as an intriguing and exciting story line, so they would pigeonhole Mad Ted as a shell-shocked hermit and a prodigious businessman, bearing great knowledge and unpredictable dynamism, all a while bearing impotent social skills.

The media desperately wanted to discover more information on the complexity of Mad Ted. He was renown for his efficiency, yielding great profit from very little input. It was a dream story for any journalist to uncover, considering that an article revealing the secrets of Mad Ted's success would be read worldwide, rewarding the journalist with the monetary value sought by all Awful, Ohio individuals. But, information was difficult to retrieve.

A lot of the media publications had ventured away from the story, fearing that their credibility as journalists would be destroyed, as Mad Ted was becoming widely known as a clandestine. Printed articles would quickly be launched into the tabloids, as reputable newspapers were rejecting all articles. Printing any articles with Mad Ted as the subject was risky business. But one journalist by the name of Wilsie McHickoryboob knew that perseverance was much more eminent in achieving one's destiny than feasibility. She devoted her life to acquiring information on the origins of Mad Ted, with intentions of sharing this information worldwide, securing the fame and integral recognition that she sought, so that she may receive a healthy portion of the Awful, Ohio currency.

Wilsie McHickoryboob was a petite woman, slightly larger than a homunculus. Her whiskey colored hair was always restrained into a pony tail, tucked behind her large ears that folded dexterously like a struggling mackerel flopping out of water. She was a journalist for the _Awful Gazette_ , making a career out of exposing the unknown, revealing true mysteries that the population of Awful, Ohio sought to uncover. She searched hard to find these mysteries, often making most of them up.

Her first published article exposed the Awful, Ohio fire department as a secret society of pyromaniacs. Her writings detailed her personal observations of their nuanced intuition to simultaneously be in the exact location that fires were in. Wilsie, thus, concluded that the fire department was being dictated by interior motives, feeding their own subjective desires to fulfill their flaming urges, proven by their presence at every inferno. The article was widely circulated, and not necessarily because of its journalistic integrity.

Wilsie had also believed that she revealed the truth behind the postal system, expressing the structure's surreal hoax of distant relatives and family members with another published article. She hypothesized her skepticism that the post office never receives or delivers mail, but instead, uses underground scribes to manufacture artificial mail, that then gets sent, randomly, to receivers, impressing a belief of distant relatives and family members onto the population. She developed this theory when she received mail from a grandmother that wasn't hers, which was actually the result of a missent package.

When the success of Mad Ted started to gain more notoriety, she had found it to be her journalistic duty to reveal the secrets behind this success, regardless of the threat to her credibility as an investigative journalist. This duty gusted within her like a guiding wind, directing Wilsie to the hot sauce production warehouse, where she would scout the scenery, hoping to discover any news or facts that she could report.

One day, she executed an undercover operation, disguising herself as a disgruntled worker, entering into the hot sauce warehouse. She followed the crowd of workers, which led her into the locker room of the warehouse. It was mostly men. Wilsie was hesitant, not wanting to get too far in the middle of everything, so she took a passive stance, remaining in the back of the locker room. Her observations were very detailed, as she took note of everything that was structuring the room that the men were swarming towards. There were no showers, nor lockers, nor towels. The locker room was relatively dry, compared to conventional locker rooms, with the exception of moisture emitted from the toilet bowls. There were no walls separating the toilet bowls, as she watched some of the workers sitting on the open toilets like park benches, sharing conversations and daily news. The men that weren't using the toilets were entering into long, cylindrical tubes that coated the walls of the locker room, which Wilsie discovered to be called "changing chutes."

Wilsie was watching all of the men enter separate changing chutes in their daily clothes, only to exit exactly four seconds later in their work galoshes, goggles, jump suites, hair nets, and snorkels. Wilsie managed to ask some questions, discovering that the experience of a changing chute was so alluring that it was the ultimate reason why the workers were able to enter the work force every day. It was even considered by the employees as a benefit.

"Every day, it becomes the single greatest moment of my life," recited one star-gazing worker, excited to enter into the changing chute.

All of the workers would exit the changing chutes, sighing with griefless pleasure. A deep haze would exhaust from their mouths, through their snorkels, and float to the ceiling of the locker room like hot steam. According to one source, Wilsie found out that Mad Ted would never have to worry about running out of employees, because applications would fill up every day, with hopes of someday experiencing the changing chute.

Wilsie McHickoryboob used all of this information to publish an article the following day, describing the changing chutes lining all of the locker room walls, and how all of the workers would enter into the changing chutes. She was unable to describe personal experience of entering the changing chute, as she was not sure how to get her clothes back after being rearranged in a work uniform. So, like all successful journalists, she was forced to fabricate some details of the changing chutes, so that the vacant slots of readers' unanswered questions had the facts to inject into the equation.

Wilsie described the interior as a gelatin mold that would shape the subject's body, after the subject entered into the changing chute. The gelatin interior, as she assumed, would then make an impression of the subject's body into the mold, as the chamber door would slide over the entrance, sealing the individual into the mold. She concluded that the member would be in complete darkness, perfect comfort, and eternal peace.

This information was publishing in an article that was printed in the _Awful Gazette_ , making it the most highly circulated newspaper in the nation. Wilsie was recognized with great innovation and perseverance for finding the information that she was able to locate, to better inform the minimal reading public of Awful, Ohio who exactly Mad Ted was. Wilsie adored the admiration that she was praised with, and wished to continue receiving it. Mad Ted's secrecy did not dissuade Wilsie, as she continued assuming more and more facts about Mad Ted.

Wilsie McHickoryboob continued writing articles on Mad Ted, going into great detail, suggesting that he was a great foreigner, bearing vast knowledge of unknowable depths, deduced from a perplexing upbringing. However, her fictional nonfiction stories were too heavily endowed with information to fit into small articles printed in the _Awful Gazette_. So soon enough, she transformed all of her efforts into a larger publication. Wilsie McHickoryboob postulated all of her conclusions and assumptions into a book that offered reasoning and explanations to all of the questions that surrounded the success and origins of Mad Ted. She focused on the assumed facts that he was a shell-shocked hermit, separated from society, concluding that this life style was the result of something installed from his child hood. Her assumptions started from the beginning of his life, offering the following origins:

"As an infant, Mad Ted was discovered by two adults, a male and female. They discovered him lofted in the cusp of a great oak tree, perched at the top of a gentle emerald hill, glistening in the spotlight, lodged in the wild. Mad Ted was wrapped in soft cashmere that grew from the innards of the great oak tree, cradling him gently like a fetus. The male and female removed the infant from the securing grip of the tree, usurping power over Mad Ted's life, entitling themselves as his parents. They quickly adopted Mad Ted into their home, attempting to meld him with the other children that both parents had already conceived.

"However, Mad Ted was endowed with great efficiency that disallowed a smooth merger. By altering his perception, he was capable of surrounding himself with the appropriate influences to alter his learning experience, as he ignored the siblings that inefficiently entered into his life. His parents recognized the insular behavior, reacting sympathetically, concerned of the trauma that Mad Ted may have been induced with. So they raised Mad Ted as a single child, building his own private quarters in the home, with a separate entrance, so that he would never have to interact with the other children.

"Mad Ted was very selective with which moments in time he would interact with his parents, as he wished to remain anonymous to his siblings. To Mad Ted, from a young age, these interventions with his parents were never interventions, but forms of business negotiations. Even if the subject of the conversations were something as mundane as buying a new pair of sneakers, he could never allow potential competitors to be present. His brother and sister could never be allowed in the same room while these negotiations were going on, as negotiations were meant to remain private.

"Chores were his only forms of currency at a young age. 'Hours' were the labels of measurement for his chores, and his parents would exchange one hour of chores for $3. Mad Ted considered this to be a highly inefficient system, which he quickly corrected.

"Mad Ted had learned the inefficient system so well that at the age of thirteen, he had finally envisioned a more efficient method, which gave him reason to learn his siblings' names. He was in search for employees, and his siblings were the best individuals he could find for the openings. $3 for one hour of chores was not worth the effort. Mad Ted realized that he needed to use his time to make more money. But at the same time, he needed to keep making the money that he was already making. So Mad Ted hired his brother to do his chores for $1.25 an hour, leaving Mad Ted with the difference of $1.75, and having all twenty-four hours in his day to make more money. Eventually, he became so accomplished, that he had then hired his sister to run his clerical needs. The benefits that Mad Ted offered his siblings were incomparable to what his parents offered them. His parents could no longer compete with Mad Ted's wages, and by the age of sixteen, he had delivered them an offer to buy them out. They were highly offended.

"Their reaction was very unprofessional. They yelled and screamed and kicked and displayed hundreds of thousands of other emotions that Mad Ted had never seen emitted from either of these beings. The displays were highly inefficient, exhausting energy with no return, and Mad Ted began to reconsider his offer, wondering why anyone would want to do business with beings baring unstable emotions. He reviewed his offer, wondering what it was that may have upset them. Everything that he offered was extremely reasonable. The offer was honest and fair, explaining every detail to them in the contract, to assure his parents that they were receiving a golden opportunity. He remained firm with the offer. But instead they remained appalled. His sobbing mother buried her face into his father's shoulders, as his father scolded Mad Ted once more. His parents were attempting to upbring a loving family, sharing wholesome values and intentions, but instead, Mad Ted had transformed it into a factory. His parents permanently excused his existence from the property, and asked that he never return again. Mad Ted willingly left the property, no longer wishing to do business with those individuals, as he thoroughly believed that their rejection was a testimony to their incompetent business model."

It was a revealing speculation on the origins of Mad Ted. Wilsie had suggested that her assumptions were true, all deduced from the information that was unavailable. The population of Awful, Ohio was highly engaged with the book, as it was the only material available on Mad Ted. Wilsie's writing continued from his upbringing, ascending into the start of his hot sauce dynasty, exposing more of his beginning.

"But, because of Mad Ted's unorthodox efficiency, he was able to utilize this opportunity. Being exiled didn't hurt Mad Ted. It liberated him. Mad Ted was now able to utilize his efficiency on human beings in the working world. He wanted to get started immediately. He needed a product, and thus, created a basic hot sauce recipe. There wasn't anything new or any type of special ingredient in Mad Ted's hot sauce. It simply did what it was supposed to do; to be hot. What propelled it to the stature that it received was that Mad Ted bull-rushed all of the advertisements. Rather than spend money on large billboards or commercials, he would just fly to major cities, and post 1000 stickers, 1000 posters, and 1000 t-shirts on anything that he could fit the items on.

"The t-shirts were mostly given to the homeless, as they were the ones most willing to wear the t-shirts. And when Mad Ted ran out of t-shirts, the homeless would grab the stickers and cover their bodies in stickers as well. Mad Ted's hot sauce received national recognition, not for its divine flavor, but for being one of the world's most humane entrepreneurs. Mad Ted's concerns weren't where the advertisements were, just as long as they could be easily read. His advertisements were read easily, and spread through word-of-mouth, which worked efficiently and brilliantly.

"Theodore collected his earnings and erected a warehouse in Awful, Ohio. He employed a large fragment of the population, and remained the most successful business owner in thriving Awful, Ohio."

Wilsie McHickoryboob's book continued with the assumed allegations that scripted the origins of Mad Ted. The book was a best seller in Awful, Ohio. The population had read the book, finding the assumptions of Wilsie's work to be very revealing and honest. The public adored the knowledge offered by Wilsie, as they had all believed that it was their privilege to know something about the person that erected the most successful business in Awful, Ohio.

Of all the population that had read the book and articles on Mad Ted, the biggest adorer was Theodore Sphinctor. Theodore Sphinctor was Mad Ted. It was unknown by everyone in Awful, Ohio that Mad Ted's real name was Theodore Sphinctor. His disposition within Awful, Ohio as the mad, corporate executive, had disallowed any probability of being recognized as an average citizen, concluding to Awful, Ohio that it was impossible for him to have a common name, such as Theodore Sphinctor.

Theodore found the writings of the book to be enlightening as it brought forth information to him that he had dismissed from his memory. As a man of great efficiency, he determined that storing profitless memories were useless. So, Theodore had erased all of his memories that dictated his genesis, as they harbored no profitability. It was unknown by Theodore if the information in Wilsie's book contained any truth of his origins. However, truthful or not, Theodore, just as the rest of Awful, Ohio, had read every word of that book with great validity.

The birth within a great oak tree provided Theodore with reason for his long limbs, as Theodore Sphinctor was a tall and lanky man, thin with a skeletal frame pluming from beneath his translucent skin. This made Theodore easy to notice. He was always the tallest human in the room by at least half a foot. The shape of his head resembled an exotic bird, as the back of his head was very elongated, while his nose stuck out from his face like a beak of a toucan with a cold. Theodore often had a difficult time finding shirts with appropriate sized neck holes.

Theodore may very well have been all of these things that Wilsie's book and her articles wanted to depict him as. However, as a man of great efficiency, he had found this information of his past to be very inefficient, as it denigrated his hot sauce empire. Theodore Sphinctor needed to rebuild his reputation before it would collapse his company.

To rebuild his reputation, Theodore tried to display familiarity with society, so to diffuse any hypothesis that suggested he was a shell-shocked hermit baring impotent social skills. He would wander through the streets of Awful, Ohio, hoping to be witnessed by all of the public, displaying average actions similar to regular Awful, Ohio citizens. But regardless of his efforts to rebuild his reputation, these media-induced accusations, true or false, were already known by everyone in Awful, Ohio as true.

Awful, Ohio's knowledge of Theodore as a shell-shocked foreigner, baring great knowledge, endowed a mysterious appeal to his presence. Average citizens would fancy over his abnormal, physical appearance, watching him with anticipation like a resurrected prophet, rather than ignore him like a regular citizen. No one would ever approach him, greet him, or acknowledge him. Instead, the entire population would guffaw and stare, wondering in bewilderment, what forms of efficiency the giant, bough-limbed man would display next upon Awful, Ohio.

Once he was photographed holding open a door, while sipping from a Styrofoam cup of coffee. "Dual-activity" and "simultaneous-actions" and "multitasking" filled newspapers and journals, claiming the event to be a majestical gift that beheld the earth. His efficiently mechanical actions through Awful, Ohio were spellbound throughout the newspapers, as media and journalists feverishly consumed all the visual mechanics that Theodore displayed, building more on the idea that he was a shell-shocked hermit from a foreign land. Theodore had attempted to remove these accusations, but was never able to succeed, as he had never displayed enough emotions to suggest any type of pride over his success. Acting humbly was more efficient than acting arrogantly. But emotional reactions were what the media sought. His attempts to restore his reputation for the sake of his company were done in vain, as the media only used his public appearances to reinforce the denigrating truths that they had already assumed, that he was a shell-shocked hermit, baring impotent social skills. He had lost ownership of his history, as it was now controlled by Awful, Ohio.

But, in a final effort to regain control of his own history, Theodore held a press conference on the property of his compound. Media and journalists and photographers gathered around, surrounding the entire facility, patiently waiting for the information that Theodore had to offer. Theodore stood in front of a podium, ready to speak into a microphone that was made from a hot sauce bottle. This was his moment to recapture his history. He was ready to tell his story, but Theodore had no history to offer. His madness had erased everything away. There was nothing for him to say, and there was no way for him to regain control of his history. He stood before the recording masses, unable to make an attempt to rectify his image. His body remained on stage, gangly and silent, until one member from the media masses decided to take advantage of the opportunity by speaking up, "how did you manage to become so efficient?"

Theodore remained stoic. He wanted to offer some truth to the media that came from his work, so that he would be able to restore his image that correlated with the company's. It was highly inefficient to share company secrets with the public, but it was also inefficient to allow the public to assume drastic truths that could potentially repress the future of his company. Theodore took a deep breath and leaned towards the microphone. The subtle wind exhaling through his large nostrils could be heard through the speakers. Theodore paused, parching his lips, as his fluid tongue rippled inside of his mouth, emitting a soundly response of "the colors."

The media and journalists didn't understand. "The colors" didn't offer any insight to their question, nor did it answer any questions regarding his efficiency. They were all anticipating a complex answer, an answer that was so large that it would require them to fill every page of their note pad. But instead, they all remained standing on the facility, without anything to answer their questions. They had all left the facility that day, disappointed, condemning the fault to Mad Ted's shell-shocked ways, only to continue publishing fabricated articles about Mad Ted, as a shell-shocked hermit, who was too foreign to offer any insight to the public about his efficiency. However, no matter how perplexing, mechanical, and mystic everyone had made Theodore out to be, he had always recognized his understanding of efficiency as normal.

Theodore Sphinctor surrendered his history to the media of Awful, Ohio, as well as the company's reputation. He never again attempted to communicate with the media, making the growing success of his company his primary concern. Theodore entered into his eagle's nest office for permanent seclusion, where he would watch over his creation, making sure that nothing would attempt to take it away from him. He sat back in the chair at his desk, supervising the work floor, always making sure that there was a bluish hue color radiating from the floor.

The colors that Theodore had mentioned to the media were the colors that his employees were wearing. Blue, green, and yellow were intentional. When the employees would move at just the right pace, produce just the right amount of product, and exalt just the right amount of energy, a bluish hue would hover off of the work floor, and surround Mad Ted in his eagle's nest office. Mad Ted would never look at the floor, unless the hue grew too green or too yellow. Blue was the equivalent of perfect efficiency. And as long as Theodore was surrounded by a sea of blue, he would float haplessly in his eagle's nest towards which ever direction his empire would sail him in.

## Chapter 4

We are here,

because we live in fear,

and being in here

brings us

_peace and cheer_.

Troy Slushy released the warehouse from his comforting hug, with the tips of his fingers grazing romantically over the rugged surface of the brick exterior. His left cheek was potted with indents from the warehouse's structure. Troy caringly touched the indents in his skin, like they were soft kisses, bidding farewell from a forlorn admirer. He brushed the brick fragments from his face and clothing, as he and Lou Stooles continued their walk from the parking lot into the warehouse.

The inside of the warehouse was large and open. There were no walls dividing the interior, making each section perfectly visible from the eagle's nest. The walls and floor were coated in a light gray color, contrasting perfectly from the bluish hue that would radiate perfect efficiency. The night crew could be seen, finishing up their shift, cleaning up their work stations. They walked towards the locker room, facing downwards, so not to look up at the eagle's nest, where their humiliation waited, as the next shift entered into the warehouse, fearful to view their reflection from the eagle's nest, as they too headed towards the locker room. The separate masses intertwined, chaotic and mosaic, mixing together, all heading towards the locker room. The locker room was one of the most efficiently advanced areas in all of Awful, Ohio.

There were no lockers, showers, or towels in the locker room, and it lacked any resemblance to a modern locker room. There were toilet bowls openly displayed, undivided by private walls, where workers would embrace the bowls like a park bench, sitting beside one another, engaging in conversation. The walls were coated in long cylinders, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Each cylinder was large enough to fit a person inside, but the outside of the cylinder was smooth, with a fine outline of what was an entrance. These long cylinders replicated honey combs from a one-level bee hive, summoning the drones of the workforce, to tend to the purpose of their queen, Mad Ted. But they were not honey combs, they were changing chutes.

These changing chutes were prominent, intrepid and bold, completely unnoticeable, yet so indubitable, that they would mask the existence of everything else in the locker room. They were colored in stoic, coal gray, standing discernibly against the walls of the locker room. Each changing chute's outlined opening was large enough for a worker to enter. A worker would stand before the changing chute, activating the entrance to deconstruct. Piece by piece, the outlined entrance would deconstruct, revealing the inside, as it would then swallow the worker, then spit that worker out in exactly four seconds. The worker would be redressed in his work uniform, or the causal wear that he wore to work, depending if the worker was leaving or starting his shift. There was an undisclosed amount of changing chutes lining the locker room walls, but regardless of the amount of workers, there was always a changing chute available.

The experience of the changing chute was sublime. It was incomparable to anything else that the world had to offer, as the hot sauce union regulated the device as a benefit for working for Mad Ted. After the worker would enter into the changing chute, the deconstructed pieces would reemerge from inside of the walls of the changing chute. Each piece was the size of a stick of gum, as millions of these gum-sized building blocks would rapidly stack on top of one another, until the entrance was completely air-tight, sealing the worker in complete darkness. The process took longer than the experience inside the changing chute. However, without complaint, workers would enjoy viewing life outside the changing chute disappear behind the building wall, anticipating the griefless pleasure that their bodies craved.

After the door was constructed and sealed, the stick of gum sized building blocks would continue to build around the individual. The pieces would solidify into a gummy mold, encapsulating the individual with a perfect mold of the individual's figure. The individual's clothes would dematerialize into the gummy mold, leaving the individual's body void of clothes, until the work uniform would materialize over the individual's naked body through the gummy mold. The worker would be unable to see any of this happening in the lightless chamber, nor was the worker able to feel the clothes being removed and replaced with other clothes. The gummy mold would excrete high doses of opioids over the skin of the worker, pleasing the worker instantly, assuaging the worker from the banality of a workday.

After the mandatory uniform was affiliated to the naked body, the gummy mold would then remove itself from the figure of the person, relocating back into the walls of the chamber chute, leaving the uniform on the individual. The sealed entrance of the changing chute would then follow suit, deconstructing itself from the top to the bottom of the entrance, until there was nothing more blocking the incumbent from the outside world. The incumbent would then emerge from the changing chute, no longer clothed in the materials that he wore to work that day, but instead dressed in goggles, a hair net, a jump suit, galoshes, and a snorkel. The inside of the changing chute was void of time, gravity, and temperature, increasing the affect of the opioids. The entire experience was four seconds long.

The first experience of the changing chute would always be an individual's most bizarre life experience. The process was unpredictable, as it was described differently by every member who had previously experienced the changing chute. Often, new members would have to be forced into the changing chute, as the changing chute virgin's better judgment would interfere. This hesitancy would cause the sweat glands to expand, excreting a preventive layer of sweat over the skin that would always hinder the first experience, preventing the pleasing affects of the opioids inside the gummy mold. The first experience would never maximize a worker's pleasure because of conflicting emotions.

But like an addictive drug, the second experience of the changing chute was always the most enjoyable. The new individual would enter again, void of hesitation, as his brain was washed from all better judgment, entering into the drugging chamber, only to exit four seconds later in his work uniform. It was inspiring and life-changing, cleansing the individual's mind from everything that used to be gratifying, as it replaced previous thoughts of satisfaction with the four second experience in the changing chute. The pleasure would overpower reason, as each individual willingly removed oneself from the comfort and security of his home, all to fulfill the desire to enter into the warehouse just for the changing chute experience.

But each successive experience slowly decayed the enjoyment. The body would build tolerance, as daily doses reduced the excitement, transforming the world's most exciting experience into a mundane and tasteless repetition. The initial enjoyment of the experience would become more and more familiar to the workers, as it was no longer providing that same enjoyment that the second experience provided. But, the workers still needed it. Workers would volunteer for weekend shifts, just to get a fix of the changing chute. They would also deny vacation days, personal days, and sick days, as the experience of the changing chute was more gratifying than utilizing any of these benefits.

This was all part of Mad Ted's theory; to familiarize his workers to bizarre, perplexing and aberrant experiences. They were to become prone to excitement, and build a barrier of immunity to inspiration. The best worker was a mindless worker. And no matter how familiar the process became to the workers, no matter how mundane and repetitive and banal the experience had become, the workers would always desire the changing chute experience every morning. It would always remain the most pleasant moment of the individual's material existence, as the employee yearned for more gratification, always coming back to the warehouse.

"Goddamn, I've been waiting for this all day," grumbled Lou Stooles. Troy Slushy and Lou Stooles had entered into the locker room, where they were surrounded by the rest of the employees, who were all either entering into the changing chute, or sitting on the toilet. A large red sign was posted on the wall, saying,

USE THE TOILET BEFORE

USING THE CHANGING CHUTE,

SO NOT TO USE THE

**CHANGING CHUTE AS A TOILET**.

Troy was standing beside Lou, pondering his situation, wondering why he willingly left his wife that morning to be in a locker room filled with men.

Lou had stepped into the changing chute, as Troy watched the entrance seal up with the self-constructing material. Four seconds later, Lou reemerged, dressed to code. His eyes were blooming like flowers on a sunny day through the goggles strapped to his head. His grin was so large that he would've needed two snorkels in the event of another hot sauce emergency.

"Your turn, buddy" exhaled Lou with complete fulfillment. Gusto excreted from the end of the snorkel, and floated to the ceiling of the locker room, collecting with the rest of the exhaust from the other workers. Troy apathetically entered into the changing chute. The self-constructing material had begun to build over the entrance, sealing Troy into the chamber. He was normally like everyone else, yearning for the changing chute every morning, as his body grew more dependent on the experience. But this morning lacked the desire, as it was already fulfilled by his wife, Lacy, as they both had commenced in primitive love.

Each notch in Lacy's spine rippled through Troy's memory, as they sensually pulsated through the epidermis of her back as they both rocked together in perfect harmony. He remembered the sticky dew from their warm breath, coating their bodies into a perfect shell of unity, attempting to permanently bond them together. But like a malpracticing surgeon, his indoctrinated discipline to enter work every morning separated the loving bond. Troy left Lacy that morning for nothing better. That morning had exposed Troy to a forgotten pleasure, and his body was beginning to demand more of Lacy.

Four seconds later, Troy emerged from the changing chute, dressed in his hair net, goggles, jump suit, galoshes, and snorkel. He could feel the cold air in the locker room, as he was surrounded by other workers entering and exiting the available changing chutes. All of the drone workers were leaving their chutes with a smile. The hazy mist floating at the top of the locker room, created by the exhaling sighs of fulfillment, was thick and black. Lou Stooles watched Troy gaze through the room and everything that was inside. Troy examined his uniform as if it was the first time he had ever seen it. Lou Stooles asked Troy, with a glowing smile, "you ready, Troy?" referring to the beginning of another beautiful work day.

Troy's lips had remained parallel. He had not allowed his morning with Lacy to leave his mind. His mind wasn't filled with labor regulations or hot sauce packaging code, but instead with Lacy, and her molten hot red hair flowing over her shoulders, dripping over the naked flesh that she had exposed for him that morning for ethereal and physical concatenation. Troy wanted that again, he wanted her, and he wanted it now. It was pleasing, powerful enough to evacuate all preexisting memories of pleasure that commenced from the changing chute. It was a moment of excitement that Troy Slushy had remembered from that morning. But his leak-proof galoshes tightly wrapped around his waist like prison shackles. It was permanently fixated until he would re-enter back into the changing chute, eight hours later, ending his work shift. And as Troy Slushy stood there dissatisfied from the changing chute experience, he altered the course of time and the future of mankind by becoming the first being to leave a changing chute unfulfilled.

Lou threw his arm around Troy's shoulder and helped guide him from the locker room. They walked out, with Lou still foaming at the mouth with conversation soaked in catechized hot sauce topics. But Troy's mind quickly repelled any ideas attempting to overpower his love for Lacy. Troy managed to mutter an excuse to Lou, fleeing from the confinements of Lou's engaging arm and verbal poison.

Troy scurried away from Lou, facing the floor, attempting to avoid all visuals of everything that surrounded him, so not to lose insight of Lacy. But the light inside of the warehouse was too powerful to fend off. The sun orbited the warehouse, exposing the banality that surrounded him, as it filtered through his eyes, and into his brain, attempting to knock the excitement of Lacy out of his mind. He desperately attempted to think of anything he could to destroy the damning sun, hoping to cease the exposed world that regularly induced misery upon him. Destruction, kidnapping, extinguishing, melting, and freezing were all ideas that collided in Troy's mind. But he wasn't able to reason out any of these ideas. Troy continued his pace, hoping the rhythmic steps would regurgitate some answer for his problem. But his steps were halted, when he collided into a congregation of workers covered in galoshes and snorkels.

Troy looked around, viewing all of the workers. They were silent and stiff. There was a mandatory meeting, issued by Mad Ted, requiring that all the employees gather around his office that specific morning. Their collected mass formulated into the shape of a doughnut, as they all collected directly beneath the eagle's nest as dictated. Their heads pointed upwards, to face the eagle's nest, as its 2-sided, glass fun mirrors were dimmed from reflecting harmful images upon the surrounding masses. Troy looked up with the crowd, watching the eagle's nest, resting solely in the sky, attracting the masses to surround and worship its presence. Troy stared at the object, as it juxtaposed into an image of the sun, mocking every one that was unable to look away, gathering towards the center, like a group of lost mosquitoes drifting closer towards the light.

Everyone's eyeballs gazed religiously towards the entity, handing over their times and lives to the glob of yellow muck that formulated an empty perception of value and importance. Everyone beneath, collected together, worshiping the undeserving entity, with their faces smiling erratically, eyes pulsating from their sockets, trying to levitate closer to their preacher, anticipating Mad Ted to emerge. Lou had caught up with Troy and continued speaking about work related thoughts. As long as Troy had work, Troy had Lou.

"Hey Troy, this is pretty exciting, isn't it?" It was a rhetorical question. Lou had no mind to actually analyze the situation. Nor could he determine that there was actually something within this situation to offer a feeling of excitement. Troy looked over at Lou. His mouth was muttering noises in the shape of words, as the contours of his lips swung freely like jump ropes.

"We are in here,

because we live in fear,

and being in here

brings us

peace and cheer."

Troy gazed around, and watched everyone in full smile, engaging in the same hymn.

"We are in here,

because we live in fear,

and being in here

brings us

peace and cheer."

Troy stared at the floor. He didn't want to reduce his existence to wasteful moments of worshiping everything that floated above him. He kept Lacy in mind and began to think of more ways to destroy the sun. But there was too much light flooding his thoughts. He couldn't think clearly, as the staccato rhythm of the hymn was too strong, derailing his concentration. Troy looked back up and glared at the different colors of the uniforms. His mind began to swell with intoxication, and the room began to spin. The strong rhythm pushed Troy's mind back and forth, rubbing his brain against his skull, creating hot friction that began to boil his brain. It was overwhelming. Troy Slushy felt the brink of death descend upon his person, ready to absorb his life and being, which he eagerly welcomed, hoping for the dark escort, to release him from the exposed world, and into a place where he could permanently hide. But the rhythm stopped.

Mad Ted had emerged from the floating office. "Aloha." Mad Ted was not Hawaiian. The hymn had ceased, and Troy was able to momentarily regain composure. Mad Ted's greeting was heard like an omniscient voice serving as the collective conscious for the mass. The warehouse became rich in silence, waiting for Mad Ted to continue speaking. And he spoke:

"This meeting is meant to inform us that we, the collective unity that creates and distributes the world's finest, condimental product, will be undergoing drastic changes to our appearance. We are not becoming victims of any psychological persuasion of vanity, nor are we adapting to prodigal trends that other workforces have succumbed to. These changes that will be happening to us are going to result in more efficiency, and more production, earning more success and leading to more security. We have established a solid rhythm, day by day, week by week, month by month, and year by year, continually ejaculating the most lucrative industrial accomplishments. This has all resulted in mass profits for our greater well being. The archetype of a work day was developed by us, and is continually being improved and modified by our perseverance, being measured by our accomplishments. We have achieved success, and earned security. We will sustain dominance in the workforce, and we will prevent any possibility of collapse in our economic empire. So regardless of any ideas that may question or criticize the structural makeover that will be conducted onto this warehouse that exists in a world that does not guarantee existence, we are still the strongest force in Awful, Ohio. We are an entity attempting to survive, and this structural remodeling will ensure that our existence does not finish, and that we will exceed the limits of time and the boundaries of god, and last forever into the realm of eternity."

Mad Ted had finished speaking, which concluded the meeting. Every employee placed their mouths over the end of the snorkel, and puffed out a thick, bellowing hum that vibrated like creamy drums marching into war. A hollow hum ballooned from the floor into a symphonic monsoon, deafening the thoughts of anyone refusing to act accordingly. The right fist attached to each worker bounced off of their chests, with erect index fingers pointing upwards to the eagle's nest that harbored Mad Ted, repeating in perfect sync, saluting their leader.

Mad Ted looked down to the floor, admiring the devotion of his following. He was watching his subordinates acknowledge the purpose of his message, represented by the tip of every erect index finger pointing towards his being in the eagle's nest. His hubris was fulfilled.

But as Mad Ted gazed from the eagle's nest, over the masses to observe their devotion, he noticed one inconsistency with the image on the floor. In the very back, was an individual, not dressed in the proper work attire. Instead, the individual was dressed as a disgruntled employee. This image was very odd, as none of Mad Ted's employees were disgruntled. Mad Ted continued observing the discretely disgruntled individual. The individual had in its hand a scratch pad, and in another hand, a pencil that appeared to dance wildly over the scratch pad, scribbling down notes like a drunken scribe. Mad Ted wasn't sure who the individual was, but he had no concern, as he continued gazing over his congregation that worshiped him.

The individual that Mad Ted had spotted was Wilsie McHickoryboob. She was eagerly collecting more information. She had masqueraded into the warehouse that morning, so that she could gather some information to create another article on the mysteries of the hot sauce warehouse and Mad Ted. To her advantage, she unknowingly masqueraded on the day that Mad Ted was going to reveal his future intentions for his hot sauce empire. She hysterically took note of everything that Mad Ted had said during the meeting, writing it all down as quickly as she could, thinking that it was a huge lead towards her next great article in the _Awful Gazette_.

As Mad Ted continued gazing through his congregation, admiring his worshipers, there was one more inconsistency. It was a human sized gap within the mass that was not humming through the snorkel, nor pointing an erect index finger of his right hand towards eagle's nest. That human sized gap was filled with Troy Slushy. Troy was not wearing his snorkel, and he was not wearing his hairnet, and he was not pounding his right fist off of his chest, then redirecting the tip of his erect index finger towards the eagle's nest to solute Mad Ted. Mad Ted felt slandered.

But for Troy, listening to Lou Stoole's was a terrible experience that induced misanthropic feelings. Watching the building erect towards what appeared to be a glistening hole secreting phony euphoria was depressing. Then, having to endure the changing chute was a displeasing experience, replacing the clothes that he wanted to wear with an unpresentable attire. And now having to listen to Mad Ted bellow his rhetoric was unbearable. Troy Slushy was becoming desperate. He was facing the floor, busy concocting another effort to destroy the sun, so that there would be no more days to fill with a life-decimating job.

His mind pieced together a large spear whittled from all the giant red woods in northern California. Troy would gather all the strongest Olympic athletes, and have them launch the spear into space like a javelin. The earth's rotation would help the spear gain enough momentum to launch through space and time, at a rate so fast that it would spear the sun. The spear's momentum would pierce the sun, dragging it off into the deepest depths of space, where Troy then blissfully imagined the sun extinguishing in the cold pool of infinite space. All of these thoughts wiggled in Troy's head, seeking a solution for his problem, dancing with the vibrating hum of the coworkers, as Mad Ted continued his gaze over his congregation to absorb the surrounding devotion.

## Chapter 5

Deliver hearts to those who are lacking,

until they begin to ripen with hearts of their own.

Within the borders of Awful, Ohio, there was a fragment of land that occupied by an individual who engaged himself radically within the economic gauntlet that stimulates Awful, Ohio. Built on top of this fragment of land was a wooden structure, simulated into the shape of a cabin, housing the individual. The cabin was coated in fertile moss, with drapes of ivory curling around each log that formed the cabin's structure.

Inside the cabin's walls sat the individual with two other men that were considered his cohorts. None of these individuals had allowed themselves to become victims to the mandates of the business owners that controlled Awful, Ohio, as none of them had jobs. But they did not have freedom, as they were all victims of the economy's mandates. They needed money, often desiring it perversely, using radical methods to achieve these goals, often illegal.

As they sat inside of the log cabin, each individual had within his mind complex structures of ideas that were designed to yield large amounts of wealth. They had all devoted the purpose of their existence to earn fortune. However they weren't sure why. To obtain these goals, each individual amalgamated their ideas with the other ideas in order to see what other ideas would birth from these mental copulations. Hours of deliberation had occurred, but progress began to succumb to mental exhaustion. The incumbents of the wooden barrier, although originally determined to discipline themselves until they discovered the grand idea that they were searching for, had been depleted of the energy needed to uproot this discovery. They were ready to give up, but these subtle words had granted them their relief and salvation from their exhaustive thinking:

"I have to go to the bathroom."

These were the words that spilled from the mouth of Doink McTriggers. The three members exhaled in relief, leaning back in their seats, separating themselves from the ideas that brewed before them. Doink McTriggers was one of the three individuals that were inside the wooden structure. However, he was not the chronic resident, and neither was Chuck Splatter, who was the other individual that was within the contemplation rink. Although not chronic resident, Doink McTriggers and Chuck Splatter were routinely inside of the log cabin, attempting to conjure up new methods to earn the money that they desired. The condition of chronic resident belonged to Sammy Ammo. Sammy Ammo had often invited his cohorts into the wooden chamber, where they would sit, reflect ideas, and exchange wisdom that would hopefully sprout into a steady stream of financial security.

"That's a good idea, Doink," said Sammy Ammo. That was the first time those words were said all day.

Doink McTriggers rose from his sitting position and pointed his portable body towards the rest area, relocating it to the rest area that was in the back hallway. Sammy Ammo also stood up, not only to stretch, but to remove Chuck Splatter's unsightly face from his sight. The geometrical outlay of Chuck Splatter's face was not constructed with precision or care. His eyes were separated very far apart from one another, both bulging like the open mouths of hungry dogs in different directions. He had a floating nose, in that it would never sit center on his face, regardless of the angle it was being observed from. And he had a hair line that was off center by 45 degrees. It was regularly questioned whether or not Chuck Splatter was artificially assembled in a laboratory.

Sammy Ammo walked towards the window with an upright posture that wouldn't bend for a hurricane. His arms folded behind his back, as he continued contemplating, attempting to figure out a conceivable plan that would harness what it was that he desired. Doink McTriggers' and Chuck Splatter's restless thoughts wondered off into unprofitable territory, leaving Sammy as the sole proprietor of their destiny. Sammy Ammo's arms returned to his sides, slinking against his body. He then raised his left hand to the frame of the window to support his leaning body weight. He stared out the window from his log cabin, squinting his eyes, refocusing his vision that broke through the window panes like swinging crowbars. The clarity exposed all of Awful, Ohio, where Sammy Ammo observed everything; power plants and manufacturing warehouses, all brooding production with humans mindlessly entering in and out of the production structures like products from an assembly line. His eyes engulfed everything that was Awful, Ohio, swallowing it deeply into the abysmal crevice of his stomach, where it inflicted harm upon his body, churning into a cramping knot. Sammy Ammo continued staring out the window, engulfing more of the mechanical system, feeding the knot until it amassed into self-destructive doubt of disbelief.

The sun oversaw Sammy, seeping through the window pane, desiccating the skin on Sammy Ammo's face, crinkling each cheek like a ruffled potato chip. Sammy Ammo compressed his lips, locking every muscle, preventing the growing knot of disbelief from unraveling from his bowels and out of his mouth in a painful howl. His entire situation was hard to swallow. The juvenile acts of illicit debauchery with two of Awful, Ohio's most outlawed debasers were very unrewarding, as Sammy Ammo often wondered why he spent his time with Chuck and Doink, rather than conform.

But Sammy knew that his situation was true, and that denying his current condition was only counterproductive. He would force feed it upon himself, to assuage the inflating knot. But the knot of disbelief grew larger, fighting feverishly, rejecting his current disposition. It attempted to filter through Sammy Ammo's mind, wanting to release through his mouth into chants of support for the economic gauntlet, converting Doink McTriggers and Chuck Splatter from their renegade behavior, into mindless meat lockers, serving for the benefit of store owners. But Sammy Ammo locked his jaw, knowing what was true, as he confined his tongue, forcing his mind to regress back into his genesis, when he had originally entered Awful, Ohio, justifying his renegade purpose to flush the truth of his purpose through his resisting body.

***

Before Sammy Ammo has found himself in Awful, Ohio and before he had referred to himself as "Sammy Ammo," he had lived as a nomad by the name of Samuel Amiable. There wasn't a piece of land before Awful, Ohio that Samuel Amiable's footprint didn't mark, and there wasn't a wake in the sea that his weight did not break. Samuel Amiable had traveled vastly through the world, greeting and recognizing anything and everything with pleasant smiles and warm greetings, treating everything as if being alive was the only thing required to earn his love and care. Samuel Amiable forever knew that there was no other way to treat existence. His sight seeing and journeys were a blessing that Samuel Amiable was never willing to part with. He was aware that if he was not careful with his blessing, then he would be forced to lose his privilege. One day during his travels, he was careless and lost his privilege.

Samuel Amiable had entered into Awful, Ohio. Money in exchange for goods was not something that Samuel Amiable had a lot of experience with. This lacking skill was obstructed his attempts to acquire the nutrients and health needed to sustain his existence. However, he was talented in finding food where others were unwilling to locate it, and from the perception of Samuel Amiable, trash receptacles had dwarfed into mini-grocery stores. However, in the economic gauntlet of Awful, Ohio, trash receptacles had also dwarfed into mini-grocery stores, where ambitious entrepreneurs would purchase the entire can at a low price, gaining all of its contents, and then selling all of the contents for a profit.

Trash receptacles had morphed from a heap of disease, into a canopy of hunger salvation. The only difference from Samuel Amiable's perception of the trash receptacle and Awful, Ohio's perception was the type of currency needed. Samuel Amiable had become familiar with "effort" being the only currency that he ever needed, as it was recognized worldwide. When Samuel Amiable thought he was paying his dues with his "effort," by using all of his effort to grab what appeared to be a grandiose surprise of an uneaten cheeseburger, he was actually reaching for something that needed to be exchanged for money. The store owner ceased Samuel Amiable from acquiring the burger, demanding money. But Samuel Amiable had no money to offer the store owner for the burger. The store owner then believed that he had restrained a thief, causing the store owner to whistle over the security guard. Samuel Amiable was not sure what was going on, as he had never been a burden on society, eating from a trashcan before. But the store owner made a scene, jumping and shouting, calling for help. The security guard ran over to the situation, apprehending Samuel Amiable. He was then handcuffed and handed over to the Awful, Ohio authorities. Samuel Amiable was held hostage in a prison cell, until a judge had disclosed his ransom.

" _Where have you come from?" ordered the judge._

" _I have come from everywhere. I have traveled here because this is the last area that I have yet to travel to," responded Samuel Amiable, now sitting in the court room before the judge._

Samuel Amiable was extremely amused by the situation, as he had never found a society that had valued garbage as much as this location had. He kept smirking with every grimacing glare that the judge would shoot in his direction, thinking the judge would too realize how odd the entire situation was and burst into compatible laughter. But the anger grew out of the judge's perception, quickly retaliating with vengeful punishment for Samuel Amiable, and his negligence to the way that the city of Awful, Ohio had constructed its existence. Samuel Amiable began to wonder what was going to happen, when he began pondering the idea that he was no longer walking on the same planet that he had before.

The judge continued to learn more of Samuel Amiable when demanding explanations for his despicable actions.

" _I do not have any money. I'm not exactly sure what money is. It seems to be pieces of paper that get exchanged for other things. I know where to find pieces of paper," replied Samuel Amiable._

The judge was in bewilderment at what he was hearing. How could a human being not understand currency in exchange for product? The judge kept listening to Samuel Amiable's ignorance. The boy had no parents, no home, or any documents verifying his identity. Samuel Amiable had become the mold of a bum in the judge's mind; an aimless vagabond stealing from the hard working store owners who were innocently selling items of fabricated value from their trashcans. The judge sat silently, building an image in his mind of Samuel Amiable haphazardly and deceitfully deconstructing all of Awful, Ohio's honesty and integrity and values. The judge grew impatient and tempered from these self-imposed, assumed images of Samuel Amiable. The judge believed that if Samuel Amiable was being honest with his story, then he would do Samuel Amiable a favor and educate him on what he needed to know in order to survive. He was not ready to believe the words that Samuel Amiable was saying. The confusion erratically caused the judge to relieve the following words from his mouth:

" _Samuel Amiable, I have no choice but to sentence you to a lifetime worth of community service here in Awful, Ohio. You have no parents, no place to live, and no way of surviving in the world. We, Awful, Ohio, will adopt you as one of us. You should be grateful that you have been guided to us by the divine, where we will help you earn a proper living. We have a vacant lot in the outskirts of our successful community, and you will reside there, and learn the ways of a trade and barter system. You will be educated in the way of the successful world, and will be transformed into a proper man, allowing you to live a long and happy life. Guards, escort Mr. Amiable to his new home." The judgment was concluded, with the gavel slamming hard, and the guards gripping Samuel Amiable from underneath his arms, taking him to his new location._

Samuel Amiable was very emotional towards the decision. He wasn't somber or melancholy, but excited and happy for another exciting adventure to engage in. The guards were a little confused by his reaction, but in all of his existence, Samuel Amiable had never come across a situation that he did not want to be a part of.

The judge was very wrong in his assumptions. Samuel Amiable was not a young man. He was 94 years old. He didn't have any physical resemblance of a 94 year old. He walked straight up, without any wrinkles, and was also slim and lively. The judge was right in that he did not have any parents, because they were fertilizing some plot of land by a tombstone. Samuel Amiable was unaware of what currency or an economy was because he was always able to get what he needed without having to barter with any physical entity with fabricated value. Survival was never a struggle. His youthful and innocent enjoyment of life carried him through. Travelers would always be willing to offer him food and water, without him having to offer any physical form of something. This idea of needing things in order to get things was very unfamiliar and foreign. However, his youthfulness and sense of accomplishment was all that he needed to increase his excitement, as he delved into this new direction.

Samuel Amiable was able to sustain a youthful appearance because there was never a moment where he had to overwhelm himself with anxiety. For the first 94 years of existence, he was able to live carefree, without any worries. His heart ticked like a freshly wound clock, with every joint rotating without any crackling of regretted age. Samuel Amiable had the wisdom of a prophet, wrapped in the youthful complexion of a young, healthy man. He had everything that he needed to live out the rest of his life, and wondered why any of these things the judge had decreed to him as important.

But unfortunately, Samuel Amiable's youthfulness and wisdom was not enough. The stipulation of his punishment was to work 40 hours a week. And soon enough, Samuel Amiable discovered that in the economic game that generated Awful, Ohio, he was a failure. He was not good at convincing himself that he should take orders from others. The job that he was forced to obtain had a boss that would always demand physical labor from Samuel Amiable. Samuel Amiable had a difficult time responding according to the requests of his owner, because he was never able to understand the idea of ownership. Samuel Amiable would always leisurely stroll through his day, rather than provide the demanded hustle and bustle.

Bribery did not work either, because the weekly earnings of a paycheck were not able to promote clarity for capitalism in Samuel Amiable's mind. Soon enough, Samuel Amiable was fired from his job.

Samuel Amiable resided in the location that Awful, Ohio had granted him. They called it a blessing, to be given a plot of land. But Samuel Amiable was unsure of how to appreciate the plot of land that contained a hut that was ready to blow over with a soft whisper. The floor boards were gently coated in green moss that was soft enough to offer Samuel Amiable a comfortable location to sleep on. He would wake up cold, with the weather entering into his home like unwelcomed misfits. And he would wake up hungry, as he did not have any money to acquire the food he desired. The hut had become his cell block.

Samuel Amiable would lay on the moss, gazing into the cracks of the ceiling, and reconstruct the episodes of how he had managed to come to the situation that he was living in. His hands being forced behind his back while being arrested repeated in a casual roulette of regret. He regretted the burger inside the trashcan. He regretted the owner's ambition to own the contents of the trashcan receptacle. He regretted standing before the judge, submissively obeying the commands and orders of the arrogant honor. He even regretted all of the wisdom that he had earned up until that very moment, as none of that wisdom or knowledge was able to bring him a moment of peaceful security in the situation that he was now in. He regretted not fighting back.

His thoughts whirled playfully around, teasing his conviction, amassing structures of doubt. Animosity was beginning to build a home in his heart, as every ounce of joy that had brought him into Awful, Ohio had abandoned Samuel Amiable, leaving him alone on the mossy floor in the breathable home. He no longer was able to smile with the sunshine every morning, but instead, regretted every morning that he woke up alive. The hunger that overwhelmed his body began to feast on the cells of sanity that remained hidden in his mind. The new world order of aggressive expansion began to competitively invade the once peaceful mind of Samuel Amiable, as it unforgivingly removed his care and compassion for the world and for others. Vengeance had usurped his reasoning, and revenge had conquered his mind. Samuel Amiable sourced all of his misery to the nagging trashcan owner who was unwilling to share some of his expendable wealth.

" _He is not guided by kindness or care, compassion and sympathy. But instead, a sense of greed, that portals all of its earnings into his swollen hubris, intoxicating him with fulfillment of possession and ownership," concluded Samuel Amiable and 94 years of wisdom._

" _This man is careless, with no sense of remorse for any being struggling to survive, as he would rather watch an individual suffer than offer help. He worsened my situation. And I fully intend on returning that same service that he had delivered unto me." Samuel Amiable beat his fist against the floor, which was softly protected by the moss. He concocted a plan, where he would embrace the trashcan owner, serving the owner with the same discretion and compassionless greeting that he had offered him._

Samuel Amiable woke up the following morning, as his malnourished body remained laying on the comforting moss growing over the planks in his home. His head was throbbing from the intoxicating wrath that consumed his being. The floor boards were soft and spongy, cooling his skin. He twisted his head to the side and watched the skin drape over the bones in his hands. The flesh was deteriorating. His bones had crippled, curling his hand into a trigger-pulling, pistol gripper, and it spoke to Samuel Amiable like sign language reciting, a divine message. The message electrified his veins, pumping warm blood throughout his body. The message was strong, and encouraging. Samuel Amiable obeyed the message, deciphering it from his body, as he stripped his body from the moss of the floor, walking from his home, and into the heart of Awful, Ohio.

Samuel Amiable listened to his newly shaped hand, observing the misconfigured shape, filling the void with what it sought, fulfilling its trigger-pulling destiny. Samuel Amiable migrated to the trashcan that he had first migrated to when he first migrated into Awful, Ohio. The same owner that had busted Samuel Amiable was there, still collecting money for trash.

" _Hey, I don't want any trouble!" yelled the trashcan owner to the decaying structure of Samuel Amiable, recognizing Samuel Amiable through the dilapidated appearance. Saliva had flooded from the mouth of Samuel Amiable, coating his chin in a glossy sheen. His clothes were damaged and weathered, separating into ragged strands of fabric draping from his flesh. His skin began to absorb the color of the moss carpeting the floor of his home, as his skin was hued with green ambiance. Samuel Amiable did not meet the requests of the owner, as he was ready to unload some trouble._

" _Don't come any closer!" yelled the owner. The store owner's eyes were locked onto Samuel Amiable's hand that was gripping something inside of his coat pocket. These yelling concerns were heard by other members of Awful, Ohio._

Samuel Amiable dismissed the requests and moved closer to the owner. Samuel Amiable had removed his hand from the inside pocket of his jacket. The hand that was curled into a trigger-pulling, pistol gripper had been filled with a pistol. It was silky black, smooth, and seductive. The store owner held up both hands, submissively declaring innocence. But Samuel Amiable had known that the man was a liar, and resembled nothing in the image of innocence. His heartless intentions, his selfish purpose; he was not a man with innocence, as he had no care for the sanctity of any other being that wasn't him. Samuel Amiable's pistol-gripper pulled the trigger, and a bullet in the shape of a heart exploded from the chamber. It was intrepid and tenacious, voyaging softly through the air, comfortably traveling, void of fear, and pervading with patience. The bullet removed the distance between Samuel Amiable and the store owner. The fabric of the store owner's shirt seared from the heat of the bullet. The skin beneath the shirt ripped open, exposing the sternum that shattered into a thousand pieces. The heart shaped bullet stopped in an empty chasm between the store owner's lungs, discovering its destiny, and filling the vacant cavity with a heart. The store owner grabbed his chest to feel the new heart inside of his carcass, and he fell over. At that moment, the implanted heart allowed the store owner to feel regret, sympathizing for Samuel Amiable, wanting to offer his garbage to anyone that was in need of it. The store owner fell into a deep sleep of death, where he would permanently enjoy the new organ and its sense of compassion that Samuel Amiable had wedged into his soulless body.

" _Holy shit!" cried a coincidental observer. The coincidental observer ran over to Samuel Amiable, placing his guiding arms around him, hurrying him from the scene into a back alley. The coincidental observer pushed the hand gripping the pistol back into Samuel Amiable's coat pocket. The coincidental observer had bulging eyes that pointed in different directions. Teeth plotted his gums like randomly placed headstones in a graveyard. He had tonsil stones in the back of his throat that were fermenting a toxic halitosis that would spew from his speaking mouth in a green stained cloud. He rushed Samuel Amiable through the alley so that he wouldn't be seen at the scene of the accident. The coincidental observer was Chuck Splatter._

" _Com'on man, we gotta hide this thing!" Chuck Splatter was referring to the pistol that Samuel Amiable was gripping. Chuck Splatter lifted the lid off of a trash can dumpster that was stowed away in the alley. Chuck's intentions were to throw the pistol into the dumpster, but as soon as Chuck opened the dumpster, another store owner revealed himself from a pile of products._

" _Howdy y'all!" replied the store owner, but before he could squeeze out a sales pitch, Samuel Amiable raised his pistol and shot the store owner in the chest._

" _Holy shit!" screamed Chuck Splatter, jumbling the teeth inside of his mouth. "You gotta put that thing away!"_

The store owner's sternum exploded into a thousand pieces, curdling through the air like fallen ash from celebratory fireworks. The store owner fell back into his store, where the weight of his body shook the lid, slamming it down hard like a gavel, permanently sealing the store owner in his own products. Chuck Splatter was in disbelief and looked towards Samuel Amiable, but Samuel Amiable was degaged from the scene.

Samuel Amiable began to look at his fingers, wrapping around the pistol, gently cradling it like a newborn in the arms of a mother. His malnourished body was desperate for nutrients, seeking anything to consume, as the cold metal compound that structured the pistol began to absorb into his hand. His skin melded together, feeding on the metallic pistol, as his fingers permanently fused onto the trigger, following the design that they were strictly intended for, accepting their newly transposed purpose, eternally gripping the pistol.

It was enlightening and divine. Samuel Amiable rubbed his eyes with his free hand, regaining clarity, able to see the world again, as his body regained nourishment from his new appendage. With newly restored energy from his metallic feeding, he looked over at Chuck Splatter and politely asked, "What is your name?"

Chuck Splatter responded honestly, telling his name, and returning the same question.

Samuel Amiable responded, "My name is Sammy Ammo."

Sammy Ammo had been forced into the rigmarole of Awful, Ohio, which chewed his soft, pulpy flesh, pissing him out as a calcified kidney stone, sheering away the submissive urethra meat of his mind that was too tender to fend off the destructive ways of Awful, Ohio's influence. The pleasures that he had acquired through the first 94 years of his life were wiped away. The pistol had transcended Sammy Ammo from his meek approach, into a whirling cyclone of apotheosis, uplifting his callused soul into the sky, towards the heavens, where he had discovered his destiny in the magnitude of space. His body had regained strength, and his thoughts regained clarity. Sammy Ammo stared at the pistol that was permanently fused to his being. His fingers were crippled together, as they curled around the handle, with the index and middle finger uniting into a power appendage, resting on the trigger. The pistol shimmered with a flaunting sheath that glistened in the sunlight, proud of its new home, resting in Sammy Ammo's grip. Sammy Ammo had recognized the good that he had delivered unto the store owners, refilling their vacant chests with new hearts, making up for the ones that were stolen by Awful, Ohio, liberating them from their oppressive dispositions as trashcan salesmen. The vision spoke to Sammy Ammo from a divine language, with the tonality of a caressing mother, humming subtle vibrations that were deciphered in the following words:

" _Deliver hearts to those who are lacking, until they begin to ripen with hearts of their own."_

Sammy Ammo remained fixated on the vision of his hand melding to the pistol, as the divine language repeated through his mind. Sammy Ammo had begun to understand why it was that he was delivered to Awful, Ohio. This was his destiny. Sammy thus became determined to fulfill the destiny spoken to him from the vibrating vision, and to fulfill the vacant chests of Awful, Ohio's store owners with new hearts.

Sammy Ammo remained standing in the back alley and rotated his eyes over to Chuck Splatter. His gaze remained locked onto Chuck Splatter's face, attempting to make sense of the chaotic structure, pondering whether or not he had a heart. Chuck Splatter stood there, confused, and a little flattered, having never been stared at before, allowing the examination. Chuck Splatter's heart began to pump heavily, as he was receiving more attention from Sammy than he had from anyone else in the entire realm of his existence.

There was no rhythm or method behind the structured madness of Chuck Splatter's face. But Sammy Ammo heard the rhythm of his beating heart, fueling him to fearlessly draw in all of the absurdity of the facial melee of Chuck Splatter. A moment of salvation erupted in Sammy Ammo's mind, accepting Chuck Splatter for the being that he was because of the kindness that he had offered to him. Sammy Ammo grinned, knowing that that kindness could only emerge from a heart. A breeze slipped into Sammy Ammo's vented shirt, and he released these words from his mouth into the breeze:

" _Do you have any friends, Chuck?" The words echoed back and forth off the walls of the buildings like an ominous squall._

Chuck Splatter's elliptical eyes widened, anticipating the next move of Sammy Ammo. The attention was exhilarating, with every blood cell pounding faster through each chamber of his heart, carrying excitement for his attention-deprived soul. Chuck Splatter surrendered himself, willing to do anything.

" _Yeah, I have a couple," stuttered Chuck Splatter, hindered by his increasing flattery._

" _Well, give one of them a call. We have work that has to get taken care of immediately."_

Sammy Ammo subtlety ordered these words out of his mouth. His grin was emotionless, and he spoke with a catatonic tone, allowing the aeons to guide him into doing what he knew he had to do. Chuck Splatter answered with his eager body language, as Sammy Ammo watched him leave the alley to summon his friend, Doink McTriggers.

Sammy Ammo led Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers in engaged acts of rebellion and liberation throughout Awful, Ohio. Sammy Ammo allowed the both of them to join his destiny, as it appeared to him that their destiny was to help him fulfill his own destiny, to restore the lost hearts of Awful, Ohio. Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers were not economically gifted, as they had gotten by the same way that Sammy Ammo had gotten by. They were all victims in Awful, Ohio, ostracized from life necessities because of the lack of monetary privileges. They weren't good at working, as they were unable to submit to orders from their bosses. But mostly, they resented having to work eight hours a day. So they retaliated by exercising their own doctrines, robbing gas stations, exploiting unattended ATM's, and feasting freely from the isles of grocery stores, in order to acquire the privileges that were necessary for survival.

Heart shaped bullets would explode from the pistol's chamber, filling the vacant chests of every store owner, sending regret through their egocentric cores, pumping freedom throughout their decaying corpses, accomplishing Sammy's purpose. Sammy Ammo's body language grew more coherent with every liberated store owner, as his pistol-gripping hand was now completely coagulated, with his flesh wrapping entirely around the handle of the pistol. The contours of his fingers were no longer apparent, as his entire hand had crippled into what appeared to be a fin wrapping around the pistol. The fin was efficient, smooth and air resistant, gently squeezing the trigger with superfluous grace.

Sammy Ammo, Chuck Splatter, and Doink McTriggers were a corrective force. They made their way through Awful, Ohio, ready to liberate any one that was not willing to provide them with the prosperity of materials that their existence was entitled to, correcting their behavior with new hearts, to replace the ones that were lost to Awful, Ohio. They were ahead of the law and feared by the city.

These renegade actions were made clear through articles in the Awful Gazette, as the media spoke frequently of their actions. The articles would cite accounts of fear and intimidation, as Sammy Ammo and his cohorts would force the pistol upon all who would not acknowledge his prominence, unless Sammy and his cohorts were offered the necessities for life. The more store owners Sammy Ammo liberated, the larger his reputation grew. And with the growth of Sammy Ammo's reputation, the store owners began to grow hearts of their own, as they would immediately offer Sammy Ammo, Chuck Splatter, and Doink McTriggers all of the contents in the store without hesitation. Sammy recognized this as "care," something that could only come from a heart.

All of Sammy's efforts were working. The store owners were beginning to ripen with hearts of their own, proven by their generous, caring offerings. As soon as Sammy Ammo, Chuck Splatter, and Doink McTriggers entered into a store, the owners would greet them immediately with gifts and bribes as if being in the presence of prophets. Sammy Ammo was pleased with the these kind offerings, because it was wisdom that told Sammy Ammo that those possessing life's necessities are obligated to share their wealth with the brethren of the community. Sammy Ammo had accomplished his goal, earning his share of everything that would allow him to prosper.

However, Sammy Ammo's purpose still remained alive, as his coagulated hand was only becoming more prominent, speaking divinely through sign language.

" _I have liberated and taught so many store owners, that the rest of them are able to grow hearts of their own. But this pistol still firmly belongs part of my being. There are still many store owners that need to be restored with hearts. I have only made a slight impression upon Awful, Ohio," stated Sammy Ammo, analyzing the incompletion of his self-imposed objective, thinking that the pistol would remove itself from his fin once completed. Sammy Ammo looked into the sky, believing he was a descendent from the heavens. He questioned the directions of his actions, thinking that he and his cohorts should be approaching his purpose from a different angle._

" _It was my purpose to restore these store owners with their lost hearts," emphasized Sammy Ammo. "These store owners were robbed of their hearts, and I have either honorably restored them with a heart, or have trained them to grow one of their own! But no matter how many hearts I restore, more hearts are still being removed by the machine that is Awful, Ohio. It is fruitless to restore the lost hearts, as more hearts are being stolen faster than I can restore them!" Sammy Ammo used his apotheosis, conspiring what had to be done in order to liberate Awful, Ohio from its heart-pillaging ways. He looked away from the sky, staring back down at the pistol still formulated in his fin, seeking resolution._

" _If I am to complete my purpose, then it is my duty to discover and stop the ultimate heart pillaging source!"_

And suddenly, the fog of confusion ceased blinding Sammy Ammo. An epiphany overcame his mind, presenting everything through a diaphanous gelatin. The store owners were soldiers of barter of trade, forcefully bound to the cold and heartless industrial mechanism by an overseeing general. There was no accomplishment in liberating a soldier. Accomplishment resided in the liberation of the general. Liberate the general, and the rest will follow. The general that puppeteered all of these store-owning subordinates was the most opulent individual dictating all of Awful, Ohio: Mad Ted.

" _Mad Ted is the cause for all of this horror, with his created wealth that he distributes throughout Awful, Ohio!"_

Sammy Ammo realized that if he was to liberate all of Awful, Ohio, then he had to remove Mad Ted's strangling power over the population. Liberating the store owners for their merchandise was no longer desired, as it became clear to Sammy that if he seized Mad Ted's power, then he would be able to filter liberation to all of Awful, Ohio. Mad Ted was Sammy's new desire, the largest supplier to the trade and barter system. He had the most employees stocking Awful, Ohio, as all of their paychecks were desired by new owners who opened up stores, hoping that those employees would enter into their stores, and trade a portion of their paychecks for an item of trash from their store. The fabricated value that Mad Ted had created was the power that Sammy Ammo was seeking, and Sammy Ammo was determined to acquire this power through any means necessary, so that he could liberate all of Awful, Ohio from the deception.

This moment of satori was redirecting. Sammy Ammo collected Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers, reconciling all of them back at Sammy Ammo's cabin, into the contemplation rink. Sammy was now determined to discover a plan to cease the madness that Mad Ted was storming through everyone in Awful, Ohio, and to give Doink McTriggers and Chuck Splatter more purpose than they were already ordained with.

***

Sammy Ammo's knot had deflated, as the reminiscence of his genesis reinvested his purpose back into his being. Sammy remained by the window, observing Awful, Ohio, visually avoiding Chuck Splatter. Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers were still resting from the exhaustion of the contemplation rink.

The bathroom door of the log cabin opened, and Doink McTriggers, holding a folded newspaper, returned to the contemplation rink. Chuck Splatter was still sitting on the couch, staring at Sammy Ammo, hoping for more attention.

"Hey Sammy," Doink had jumbled over to Sammy, excited to show him what he had read on the front page of that morning's newspaper. He was hoping to receive praise for the discovery.

"While I was sitting on the toilet, letting the spuds loose, I was reading this newspaper, and noticed that Mad Ted was on the front cover. Here! Here, ya go! Read it for yourself!" Doink McTriggers earnestly rushed the newspaper to Sammy Ammo. Sammy Ammo had never been one to react emotionally and stared at Doink McTriggers a little bit, studying the fault lines on his face, before accepting the newspaper. Sammy Ammo began to read the article.

Chuck Splatter sat from the couch, as he and Doink McTriggers watched Sammy Ammo read the newspaper. Sammy Ammo's eyes were running back and forth, line to line, like the platen of a typewriter, ringing at the end of each row. Sammy Ammo's lips were jactating slews of undecipherable sounds, emulating the acts of ancient relics, reciting hymns to the local deity, grieving for deliverance before their foreshadowed sacrifice.

The skin covering Sammy Ammo's forehead squeezed together after decoding every bit of information, folding into rolling wrinkles that hovered over his brow, compressing every ounce of passion and hope into beads of sweat, dripping from his face and blotting the newspaper with images of salvation. Doink McTriggers remained standing in front of Sammy Ammo, enchanted by the visual, and also growing with annoyance from not receiving his praise for doing a fine job.

The article had reiterated the meeting that Mad Ted had with his employees, speaking of his intentions of releasing change throughout his warehouse. The article was detailed with significance of how Mad Ted's change amongst his own warehouse was going to be revolutionary for the city. Sammy Ammo eagerly absorbed every ounce of information that spewed from that article, as it became the fuel for the idea that the members of the contemplation rink were looking for.

"Well, gentlemen," Sammy Ammo spoke effortlessly, carried by his newly discovered direction for fulfilling his destiny through sources emerging from his bathroom. "This is what we have been searching for." Sammy Ammo circled the room, tapping the coagulated pistol along the surfaces of all the pieces of furniture that he surrounded. Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers eagerly awaited for Sammy Ammo's words, anticipating them to fly from the lips of his mouth like a dove.

"According to this article, Mad Ted is forewarning a new system that will change the way his warehouse is working, altering the current situation. These new changes will also be indicted onto his workforce. However, it is widely known that his prodigious levels of efficiency will create more success in his warehouse, which will then spread to other work forces in Awful, Ohio, causing more hearts to secede. So we need to act accordingly. We know that Mad Ted and his modes of efficiency dictate the future and well-being of Awful, Ohio, so we must discover what these new modes of efficiency are, and utilize them for our destiny!

"These changes are going to occur through a new farce that will recast all of the prevalence that Awful, Ohio has become familiar with."

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers remained alert, but unaware of what it was that Sammy Ammo was attempting to let them know.

"But this new farce that he will unleash onto all of Awful, Ohio won't remain something of the unfamiliar, because soon enough it will become so familiar with all the citizens of Awful, Ohio that it will sit within all of our bellies as if it had been there forever."

The monologue that Sammy Ammo delivered was beyond the comprehensive abilities of Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers. Their minds were still hell-bent on creating damage and causing chaos throughout Awful, Ohio for no real reason. But they remained still and collected, and pretended to pay attention to the words that kept spilling out of Sammy Ammo's face-hole, as Sammy Ammo's ideas had mostly required their hell-bent aspirations, which acted as creative outlets for Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers.

Sammy Ammo had analyzed the article for a few moments more before concluding what his new found plan was going to entail. He wasn't searching for content, but instead a lead. His eyes scanned through every letter, until they stopped at the article's creator, Wilsie McHickoryboob. Sammy Ammo stared at the name until it was permanently cleaved into the soft putty brain that rested within his skull.

"Here gentlemen, we have obtained the name of the source of the information that we are looking for. This name will direct us, and we will seek and discover the body that possesses this name, and we will become one step closer to the destiny that we are attempting to seek."

Sammy Ammo held out the paper in front of his audience, and let his index finger lay directly underneath the name "Wilsie McHickoryboob." Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers observed the newspaper out of physical reaction, thinking that anything placed directly in front of their faces should be looked at, even if they were unable to interpret the intentions that Sammy Ammo was leading to.

But the name was seductive, rippling on the paper like the hips of a belly dancer. Their eyes were locked onto the hypnotic title as it filtered past their disinterest and into their minds, where it nested its existence into their obedient tissue.

"We will seek Wilsie McHickoryboob, acquiring more information on Mad Ted and his plans of change, allowing us to discover the information that we are looking for, the information that Mad Ted is going to use to execute his vicissitude!"

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers became disciples of Sammy Ammo that morning. It was their newly discovered duty to succeed in his wish, and accomplish the goals that birthed from his mind. Sammy Ammo, Chuck Splatter, and Doink McTriggers dedicated the rest of the evening in deliberation, attempting to figure out where and how it was that they were going to find their newly discovered omen, Wilsie McHickoryboob.

## Chapter 6

" **I'll write a script." – Troy Slushy**

Troy Slushy sat in the driver's seat of the rough appearing hatchback. The seat's ruptured fabric beneath his body stretched apart, exposing the interior cushion to the under part of Troy Slushy's back. He was driving home, relieved to escape the thick aroma of hot sauce, eased from the monotony of Lou Stooles, and liberated from the enslaving career as a conveyor-line specialist. He had constructed more ideas, finding that the eradication of the sun was a strong creative outlet, and he was excited to bring these ideas back to Lacy, whom he imagined was direly waiting for his presence to enter through the doorway, bearing conceived, sun-destroying plans.

His most recently conceived plan was to whittle a piece of fire proof rope long enough to lasso the sun. He would round up the most accomplished cowboy from the south, send him off into space on a rocket pony, where the space cowboy would then hog-tie the star. The end of the rope would then be tied to a high powered, plasma-rocket. That plasma-rocket would pull the sun from the center of the solar system, and yo-yo it around like a hammer throw, tossing it out of the solar system and into the vastness of space and time. The image was enchanting; a world with no light, a world with no time, and emancipation from the confinement of existence. These images were rewarding and satisfying. Troy Slushy's hubris inflated, as he dreamed of peaceful darkness. His being saturated in an ocean of self-conceit that flooded the inside of his car. It was now parked in the driveway of his mustard colored home, delivered by the same routine that had driven him to work that morning. Lacy Slushy was waiting inside of their home for Troy.

"Lacy!" shouted Troy, as he entered into the home. He piled through the door, overzealous and ambitious, heading towards the den where he would be able to channel his soul through a pencil and onto a pad of paper, inflating his ideas into a hard copy. Troy had charged past Lacy like a hot battery. She was relaxing in a pearl sofa, feet propped up onto an ottoman, with pads of gauze stuffed in between each toe. She was in the process of meticulously applying a soapy coat of blue nail polish to cover the chipping and cracks that had occurred during her active day. Her spirits were lifted that morning when Troy had found the effort to make love to her. She hadn't been desiring love or pleasure, and was not disgruntled about not having had love made to her in some time. Rather, the existence that she had come to endure weighed her down, suffocating her with all of the materialistic garbage that rotted with her depressed soul. But Troy's words and ambition that morning had injected her with the hope that she had been seeking, and was drawn to him by a force so strong that it united them into a single entity, which had powered her will towards tolerance.

During her day, she had accomplished a vast amount of errands, reorganized the mounds of clothes that had been accumulating into the corner of the room, transferred the vanity from the left wall of the bedroom to the right wall of the bedroom, situated the bed into the opposite corner, and was able to begin a fresh coat of tea-green paint in the dining room. Her tolerance copulated productivity. Lacy Slushy was truly driven, and had discovered encouragement and excitement to drown out the disheartening life that she had believed she was living.

"Lacy, I had been thinking all day, about how we can blow up the sun, or somehow exterminate it. You'd be surprised at how many options we actually have, varying in methods, systems, patterns, and trajectories. There are actually a lot more ways to eradicate the bastard than anyone would have thought." Troy Slushy shouted with enthusiasm and excitement, speaking like a mad scientist, hands flailing faggishly in the air from his tea-green den, where he was perched directly in front of his desk. He vigorously began sketching the darkening martyrs of his blueprints that would deliver him and Lacy from evil.

Lacy was sitting in the room of the house that contained the chimney and smoky colored walls. The paint that she had used that day was enough to finish the den and dining room, but not enough to finish the chimney room. She was relaxing, after an accomplished day, pampering her toes to a rewarding color of soapy blue. The discussion that she had with Troy that morning was encouraging, but it was something that had only lived within her for forty minutes after Troy had left for work. She had grown to accept the lives that they lived after masking it all up, and she began to regain comfort in their home.

"Lacy!" hollered Troy Slushy, as he walked into the room that Lacy was occupying. She acknowledged Troy with a pleasant lickspittle so not to discourage him. "Here, check out these blue prints that I sketched together."

Troy expeditiously displayed the drawings of his plans. He placed them all into the hands of Lacey, hoping that she might provide some clarity into which blueprint would be the best to pursue. He solemnly explained the scheme of each idea to Lacey, what each gadget would crank, what each knob would thrust, and what each apparatus would pull. His ideas were complex and systematic, intricate and detailed. Lacy was caught off guard, not by the aptness of the designs, but the mere intentions. She was in disarray to witness Troy becoming so intimate with the idea of exterminating the sun. She was nervous to condescend his plans, but at the same time, she did know better than to support lunacy. She stared at her blue nail polish, hoping to float away into the deep blue that had covered up the chasms and imperfections in her fingernails, creating a smooth, comfortable, acceptable nail.

"Troy," Lacy squeezed his name out nervously. She had realized what had happened between her and Troy that morning, and was uneasy with the idea of being unsupportive towards his delusional, yet meaningful ideas. She and him had usurped a degree of intimacy that had been missing from their relationship for years, and now that it had returned, Lacy was fearful of rejecting it.

"I just think that..." Lacy fluttered her thick eye lashes. She couldn't manage to look at Troy as she regurgitated the statement that was locked in her mouth, perching on the tip of her tongue, ready to flee in the wind. She turned her face towards the wall and continued, "these ideas are a little..."

Lacey paused before concluding the sentence. She knew how many emotions were riding on her answer. She was aware that Troy was in desperate need of her support, otherwise he would be unable to find reason to allow existence to continue. The house turned cold. A breeze leaked through the chimney, and sank to the floor like a hazy fog. A cold mist circled Lacy and Troy, forming into the shape of a piece of coal. For a brief moment Lacy was able to envision the future; sadness, depression, and lethargy were all swarming back into her life, and she found these to be undesirable. Lacy was not going to speak with ration to Troy, nor attempt to empower him with reason and convince him that these ideas belonged in an asylum; Lacy was determined, hoping to remain strong, allowing this blissful ignorance, intimacy, and unity to dictate their lives, rather than the ration and reason that sought to destroy them. But instead, Lacy Slushy opened her mouth. She stood before Troy and his eager eyes. She was unable to hold it back, as the reason flooding her mind was too strong, and the logic analyzing the ideas were too ominous. Lacy Slushy exhaled, concluding to Troy that his ideas are "idiotic."

Troy's face dropped. The cold room compressed around his body like a coffin. His chest convulsed with claustrophobia, beating against the coffin door. His saccading vision seeped through a peephole placed directly in front of his right eye that exposed a world of horrors, staring at the cold blue nails painted on Lacy's finger tips. His soul transcended deeply into their abyss; a murky blue pool of cold melancholy. His mind submerged back into his thoughts. He dreamed of a dark world, a world where there would be no light to allow any transcendence of any souls. He wanted his soul to remain in his body, where no one would be allowed to disturb and interrupt it again.

But Troy Slushy had hope, looking up at his wife, Lacy, and saw that her condition was temporary, and that she was not truly satisfied with the life in Awful, Ohio. The coffin expanded back into the shape of their house, where it remained a coffin, now holding him and Lacy, as Troy prepared himself with embracing the situation. Lacy had covered up the interior walls of their home with paint that would erode. Her nails were coated in an impermanent mask, with hopes that it would transpose through her skin and down into her core, metamorphosing her soul into what it was that she desired it to be. But these were hopeless attempts, and Troy Slushy could see that. He knew that he was going to have to save the woman that he loved from this shallow, shell-coated life.

"Lacy," replied Troy calmly. He stared at her eyes. They were large and frightened. Lacy was afraid of every moment of life, and everything that it would entail after she had made that statement, fearing her visions of the future would inhale truth, returning sadness, depression, and lethargy. But Troy remained calm. The situation was delicate. He breathed slowly and levitated Lacy towards his body. His arms elevated, wrapping around her torso, and he pulled her in closely to him, hugging her with gentle force. He stroked her red hair, and rubbed her back. He stared at the walls, and at the rearranged furniture, and cursed the daylight that had deluded Lacy into believing that she had had an accomplished day. He had become her savior.

"Lacy, close your eyes." Lacy's eyes closed. Her head knotted inside of his chest. The fabric of his shirt smelled of hot sauce. It was comfortable and relieving. The anxiety of everything had disappeared, and she had regained that moment of intimacy that she had lost that morning. She was comfortable with Troy, as he held her vulnerable body, gently rocking back and forth, swimming in the vastness of nothing that her closed eyes were relaying to her mind.

"Lacy," Troy calmly spoke again. "You and I can no longer live like this. These are things that we do not have an ounce of compassion or care for." Troy looked around the room at all of the materialistic belongings that were closing in on them. "We do not wish to possess these things that have been created for the sake of deceiving us into false beatitude. None of these things are anything that we really seek, nor have ever sought. We are exchanging our time and energy for things that encapsulates nothing. We are losing our energy for nothing; we are dying for nothing." Troy Slushy recited these words with strength, comfort, and the same passion that was used in that morning's monologue.

Lacy had remembered the feeling that she had had that morning. It was wonderful and gracious. She never wanted to lose it again, and had been reminded of the magnitude that Troy's envisions had delivered her to. Her cheeks bloomed with red bashfulness, as she had been fooled again by her surroundings, finding comfort in their pretentious beings. She sought penance from this foolishness and was ready to fully commit to Troy's arduous objective.

"Troy, you are right." Lacy's large, blueberry flavored irises stared deeply into Troy. They were sympathetic for the suggestions of lunacy, but still pulsating with ration, wondering how exactly Troy was thinking that he'd be able to extinguish the sun. "Troy, these possessions and materials that we own and work to sustain are nothing that we ultimately desire, and we do need to find something else other than what we are doing now." Lacy brought her hand up to Troy's face, caressing his cheek, and outlining his mouth with the tip of her thumb. She stared at Troy, loving and supporting everything and anything that it was that Troy wanted to accomplish. And because of this support, she was destined to challenge his ambition for the sake of the objective with the following phrase: "Troy, I'm not exactly sure that smothering the sun is entirely feasible."

Again, Troy's face dropped. He was pleased that Lacy was now cooperating with the ultimate goal, but distraught that his day's worth of work was not good enough to accomplish these goals. He was on the horizon of pouting.

"I mean, do you realize that the north poles would melt before they would come close enough to grip the sun? One million earths can fit inside of the sun, Troy. This planet doesn't hold anything that can compete in size with the sun. The earth doesn't even contain enough material to build a rocket that can blow up the sun, or build an ice cream scoop that could remove the sun, or whittle a rope long enough to hog-tie the sun, or any of these other blueprints that you think will actually work!" Lacy secretly thought that the umbrella rocket was unique, but didn't want to encourage Troy in this direction.

"Troy, there has to be something else that we can do to make the change that we are looking for." Instead, Lacy was hoping that Troy would want to run off to an exotic island, living like minimalists, eating coconuts and drinking rain water that would collect in the center of palm leaves. But instead, Troy's face scrunched up, ringing out every last drop of tear that his face was soaked in. The room enclosed again into a body bag, suffocating him. He took a few stuttering steps backwards, as his knees buckled underneath him, and he fell back into a chair that was positioned in the corner of the room directly behind him. His hopes were collapsing, as a result of Lacy's ration.

The cushion was soft and comfortable, velvet and maroon, absorbing the collapse of his dreams. His body was enjoying the relaxation, especially after working and thinking all day. He was losing strength, and ready to submit to the surrounding possessions that filled his life. The chair was pleasant, as it whispered creamy hymns into his ear, seducing him further into its thickness. He sunk deeper and deeper into the velvet, maroon cushion. He looked up at Lacy, watching her red hair drip over her shoulders. She looked beautiful. He was ready to accept their situation just as Lacy had earlier during the day, while Troy was at work.

"Lacy, I think you may be right," whimpered Troy from the chair. Lacy remained standing in front of him. Troy's words were hard to understand through the sobbing mumbles, but Lacy understood every tear that dripped out of his face. Giving up all of the meaningless dribble that they had accumulated during their lives was going to be hard, and even harder was going to be abandoning Awful, Ohio, and her substance that she had used to mother their entire understanding of existence.

Troy continued, "this is just too hard. Our routine had become so concrete that it feels almost impossible to break out of. It has become a mold that we rely on, and I don't know if we are capable of breaking free." Lacy dropped down to Troy, and rested with him in the chair. They both held one another, scared and intimidated by the smoky colored walls, and the crisp breeze that sung outside of the window. The sounds of birds chirping and children playing could be heard from outside, and Troy and Lacy held one another tighter, fearing everything that was surrounding them.

"This isn't what I want, Troy, this isn't what I want." Lacy pressed her face deep into his seduced body, letting her tears soak into his shirt, clenching it until her knuckles turned white.

"I know Lacy, this isn't what I want either." Troy was just as tearful, holding the back of Lacy's head, holding her close to his being, where they both embraced the malignant comfort of the alluring chair. It was a moment of surrendering. Troy and Lacy were ready to accept their lives, and fall asleep into the chair. They were not content with their decision, but they knew that there was nothing else to do. They would forever be slaves to the mechanical structure that dictated their lives. They would forever be a cog in the system, and never anything that they would hope they would become. They had failed at accomplishing their goal, and they were ready to embrace their unfortunate destiny.

Troy's eyes opened, ready to engulf all of his surroundings, and finally accept everything with no questions or contest. His hand dropped from the back of Lacy, and fell to the floor. It landed on the top of a pile of papers sitting beside the maroon chair that cradled Troy and Lacy. Lacy had placed them there as reading material for whomever was going to be sitting in the chair, hopefully company of good friends that they could host. Troy ruffled through the top layers like a deck of cards and randomly drew a piece of paper. He raised the piece of paper up to his eyes and allegorically waved it in front of his face like the white-flag of a surrendering enemy. He was prepared to ostracize himself from his goals, and permanently convict himself as "settled."

Troy Slushy remained in the chair, with his wife, Lacy, still resting and sobbing on top of him. She was a light woman, airy and soft, leaving a small impression on Troy's body. Troy was attempting to read the material on the paper that he was holding. His eyes were layered in a film of shit that had collected from the compressed tears. He blinked a few times to clear away the film. The cloudy irises became translucent, and Troy regained focus, only to witness the paper coruscating like an arc angel descending from the heavens to deliver a promising message.

His eyes became nacreous. The paper was radiant and brilliant, gleaming with hope strong enough to restore the lost faith that had just vacated the minds and home of the Slushy's. And through Lacy's sobbing echoes, drowning in the shirt muffling his chest, the message of the newly presented hope was typed on the paper in the form of an advertisement. Troy's eyes widened, engulfing every pearly emission of innovation that scintillated from the message, swallowing into his mind, where it was comprehended and then regurgitated through his mouth in the words of "The Behicle."

"The Behicle" had whispered out of Troy's lips, through the red strands of hair mopping the top of Lacy's skull, down her ear canal, and bouncing into her ear drum. "The Behicle, The Behicle." The words beat like a cerebral conga, increasing in sound and power, until the words slipped out of her delicate mouth like a breeze.

"The Behicle," she softly exhaled with resurrecting breath, ceasing her sobs.

Troy had finished sobbing, and the tears had dried up.

"Lacy, this is what we've been looking for," expressed Troy.

Lacy stripped her face from Troy's shirt, lifting her head, and adjusting her vision onto Troy's face. His eyes were illuminating with clarity, soaking up every reflected light from the page. His brain was kicking into overdrive, accelerating towards their newly discovered salvation. Lacy was pleased that Troy had now been embraced with something that reignited the passion that she had reasonably smothered. She fully intended to comply with anything that Troy was going to attempt, fearing that she would once again lose the comfort and excitement that had just been resurrected that morning. She forever realized that a content life with Troy was more valuable than a reasonable one.

"Lacy, this is our answer. This is what is going to prevent our minds from being flooded from the exposed world. We will be able to live in perpetual darkness, and never have to be exposed to the light of day, ever again! You were right Lacy, blowing up the sun is unfeasible. But with this machine, we will be able to acquire what it was that we were attempting to acquire from destroying the sun. With this machine, we will never have to worry about daylight, and the horrors that occur during that time!" Troy's stoic face rearranged with a bullheaded grin seeping from his lips. Lacy kept looking at his face that kept staring at "The Behicle."

She was uncertain of what she was supporting, not fully understanding what the term "Behicle" entailed. But still, she forced her eyes to bulge out of her skull with excitement and reluctance, responding, "What is it Troy! Please tell me!"

Lacy turned her head towards the advertisement, to stare along with Troy, to embrace the martyrdom that he was proclaiming to witness. Troy was pleased, with his new ambition generating salvation faster than he was able to comprehend it. He was once again restored with the sage of hope that had been stripped from his presence, but this time embodied in an exodus.

"The Behicle" glowed off of the advertisement. It was a picture of a yellow, mobile machine, half boat, half vehicle. It was dual-terrain, capable of traveling on land, as well as ocean. The body of the Behicle resembled the shape of a tug-boat, with two axles penetrating laterally through the lower portion of the body, bearing wheels of extreme versatility. The body was equipped with two side doors, allowing easy access for the driver and passengers on the terrain, as well as side view mirrors, radio antenna, heated seats, and windshield wipers. The transmission was automatic, and the engine had 8 cylinder pistons, reaching 60 mph in 4.8 seconds, topping at 117 mph on land. Once the Behicle would reach a body of water, the wheels on the ends of the axles would adjust 90 degrees, transforming into underwater propellers. The top of the Behicle was equipped with a periscope, a crow's nest, and a hatch for easy exiting and entering when water bound.

"Lacy, this is the Behicle." Lacy's eyes examined everything that was declared in the photograph. She was immediately appeased by the yellow color, as she instinctively thought that it would look cute parked in the driveway next to their yellow home.

"Never mind blowing up the sun," Troy continued, "or those foolish blueprints that were drawn together. With the Behicle, we will be able to continuously drive west, in the pitch of night, rotating on the dark side of the earth, always avoiding the sun. Blowing up the sun is completely ludicrous. We can't overpower the bright beast! So instead, we will run from it. We will begin running in the dark of night, running west, forever, so that we will remain in perpetual darkness forever, inhabiting earth's dark side. This will be our exodus, evacuating from the daylight, forever rotating in the dark of the westward way. We will pack everything that we need into the Behicle, and begin traveling once the sun sets, never stopping, never living in the way of the light, never going to work, nor ever collecting meaningless trash for us to fill our lives with. This is going to be it Lacy. This is going to be us, living in our dreams! All we have to do is acquire the Behicle, and we will experience our deliverance."

"But Troy, how will we pay for it?" cursed Lacy with her reasoning. She stared at the eye-gauging price tag at the bottom of the advertisement and momentarily had forgotten that she no longer wanted to think or speak reasonably. Lacy instantly regretted condescending Troy's idea, fearing that Troy would once again retort back into depression, surrendering to the soulless, mechanized way of Awful, Ohio, which she would then follow. But before her nerves could twine together into a strangling chain of fear, Troy responded, "I'll write a script."

The answer had confused the both of them. Lacy wasn't sure exactly how a script was going to get them the Behicle, and Troy wasn't sure why the word "script" erupted from his mouth. He had never written a script, or anything longer than a paragraph. But he knew that there was something that pushed the word from his being, which was encrypted with a code that he needed to decipher.

"Lacy, I will write a script," Troy repeated to whomever was listening. "I will write this script, and then sell it to Hollywood. The proceeds that we will earn can be used to purchase the Behicle. Hollywood is always looking for movie scripts! I read once that someone wrote a movie script, and sold it to Hollywood. That person never had to work again! Hollywood is eager for anything that they can shoot into a movie, so all we'll have to do is engineer a movie script that Hollywood will be able to turn into a movie! This is going to be the easiest money that we've ever had to work for," finished Troy enthusiastically.

Lacy's complexion began to glow. This new direction was exciting and fervent. She was gratified with Troy's discovery, pleased with the money-earning movie script, charmed that they may actually vacate Awful, Ohio, and even more pleased that everything that Troy had conjured within his mind was feasible. She was no longer living with someone who was on the edge of lunacy, but instead, co-piloting with a plucky lover who was guiding them towards the fringe of an ethereal revival. She began to envision seagulls flocking overhead, with white frosted waves breaking into a cooling mist, as the conceited moon would stare at its own reflection in the ocean, muscling out the sun from their existence. She imagined driving through the Grand Canyon, listening to the cutting Colorado River dissect the earth, as she would try to distinguish the lightning bugs from the glowing eyes that belonged to the nocturnal animals hunting for shrews. Lacy turned her head, realigning her vision back with Troy's. His eyes were firm and strong, determined and promising, grimacing back at the advertisement with his curdled grin of perseverant devotion. She felt comfort and security.

"Troy, let's go. Let's write that movie script, let's get the Behicle, let's pack up everything we need, and let's get the hell out of here." Lacy was passionate and monotone, lifting her torso, aligning her eyes with Troy's. Troy listened to her response with pleasure and satisfaction. He released the advertisement from his grip, and wrapped his arms back around Lacy in a warming hug that sheltered the both of them from their surroundings. Lacy burrowed her head back into Troy's chest, wafting in what she was hoping would be the last inhales of _Mad Ted's Uckin' Hot Auce_. They both closed their eyes, blocking out the surrounding world, falling asleep into the chair. For the first time in many years, they were excited for the sun to shine, to start the next day, so that they can make progress on their destiny, beginning their exodus.

## Chapter 7

" **I love you, Lacy." – Troy Slushy**

The discovery of the Behicle had enlightened the lives of the Slushy's, reinstalling hope, care, and passion, that purred throughout their engines into libidinous actions, caressing throughout the night, finally resting in the early morning. Troy was able to get a few hours of rest until he woke up, ready to start the script so that it would be finished all the sooner. He elevated from his bed and landed softly into the den, thinking that he possibly may be able to finish his Magnus Opus by dinner.

But the hours were passing by. Troy had found that he had been pacing more than writing. He sat down again to analyze his notes, to observe his progress, but only to discover a plethora of scribbles, manifesting into well drawn tornadoes prancing over his paper. He stared at the tornadoes, thinking of corralling one of those twisting hombres, slapping a saddle onto its vortex, and riding that tornado down to the bottom of the ocean where there would be no light, and his water-logged body could function as the home for some sweet crustacean family, serving a better purpose than it was currently serving in the hot sauce factory.

After four hours of sitting in his den, with little progress made towards the completion, it became clear to Troy that he had no idea how to construct a movie script.

"I must just be a blockhead if I can't even muster up a couple of characters dancing around some absurd plot," Troy concluded, after realizing "writer's block" would have been too kind of a diagnosis, considering he was clearly no writer. However, as Troy had learned yesterday, perseverance is much more eminent in accomplishing a goal than feasibility, which fueled his being into completing his objective.

"The determination is here," he determined, beating his chest. "All I need is someone else to help pump the fillings into the script." Troy was satisfied with these conclusions, and ready to take initiative, seeking the necessary individual. Perseverance took affirmative action, abruptly removing Troy from the den.

"Lacy!" hollered Troy, in a mad search for his love. Lacy wasn't the individual that Troy had in mind to complete the script. She was actually a liability. She had shown weakness yesterday by relapsing against Troy's morning proposal, accepting Awful, Ohio as their fate after she had agreed to Troy that they would not accept Awful, Ohio as their fate. Troy knew that his inability to complete the script would only fuel doubt back into Lacy, forcing her into a permanent relapse that would drag Troy back into the core of Awful, Ohio that would infinitely seal up with an unbreakable crust. The Behicle was a perfect answer to their earlier moments of doubt. But even with perfection, Troy knew that Lacy could still relapse. Troy walked into the bathroom, grabbing a washcloth, and soaking it in sweet smelling ether.

Lacy had been sifting through their belongings since she woke up that morning, preparing for their exodus with excitement, packing and planning as if she were about to embark on a wonderful vacation. Lacy Slushy had started separating everything into two piles throughout the house. But as she started to do more separating, she realized the unnecessary pile was accumulating faster than the necessary pile. In fact, she took notice that the unnecessary pile began to form into the shape of their house, mostly because it was their house. Lacy was now working in the hallway closet, searching for more necessities to add to the pile, as they started to become scarce.

"Lacy," Troy repeated, discovering her body jaunting in and out of the closet. He approached her purposely with the wet washcloth full of ether in his left hand. Lacy lifted her torso from the closet, pivoted on her heals to turn and face Troy, but before she could respond, Troy had aggressively wrapped his right arm around her, restraining her self-defending, flailing arms. He quickly elevated the rag-filled, left hand, and covered her mouth and nose. She attempted to break through the restraining grip, but the instance of panic caused her to breath in a heavy dose of ether that was saturating the cloth. It froze over her lungs, filtering down through her veins to every nerve ending that tickled her body. She quickly lost control, as her limbs went limp, numbed from the ether, and she passed out from the fumes. Troy relieved pressure from his grasp, now calmly holding Lacy like she was a charming lush seeking a place to rest.

He dragged her comatosed body back into the bedroom. Lacy's body was heavy, but he managed to spread her across the surface of the bed in a respectful position so she could maintain dignity when she woke up. Troy praised her with loving words, expressing his feelings and emotions, before being removed from the room by the perseverance.

"Lacy, by the time you wake up, everything will be exactly how we planned it. You won't have to wait around for this script to get completed. I want you to just sleep here, and enjoy the black surroundings that your closed eyes will reveal to you. I want to protect you from the life-revealing light that exposes the horror of day. By the time you wake up, everything will be ready for our westward exodus. I love you, Lacy."

Troy kissed Lacy on the forehead, grazing his hands through the strands of hair that fanned over the flannel pillow cases. He stepped from the bedroom, walking out of the home, into the hatchback, and expeditiously drove from his driveway to the home of the individual that was going to help him complete the script.

## Chapter 8

A Script Needs to be Authentic and Accurate with its Story,

Exposing the Plot and Characters Honestly.

The individual that was going to help Troy complete the script was Baltazar Garcia. Troy knew Baltazar Garcia through the hot sauce warehouse, as he had once worked for Mad Ted. Troy and Baltazar would walk past one another every morning and evening. However, they never exchanged in conversation because neither one of them had ever made eye contact, which allowed them to avoid acknowledgment. Neither one of them would ever know if the other one had ever made the effort.

Baltazar had always carried himself silently and softly through the hot sauce warehouse, strolling without landing any heavy footprints loud enough to imprint his existence into the memory of anyone that he had worked with.

It was Baltazar's duty to enter the changing chute, dressing him in the mandatory galoshes, jump suit, and snorkel. He was then ordered to tend a conveyor belt where he was to examine the firmness of all the bottles that the hot sauce was going to be dispensed into. If the bottle was too firm, Baltazar was to discard the bottle, permanently banishing it from ever holding a smidgen of _Mad Ted's Uckin Hot Auce_. Mad Ted's objective was to serve all of his hot sauce in easy to squeeze bottles, intentionally causing more hot sauce to eject from the bottle, causing the consumer to use more hot sauce, forcing the household hot sauce supply to quickly deteriorate, forcing the household to purchase more hot sauce to fulfill the household hot sauce demands.

The plan worked well for the purpose of profit, but after a few weeks of squeezing, Baltazar Garcia began to recede in mental stability. The repetition had attempted to solidify Baltazar's cognitive ability, permanently cementing it into an indestructible, concreted brain mass. But Baltazar was conscious of the staleness, as he jumped course, rebelling from the permanence of repetition with no fear. He abandoned his conveyor belt in search of one of the hot sauce kettles, and dove in head first with a ladle in hand each. Mad Ted watched from above, concealed in the eagle's nest as Baltazar was practicing his back-stroke, squirting the hot sauce from his mouth like a marbled fountainhead. Mad Ted unleashed a verbal assault to Baltazar Garcia that was heard throughout the entire warehouse.

"Baltazar Garcia," omnisciently spoke Mad Ted from the eagle's nest. "I have called you here to reveal to you the unsatisfactory work that you have been providing here to the warehouse. Countless times you have been discovered objectifying corporate hours towards solipstic gratification. You are required to surrender your life and time to the hot sauce for maximizing and elevating the prestige of this product. Your lack of productivity qualifies you as incompetent, and a valueless entity within the community of the warehouse. We do not tolerate moments of enjoyment, hedonism, and personal pleasure within this hot sauce facility. We, as a community, have gathered together without your input, and declared you as a valueless resource within our facility. As of this moment, we here in the hot sauce warehouse will expect you to remove your qualifications to another facility. We no longer wish for you to continue exhausting what it is that you do with your time within these walls. We do encourage you to engage in what it is that you wish to surrender your time to. But if you are unwilling to surrender your time to the benefits of the hot sauce community, then we will no longer provide to you the benefits and compensation of working within these walls of the hot sauce community! Remove yourself immediately!"

Baltazar did as told, dejected and humiliated, permanently leaving the hot sauce warehouse. He entered into the coniferous surroundings of Awful, Ohio, and built himself a home made from his surroundings.

This verbal lashing upon Baltazar Garcia was witnessed by everyone that was working in the hot sauce warehouse, leaving a permanent imprint of his existence in everyone's mind. No one knew Baltazar before the lashing because of his quiet nature, including Troy Slushy, regardless of walking past him twice a day. But after the lashing, he had become a hot sauce iconoclast because of the severity of the lashing.

Baltazar Garcia became a common name throughout the hot sauce warehouse, earning recognition from all of his coworkers. However, no one knew Baltazar Garcia personally or his reserved nature, so hot sauce folklore quickly developed, offering a variety of stories, depicting Baltazar as a variety of polar opposing characters. Some suggested that he was a martyr for the overworked, and that those working there should join together to form a union. Others suggested that he was nothing more than a looney, who found his way in a place that he never belonged. And the other working shifts who had never seen him had depicted him as nothing but a pagan idea that lived only in metaphors.

Regardless of varying personalities he was mentally developed as, one common feature that all the created folklore did regain was that Baltazar was an outspoken extrovert for the overworked. Troy conjured up his own story, detailing Baltazar Garcia as a gifted artist that was endowed with high levels of creation. This endowment, Troy thought, fueled Baltazar's rebellion, causing him to search for his own identity, releasing Baltazar into an existential world where his own virtues and values bled truth for anything and everything that surrounded him. This assumed declaration of Baltazar's search for independence resurrected Troy's soul that had been buried beneath the devotion of hot sauce, as it served as Troy's influence for wanting to break free from the constraints of his job.

"These are the actions of a man who can help me write this script," thought Troy, convinced that Baltazar's rebellion was a cause of deeply manifested emotions that were waiting to be released through creative expression.

***

Troy drove towards his destination into the bordering coniferous that circled Awful, Ohio, searching for the man that he sought to help him complete the script. But, before he could enter the coniferous, _Mad Ted's Uckin Hot Auce_ warehouse stood before him, with routine attempting to lure Troy and his blue hatchback back into the parking lot.

Troy had dismissed his hot sauce career that morning, which he had replaced with the ambition of the script. As Troy approached the warehouse, he could see the first shift flooding from the parking lot into the warehouse like an eager mob, fighting to be first for a changing chute that would prep them for a strong eight hour work period, exchanged for a requisite of monies for a fraction more of their lives.

The third shift swarmed from the exit doors, fresh from the changing chutes, like a wild herd with eager eyes exploding from their skulls, held back with optic-nerve restraints, yearning to pollinate Awful, Ohio with their newly earned monies. They all raced to their cars, ready to embrace their materialistic lives, surging from the parking lot like stampeding wildebeests. Troy rode his hatchback like an overseeing sheriff on horseback, cautiously approaching the entrance of the warehouse that the fleeing prodigals were exiting.

"Yah!" Troy said, as he pressed the gas pedal like a cracking spur tearing into the hide of a flesh-filled horse. Routine was a black hole that attempted to suck Troy and his life back into the parking lot of the hot sauce warehouse, returning him and Lacy to their desolate existence, as he drove down the road towards the entrance.

However, the hatchback, fueled with perseverance, had over powered the vacuum force of the entrance of the parking lot, quickly cruising past the entrance, and merging with the other vehicles that were released from the gates. He had broken free from the routine tracks that had been directing his every movement, dictating his life from marionette strings. Troy Slushy was released from the life enslaving reigns of his job by denying the eternal reoccurrence that had firmly structured his life for that past twenty one years. His rusty, blue hatchback sputtered away freely, never again having to be caged within the confining parking lot of the hot sauce warehouse.

He rode steadily with the other evanescent riders, embracing the traffic light that attempted to cease them from their destiny. They lined up like the start of a NASCAR race. The light was brimstone red, blazing with force and demands, strong enough to damn the onslaught of rampaging consumers, eager to exchange their recently received paychecks for materialistic property.

The left arm of Troy dangled from the idling hatchback window. The cool air of freedom felt good, gently combing a breeze through the hair breaking through the skin of his arm. His heavy head fell back, searching for the headrest, as it landed softly on its torn fabric, soaking in the peace while waiting for the traffic light's release. Troy's moment of relief cleared his mind from the hot sauce anxiety. The secession from routine was enlightening, expanding through the newly renovated, cognitive space, which Troy devoted to the progression of the movie script, thinking about how he was going to complete it. He analyzed the purpose of a movie, its societal impact, and psychological influence that it would tarp over the audience, pitting the critique of all viewers against the correctness of the movie in a cinematic combat, contending the prestige and realness of the movie against the pouty opinions of film aficionados. And with this, Troy Slushy was able to conclude: "A script needs to be authentic and accurate with its story, exposing the plot and characters honestly."

Troy Slushy was pleased with this diagnosis, raising his eyebrows in delight, revealing the whites of his teeth through a pure smile. And with this presumptively accurate hypothesis, the completion of the script earned a little more security, when Troy Slushy determined that the most effective way to construct an accurate, authentic and honest story would be to extract it from his authentic surroundings.

His plan was to have Baltazar Garcia recite lines from the script to anyone who was uninvolved with the script. The person that was uninvolved with the script would react naturally to Baltazar as he recited the scripted lines, and Troy could observe from a distance that natural reaction of the uninvolved person. They would do this until all of their recordings would construct the authentic script that Troy and Lacy Slushy needed.

"That is it!" Troy enthusiastically thought, as the rewards of exhuming his mind from the demands of Mad Ted were already paying off. His relief poured like a broken damn, swelling his mind into a saturated sponge of pleasure and accomplishment. For twenty one years, Troy Slushy had been a victim of the demands of _Mad Ted's Uckin Hot Auce_. And for the first time in twenty one years, Troy Slushy had been relieved of every anxiety that had birthed from the conveyor belt duty. He was charmed at the results of his first attempt to think beyond the best interest of Awful, Ohio, as he was immediately rewarded with the return of his life.

"Hey Troy, showing up a little late, aren't ya?" hollered Lou Stooles humorously, gloating from a brand new, mint-conditioned convertible, idling directly beside Troy and his blue hatchback. The sobering sound of Lou Stooles hog-tied Troy, returning him back to Awful, Ohio from his self rewarding accolades, as he lifted his head up from the headrest and looked out the passenger window to see Lou Stooles puffing on a cigarette with his miniature hands. His smile was twisting in pretension, with an ostentatious laugh exhausting in an ejaculating cackle that squirted inside of the blue hatchback that Troy was resting in.

Sickness had overcome Troy at the repulsive sight and sounds of Lou Stooles. He wanted to curl to the bottom of the hatchback floor, regressing into a prenatal entity, that was immune from the infections of Awful, Ohio. But Troy remembered Lacy, and her sleeping body, safely hiding from the light-exposed ghouls of day, relying on Troy to bring back an award-winning movie script, developed with Baltazar, for him and her to acquire the Behicle, so that they may reside in perpetual darkness, drifting in their newly discovered westward way. Troy knew that the longer it took for the script to be completed, to deliver them to their destination, then the sooner Lacy may wake up without having a script, redelivering her to a permanent relapse that she was vulnerable of having.

"I know what you're thinking," responded Lou, still smiling and cackling. "Leather interior, vinyl dashboard," Lou explained, assuming that Troy was anxiously interested in the new acquisition of his visually appealing, cherry red lipstick colored convertible, just like everyone else had in the warehouse. Lou Stoole's head was bobbing up and down like a buoy, with arrogant syllables continuously pouring from his mouth in the form of words. He spoke while his hand was caressing the car door like the hips of an adulterous lover. Troy fought off the infected, battling Lou Stooles and his redundant diatribes of vomit, preventing infection with images of Lacy repeating through his mind. But Lou kept talking, "powered windows, heated seats," elevating his materialistic possession of what was only uniquely folded metal into a higher echelon.

Troy was having a difficult time vaccinating off the utterances. Troy Slushy's insides were compressing, ready to purge, feeling the infected flowing into his car like seething lava, burning away his objective, with every advertised feature of the new car pretentiously being released from the twisting smile of Lou Stooles. Troy Slushy closed his eyes, ready to surrender, ready to accept everything, wrapping his arms around his cold, shivering body, mumbling, "forgive me, Lacy."

But the stop light must have been listening to all the features that Lou Stooles was reciting, as it transformed its authoritative hue of brimstone red, into envious green that released the cars from idleness. Troy slammed on the gas pedal, and the rusty, blue, petrified hatchback quickly fled from the other cars, towards the thickly forested coniferous that surrounded the outer banks of the outskirts of Awful, Ohio, where he hoped to find Baltazar Garcia. Lou Stooles took notice of the envious, green light, and remained idled in traffic, reciting more features of his new automobile to the light.

## Chapter 9

Your purpose in life is to discover the purpose of your self.

Troy fled with his hatchback into the rural, wooded area that surrounded the outskirts of Awful, Ohio. It was deep, full of fresh air, protecting him from the infected. The production vibrations of Awful, Ohio would stretch as far as possible from its pulsating core, attempting to spread the infection as far as it could reach. But the absorbent boscage that out skirted Awful, Ohio devoured all of the disease, permanently destroying it, keeping the out skirts immune and free.

The scenic route was refreshing, with crisply churned butter-leaves coating the limbs of the proud trees, illuminating under the rays of the melting sun, bleeding through the thick canopy that protected overhead. Troy continued his quest, still feeling the free breeze comb through the hair breaking through the skin of his arm. Troy drove for miles searching for Baltazar Garcia, finally turning off the baron road, and onto a secluded, private driveway.

Troy was far from the center of Awful, Ohio, away from the productive restraints and the victims being reduced to parts of a whole. The driveway was covered in gravel-stone that crunched under the rubber tires. The day was bright and warm, with a pleasant breeze laughing innocently, as Troy progressed over the crunchy road. Troy was embracing the surroundings of freedom, as he slowly continued down the alluring driveway, almost forgetting why it was that he sought Baltazar and needed to complete the script in the first place. The sunlight warmed his cheeks, with the giggling breeze airing out the stale, hatchback air, bleaching the cackle of Lou Stooles from his mind, inflating his lungs with bliss. He was comfortable and calm, pleased with the moment and the day, enjoying the peaceful sound of every stone crackling under the weight of the moving car. Life had become good.

But Troy remembered Lacy, and how she was at home, basking in the comfort of perpetual darkness, swinging majestically in the hammocks of her closed eyelids, floating in the poetic ether that sealed her from the exposed and the infected with its blanket of darkness. Troy slapped himself hard, with his stubble covered jowls swinging fluidly, refocusing his attention back onto the objective. "Thank you, Lacy," he praised. Troy rotated the visor in the hatchback, blocking out the light that was corrupting his mind.

"Stay focused, Troy," he mumbled to himself. Troy stopped the car to cease the alluring noise of the gravel. He removed himself from his parked hatchback, staring ahead towards his destination that resided on the stone driveway. It was an articulate structure; robust, hallow, eccentric, and acting as a housing unit. This is where Troy Slushy would find Baltazar Garcia.

The magnitude of the structure froze Troy, as he stood still, conceiving a plan of attack. The sun was convincingly comfortable and manipulative, keeping Troy from entering inside of the structure, massaging every square inch of his exposed epidermis, releasing his scurf into the wind. But Troy knew what his destiny was. He knew that this warm blaze was here to expose the noxious materials in Awful, Ohio, and attempt to mass produce them in exchange for government printed monies, at the expense of the lives of those who wanted nothing to do with the economy. This was nothing that he and Lacy desired, and he wasn't about to allow himself to become handicapped because of the sun's deception.

The tips of every nerve ending twitched simultaneously, as Troy quickly began sprinting, ducking and dodging, shaking and shifting, twisting his body into any necessary position to avoid the beaming rays of light, leaping through the shadows like an eluding frog on lily pads. He maneuvered closer to the housing unit, viewing the large timbers springing from the surface of the earth, functioning as support beams, while planks and boards linked these timber springs into a housing structure. It was one large, log cabin, obscurely built, with timber logs protruding from the structure in every direction like the backside of a hedgehog. Troy ran the distance, finally reaching the wrought, iron door that acted as the only entrance to the structure, and bulled right through it, chest first, almost bumping the door off its own hinges. Troy collapsed, kneeling over, resting his upper body on his knees, wheezing for air, as perseverance had just pushed him through the most physically demanding activity that Troy had done in over fifteen years.

A few months back, Troy and Lacy had embarked on an afternoon cruise through the coniferous outskirts. It was yearning and refreshing, releasing them from the staleness that had frozen them into their homes during the weekends. An arm dangled from each window of the hatchback, engulfing the free air that combed through the hair that probed through the skins of Troy and Lacy's body. The air wallowed through their pores, swelling into their souls, reforming them temporarily, with smiles accruing from their faces. They stared at each other momentarily with the glorious warmth of life surrounding their beings, connecting them with a gaze of love and appreciation as strong as a bridge. During their cruise through the coniferous, Troy Slushy had witnessed the log cabin, buried in the brush beyond the gravel road. The structure of the timber was luscious, with each tip of every log pointing like the needle of a compass, scattered in every direction.

_The log cabin had mystified both Troy and Lacy with the magnitude of its beauty, as it effortlessly blended its presence within the natural setting. And from the road, the innkeeper of the log cabin could be seen lurching around the brush outside of the log cabin, daunting galoshes, a jump suit, and a snorkel. The innkeeper was filling the cracks of the log cabin with fresh, brown material that swirled with flies, barricading the inside from the outside, creating an entirely new atmosphere. Troy recognized the innkeeper, having worked with him in the hot sauce warehouse, believing it to be Baltazar Garcia. The innkeeper and the log cabin appeared to blend well within the coniferous, as the brush appeared to grow thicker, blocking the view from Troy, Lacy, and the hatchback. Troy and Lacy kept maneuvering, hoping to view more of the structure. But the coniferous just wouldn't allow it, as the foliage continued to thicken every time Troy and Lacy changed their perspective. However, the hatchback didn't blend with the same luck as the log cabin, offending the surroundings with its smoldered blue coating that imposed its abrasive, visual tonality. Nature judged the hatchback by its cover as it was shunned by all life-bearing entities that resided in the forest. The brush spread like opening curtains, revealing a clear path that would easily guide the intruders out of the coniferous. Troy and Lacy Slushy continued their afternoon, weekend cruise, through the fresh-air filled coniferous until the revealed path would return them home to Awful, Ohio_.

The same judgments that had been imposed onto the hatchback that afternoon were being imposed onto Troy Slushy in the hallway after he had bold heartedly infringed into the log cabin. The door bounced into the wall with a rattling sound that echoed through every nerve ending in Troy's body, shivering through the walls of the hallway that embraced him. Troy stood up from his knelt position to observe the surroundings inside of the log cabin. He was surrounded by caliginous vapors that hydrated the wall coverings, with earthy odors seeping through the soil floor. The hallway was coated in publicly-uncirculated paintings that had never been witnessed by more than two eyes. They tattooed the walls and ceilings, and even scattered over the ground like floor mats.

Troy attempted to analyze their content, but the paintings' composition sustained their visual virginity by rotating in complete opposition of Troy's field of vision, denying the unnatural foreigner to view their bodies. He was being rejected by the natural surroundings of the log cabin. Troy Slushy was a little befuddled by what he was seeing; the backs of a thousand paintings that were unwilling to face him to share their beauty, but Troy didn't allow the confusion to prevent him from his destiny as he divagated further down the hall.

There were no doors or windows, just shunning artwork that covered up their outward appearance. The paintings' rejection was offensive, but Troy did not take it personally. Perseverance wasn't stagnant, as it pushed Troy further down the hallway, deeper into the warming depths of the log cabin. This is where Troy needed to be, because the person that he was looking for, to help him finish the script was encrypted within the boundaries of this structure.

The hallway continued until it ended. There was no light, and Troy bumped into a wall nose-first that had the appearance of a continuing hallway. He grabbed his nose, fearing that it may attempt to jump off his face for maltreatment. After convincing it to stay, he regained his composure, analyzing the wall with his hands, discovering what felt like a door knob. Naturally, he twisted it, unleashing some screeching harmonics from the rustic, rotating hinges. The closed door broke its seal, with its exposed outline flooding with thick light from the other side that pushed the door open. The light was too much for Troy's eyes to handle as he fell backwards, banging his head against the floor, drowning in the river of light that had discovered his fleeing body.

Through the thick light that drowned Troy's vision, the faint noise of a voice beaconed through the effulgent flood, embracing Troy with aiding concern.

"What? Who are you?" squealed a high-pitched, R-rolling voice that echoed through the hallways like a fleet of evacuating bats. The voice belonged to the innkeeper that Lacy and Troy had seen that weekend afternoon, a few months ago. The innkeeper didn't mind his manors, as he poured into the hallway behind the door, abrasively interrogating Troy, without offering a beverage.

Troy wanted to be excited to see who he believed to be Baltazar Garcia. But instead, he was too busy moaning in pain, grabbing his pulsating head that beat back after bouncing off the floor. Troy could sense the presence of the innkeeper's body hanging above him, expecting an immediate answer. But Troy was not prepared. It was a little unnerving to be approached by a voice of such pitch. But perseverance made Troy strong as he had figured that the voice belonged to the innkeeper that he was searching for, which momentarily eased his burden, discovering who he believed to be Baltazar. Of all the imagined meetings that Troy conjured up in his mind, he had never envisioned it to occur like it was occurring. It was sequenced in his mind more professionally, formally dressed with handshakes ready to adjourn. Troy didn't think that his chances were off to a good start, considering that he had already been considered an intruder. But he decidedly given up on that delusional fantasy, as he was willing to tolerate what he had to work with as he announced to the voice, "I am Troy Slushy." Troy whimpered blindly, trying to force his eyes open, through the flooding light. "I am here looking for Baltazar Garcia."

The voice took a moment to respond, reducing the pitch, thinking in rolling R's.

"What is it that you want with him?" reacted the qualm voice, fearful and concerned of the unnatural intruder that he had just discovered. The voice had regaled softly, regressing the high-pitched tension, indirectly causing it to smooth over with a creamy enunciation that emphasized the rolling R's with an alluring radiance.

"I have come seeking his assistance." Troy's eyes were marinated in salivating tears. His blurred vision was struggling to see the body that carried the captivating voice through the hyaline eyes. "I need to write an award-winning movie script, but I am incapable of doing it on my own. I have determination and perseverance, but I don't know how to envision characters wrapping around an interesting plot. I know exactly how to construct the authenticity for the script, but I need assistance for the creative details." It was a desperate plea, as Troy struggled to squeeze out a focused answer because of the demanding attention the bright lights were encroaching into his retinas.

The voice was patient with its response, until it spoke again like the sound of a harp being grazed by the tips of angel fingers.

"I am the one you seek. I am Baltazar Garcia."

The voice uttered with the grace of a savior, layering over the body of Troy Slushy like a calming balm, muzzling all the moans of agony, and coating his pain with an antidotal sense of accomplishment, discovering the solution to the problem of completing the script. Troy peeled off the layer of gelatin formulating over his eyes like the rind of an orange. His vision cleared after a few reincarnating winks, and Troy Slushy stared up from his fallen position towards the entity that stood before him, engulfing everything that was Baltazar Garcia, imposing him into the realm of immortality.

"It is you," mumbled Troy, staring at Baltazar Garcia like a demi-god.

Baltazar Garcia stood before Troy Slushy, still dressed in the jump suit, galoshes, and snorkel that were mandatory at the warehouse of _Mad Ted's Uckin Hot Auce_. The jump suit was discolored in arranging shades, displaying a color spectrum that originated from the colors he used to create the artwork that shunned Troy. His body was short and robust like a stout rib-eye steak, draped with long shiny hair that laid heavily down his shoulders, dripping in grease. His face was tan, with a twisting mustache growing underneath his nose, attempting to circle around his mouth.

Baltazar Garcia's lack of human intervention prevented him from folding his lips into the shape of smile. However, he was aware of the gesture and recognized its societal importance, and wanted to offer one to Troy. So Baltazar executed an honest attempt, but all he could do was separate his lips, shaping them like a lemon, exposing all of his teeth that shimmered like washed porcelain. His face was tightly wrapped with thick shaded goggles, with the snorkel attached, ceasing circulation, coloring his scalp into a deep purple tone, gagging for oxygen, gently tapping against his cheek. Baltazar Garcia removed the goggles from his head, gliding the rubber straps through his hair, wringing out the excess grease that dripped into a puddle. Baltazar stared directly into Troy's eyes, attempting to inject intimidation, still a little irritated at the intruder. But all Troy could do was study Baltazar's prosopography, as the skin underneath the goggles of Baltazar Garcia was pale and pasty, opposing the tan skin that wasn't covered by the straps of the goggles.

"Troy Slushy?" recited Baltazar. Baltazar Garcia had recognized the face of Troy Slushy, as his stubbled jowls drooped fluidly from beneath his eyes like wet spaghetti, covering the miniature chin that squeamishly poked through the excessive amount of skin. Baltazar began to remember him from the hot sauce warehouse, and how they had walked past one another twice a day. Baltazar had always looked up to Troy as he passed to say hello, but Troy had never returned a glare.

"Yes, Baltazar, it is me." Troy was still sitting on the floor, looking up at Baltazar. He was soaking in the visual identity of Baltazar as if it was the first time he had ever been able to study his face.

Troy Slushy elevated his body from the floor of the log cabin. He was fevered with excitement, intensely blushing, and eager to embrace the being that he had cast as his savior. Troy continued standing, expecting to be standing in front of a man built powerfully enough to fulfill his exasperations. But as Troy kept standing, he noticed that his body continued to elevate above the miniature body that was Baltazar Garcia's. Baltazar stood noticeably shorter than Troy. Troy was surprised by the discovery of Baltazar's height, as he had envisioned him and his rebellious behavior to offer a more omnipresent build. The only physically powerful attribute that was decorated on Baltazar was a beef filled chest as strong as gun powder. It was evident that Baltazar Garcia was a pushup enthusiast.

"Baltazar, I thought you would have been taller?" Troy Slushy looked over the build that structured Baltazar Garcia. It was hunchbacked, with rickety knees that bent outwards, causing the bottom of his legs to connect at the feet, pointing inwards like an arrow.

"Well, I was at one point taller," Baltazar whimpered defensively, still rolling his R's, unaware of the expectations that Troy had. "But ever since Mad Ted released me from the warehouse, I haven't stood the same. His verbal suggestions were too much for me to listen to. There wasn't anything that I could do to prevent myself from lunging into those hot sauce kettles, the sweet smell enraptured every nerve ending in my nasal cavity; it's in my nature! So Mad Ted had to transfer me out of the hot sauce warehouse. He permanently changed my figure to prevent me from harming the company, see," and Baltazar put on a display, walking from one point to another, almost slipping in the puddle of grease, to show Troy Slushy how his bipedal nature had been changed into an imbalanced waddle, incapable of swimming.

"Mad Ted improved my figure so that if I were to ever enter into one of the hot sauce kettles, then I would be unable to swim, and become completely submerged into the hot sauce. I would drown."

The verbal lashing that Mad Ted unleashed onto Baltazar Garcia had reduced his height by four inches. With every insult and slander, Baltazar shrunk closer and closer to the ground, trying to flee from Mad Ted's punishing diatribe. Baltazar attempted to condense his head into his torso and reject his legs into his lower abdomen. But he was not a turtle, which caused his back to hunch and his legs to ricket. It was a permanent distortion to Baltazar's figure, all at the expense of his biological disposition that impulsively caused him to deploy his being into anything that contained spice.

"What no one in that warehouse had known," continued Baltazar, "was that I was born to a mother with a rare condition that caused her internal temperature to be higher than that of a normal human being. This elevated temperature caused spicy milk to lactate from her peppered breasts. I was nurtured off of this hot milk during my developmental years which developed into an involuntary consumption reaction to anything spicy or hot. I had entered work every day, fighting my DNA, condescending what it was that I was destined to be. But I simply wasn't strong enough to fight forever, as I broke my commitment to Mad Ted and his hot sauce intentions, and allowed my genetic intoxication to overcome my sensibility, casting me into the kettle of hot sauce. I didn't mean to harm Mad Ted and his intentions."

Baltazar finished showing off his fresh mobility to Troy Slushy, as he looked back to Troy and continued, "But you see Troy, the verbal suggestions of Mad Ted has continuously been replaying throughout my memory. I am now equipped to provide my services for him here in this log cabin that I have meticulously constructed. Please follow me."

Baltazar Garcia scurried his body towards the door that he had emerged from. Troy was hesitant in following, as he was busy trying to understand Baltazar. Baltazar didn't exactly sound as the person that Troy's assumptions developed him to be; an economic renegade fighting the persecution of the hegemonic structure. Troy's confusion only grew with the confusion that he developed from the conceited art that shunned him earlier, as he thought that Baltazar possibly did not leave the conveyor belt for rebellious purposes, contradicting the rumors created by everyone in the hot sauce warehouse. But instead, he left because of his obedience to his biological demands. But regardless of this contradiction, Troy did as requested and followed Baltazar's lead.

"This is my shadow extermination room," remarked Baltazar, closing the heavy door behind Troy. The door was large enough to enclose a vault. There was a modest amount of light in the room, bright enough for Troy to see the pair of goggles that Baltazar was handing to him. Troy strapped the goggles over his eyes, and Baltazar did the same, slipping the goggles through the lubricated hair. The goggles were shaded, which Troy didn't understand why until Baltazar continued. "This is the room that I use my time to complete the projects that Mad Ted has directed me to accomplish." Baltazar then clapped his hands. An abundance of light began to seep into the room like a fetid gas, starting from the floor and stopping at the ceiling. Troy's eyes were squeamish at first, but quickly adjusted to the sour light. The room was bright, illuminating with enough power to generate multiple stars, swelling with warmth and easing with comfort. Troy rotated his body through the gaseous light, to observe all of his blinding surroundings. "The shadow extermination room is where I create my artwork. As you can see, there are no shadows to obstruct my vision," Baltazar said to Troy.

Troy was looking around, unable to see any shadows, beginning to bloat with panicky emotions, fearing that there were no shadows to conceal him from the light. Troy looked under his arms, behind his back, and under his feet, but no matter where he looked, there were no shadows of his being anywhere in the room, leaving Troy entirely exposed without any shadows to hide in. Bubbles floated out of Baltazar's mouth, as he belched a gurgling chuckle while watching Troy aimlessly and hysterically search for a shadow.

"Troy, there are powerful lights set up in every corner and crevice of the room. There is nowhere for the shadows to hide. I have destroyed them all." Baltazar grinned amusingly, calmly reciting his accomplishment like a meditated killer, splitting his lips into the shape of a lemon, recycling the memory of his accomplishment for instant gratification.

Troy didn't understand. He wasn't sure why Baltazar needed to exterminate shadows. Troy believed it to be universal knowledge that shadows were the only defenders that life had left. The shadows were the only things powerful enough to outcast the lighted world, keeping pure the minds that burrowed within the bodies from the manipulation of the exposed. Baltazar's submissive behavior for Mad Ted was not correlating with whom Troy had believed Baltazar to be. Troy Slushy stared at Baltazar Garcia, still glowing with accomplishment brighter than the room.

"Baltazar, I don't understand," questioned Troy. Baltazar ceased glowing. "I don't understand why it is that you need to exterminate shadows." Troy wanted to give Baltazar the benefit of the doubt, that he was the human that he had envisioned him to be, the renegade that was looking to end the reign of life, by breaking through the boarders of Mad Ted's hot sauce concentration camp and the monotonous daily trends that Mad Ted had enslaved onto every being with a soul that crusaded above the crust of the planet.

Baltazar rebutted to Troy's confusion. "The shadows block what I am able to see. The shadows censor the canvas that Mad Ted has ordered me to submit my time to. The shadows can come from anywhere. Under my body, underneath my shoulder, and underneath my wrist. They swarm across the canvas attempting to cease and hinder what it is that I am destined to accomplish. All of these shadows block out the light, disabling my vision, forcing me to work out of luck. These shadows forced me to work out of guesswork, which forced my creations to be a cause of chance rather than purpose. So, I built this shadow extermination room, which has been able to destroy all shadows that attempt to sabotage my creations. All of my purpose has been concealed within this room, where I release it from my soul and onto the canvas. The light eats up the shadows that attempt to confuse and discourage my purpose, allowing me to be in complete control of the work that I create."

Baltazar clapped his hands again. The light dimmed back into modesty, and Baltazar removed his goggles that scraped the grease from his hair. Troy removed his goggles as well, seeking resolution for his confusion. Baltazar opened the door to the shadow extermination room, waddling back into the hallway with his hunched back, almost slipping his rickety knees in the puddle of grease, with Troy imprudently following.

"And because," continued Baltazar, "I didn't have the shadows attempting to block my vision from my mind from physically exhausting my purpose onto the canvas, I was able to control and manipulate what images entered onto the canvas, according to my being. These creations are my purpose, as dictated by Mad Ted, and without the shadow extermination room, I would not have been able to purge the canvases into what I have created them to be."

And with that final statement, Baltazar turned away from Troy Slushy to embrace the paintings that would not reveal their beauty. Baltazar spread his arms like the departure of a liberated Phoenix, flaunting his opulent existence, displaying his magnificence, and showcasing everything that he had discovered his soul to be. Baltazar released a banzai call from the catacombs of his abdomen that summoned for the results of his purpose, as the paintings rotated simultaneously, presenting their aesthetic endowment, turning to face Baltazar Garcia, praising their creator.

All of the paintings were of Mad Ted and his hot sauce warehouse. The damp hallway illuminated, with every painting feeding the open space with light, reflecting the purpose of Baltazar Garcia. Baltazar embraced all of his work like a mirrored image, with his dirty face igniting in a cleansing glow. It was marvelous and beautiful.

Troy stood behind Baltazar Garcia, glaring at the paintings of Mad Ted and the hot sauce warehouse. They were hypnotic and enticing, alluring and attractive. Troy Slushy stared at all of the paintings with thirsty lust, as he drew himself past Baltazar, seductively approaching the visual beauties. He loved what he saw, and wanted it. He wanted to be engulfed in the visuals of Mad Ted and his warehouse, and he wanted to be engulfed in the ethereal substance that they were created from, the most primitive substance that served as the eternal core that connected everything that was found guilty of being alive. It was warming and revealing, the enshrinement of Mad Ted and his hot sauce production.

But then Troy remembered Lacy, and how she had stared at him passionately while cruising through the coniferous on that weekend afternoon. "Troy, stay focused." Love for Lacy had reinvigorated Troy's objective, as he battled the illuminated, light-filled paintings from corrupting his mind. Troy slapped himself hard, to forget about Baltazar's deceived purpose, and to remember his own purpose again; the purpose that was directed by his perseverance, all for the sake of him and Lacy. He remembered the Behicle that he and Lacy were attempting to acquire, so that they could embark on their westward journey, rotating with the darkness of night. He remembered the script that needed to be award-winning and fruitful, bearing mental stimulation for all the respectable minds that dared to watch and offer positive critiques, and he remembered why he was there, in that log cabin, searching for Baltazar Garcia in the first place.

Troy had turned from the paintings that falsely glorified the existence of Mad Ted that had attempted to seduce him, as he stared at Baltazar Garcia. Clarity was overcoming the light and everything that it exposed that was attempting to block Troy's sensibility. He observed Baltazar, focusing on the galoshes, jump suit, and snorkel that he had retained. Baltazar was an emotionally charged artist, who took great pride in his work, but he was not the fighting renegade that Troy had imagined him to be.

Troy continued observing, focusing on Baltazar's new bodily structure, and how it was handicapped. He remembered the wording from the termination monologue that was delivered upon Baltazar, and determined that Baltazar had been misinterpreting the message. Troy had finally taken the time to get to know Baltazar Garcia, and had finally received viable evidence of who this man was, and why he had parted from the warehouse that was perched in Awful, Ohio and into the coniferous. Baltazar believed that he was still working for Mad Ted, still wearing the uniform, and still following orders. Baltazar believed that Mad Ted ordered him to the coniferous, to create the shadow extermination room, to expel his inner desires onto these canvases. And Baltazar believed that Mad Ted was worthy of praise.

Troy Slushy now looked over the crippled posture of Baltazar, seeing through his dirty outer layer that hadn't been washed since he had banished himself into the coniferous. Troy realized that his fabricated biography of Baltazar's rebellion and defiance contained no merit. But Troy did not curse being misled. Troy acknowledged his own purpose, the creation of the script, the acquisition of the Behicle, and then forever bounding westward with Lacy, into the infinite pitch of darkness. Troy Slushy looked at Baltazar Garcia, no longer envisioning him as an iconoclast radical, searching to destroy the confinement of barter and trade, but instead of a helpless individual that was still waiting to discover his own purpose. Troy would remove Mad Ted's purpose from Baltazar's mind, and replace it with his own. Troy's hubris elevated, concluding his martyrdom, sacrificing his time and energy for the sake of others. Troy Slushy looked at Baltazar Garcia, and redefined his fabricated biography into a man searching for a savior.

"Baltazar, these paintings are not your purpose, "said Troy Slushy. Baltazar lowered his arms. His meaning in life had regaled into a pool of skepticism, filling his lungs with doubt that suffocated his confidence. "These paintings are just something that you've been misled to do in your spare time. You do not work for Mad Ted. You did not come out here because Mad Ted ordered you to. You came out here because you were the one that brought yourself out here. You received a termination monologue from Mad Ted, meaning that you are no longer obligated to serve in the interest of Mad Ted. You have been serving in the interest of Baltazar Garcia."

Troy Slushy had both hands resting on Baltazar's shoulders. Troy had been looking down to Baltazar, staring directly into his eyes, drilling the message to the deepest chasm of Baltazar's brain, where it would plant itself, growing roots, and bloom throughout Baltazar's entire cognition.

Troy continued, "Mad Ted has made you handicapped! This physique is no advancement. You're moving slower than a dog with no legs!" Troy's eyes fired from his skull like hot cannon balls, blasting the message further into the chasm.

Baltazar was apprehensive towards the news. He pulled out from under Troy's grip, backing away, staring at Troy through the same filters that had typecast Troy as an unwelcome intruder.

"Troy, that isn't true," denied Baltazar. "Mad Ted is a great man. He ordered me here because of my purpose. And everything here is my purpose. I am in this log cabin providing a purposeful responsibility for Mad Ted. Mad Ted is my leader, and this work is for him and his cause." Baltazar gestured towards all of the paintings that were listening to the conversation. He gestured to the ceilings and the floors and the walls of the log cabin, granting them as work intended by Mad Ted. But Baltazar Garcia's body began to fill with erratic ticks that convulsed faster with every second of time that passed by, allowing Troy's information to embed further into the chasm, stretching roots throughout his brain.

"All of these paintings are designed to benefit the hot sauce warehouse and Mad Ted. You are wrong, Troy." Baltazar trembled the words from his mouth, ticking harder with raging pulses of skepticism. It was not an easy idea for Baltazar to comprehend, living in the life of lies that he had engaged himself in. He looked down towards his pigeon toed feet, wishing that they would point strait.

"Baltazar," Troy said again, moving closer to Baltazar, again grabbing his shoulders, "I am a messenger. Mad Ted has sent you away from the factory so that you will no longer waste his time. You are not receiving any compensation for this work. Your purpose in life is not to volunteer for the benefit of Mad Ted. Your purpose in life is to discover the purpose of your self." Troy Slushy stared deeply into Baltazar's eyes. The new information had embedded into the chasm in Baltazar's brain. The roots began to grow, spreading through the neurons of his mind, rearranging his thoughts and posting new purposes for his existence. Baltazar's eyes watered, trickling liquid of misery, discovering that everything that he had extracted from deep inside of his body was completed in vain.

Troy Slushy reacted to the new emotional discourse that Baltazar was subjected to, watching every tear stained with Mad Ted, evacuate from the inferno in Baltazar's mind. Troy continued, "I am a messenger, traveling here to deliver you a new purpose." Troy took immediate advantage of Baltazar's blank slated mind. "You will be able to continue your involvement with your creative endeavors, creating characters, twisting in plot and dialogue. Clearly you are a gifted creator, and one that should be utilized by allowing you to display your purpose to the public. Your purpose should not be confined in the walls of this log cabin that you believe Mad Ted wanted you to build! You are held prisoner here, Baltazar, and if you don't attempt to salvage the life that you have been misled to live, then it will become your tomb."

Baltazar continued listening with his ears and eyes, as the adrenaline began to be released from his pituitary gland, strengthening his body with this new purpose being programmed into his mind.

"And not only will you be able to continue your creative endeavors," continued Troy Slushy, still holding Baltazar caringly by the shoulders, "your creative work won't be completed in vain. Your creative work can be displayed to the public. Your purpose no longer has to be kept a secret, hiding within this confining log cabin. You deserve better than what you believed Mad Ted was providing to you, Baltazar. Clearly, you are loaded with talent, which needs to be shared. I am searching for someone who can help me create an award-winning script. A script that is so bloated with exceptional brilliance that Hollywood execs will want to purchase it, and make it into a big-screened movie. Baltazar, I have come here to recruit your talents for this special project."

Troy Slushy continued looking down at Baltazar. His words were powerful and caring, splitting through Baltazar's flesh, and nestling directly into his soul. Warming sensations heated the glazed layer of humidity over Baltazar's body. Baltazar's lips began to stretch across his face, sustaining a horizontal line. Comfort and solace had deployed from the warm humidity stimulating his body. The injected words generated new emotions, flushing through his pours, passing through his flesh, and onto the surface of his skin. Baltazar had become overwhelmed with the new emotion, as it pushed its way to the surface of his body, causing him to tremble. Baltazar Garcia had never experienced happiness before, which exhausted from his body through his lips that curled each end into a flaunting, coruscating smile.

The smile bloomed from the inner core of Baltazar's body, bursting through the cognitive restraints, releasing him from his self-induced obligation to Mad Ted. Baltazar stepped back, removing Troy's gripping hands from his shoulders, looking down at the jump suit and galoshes that covered his body, as the snorkel annoyingly tapped against his cheek. Memories of working in the hot sauce factory swirled through his mind, placing him back into the monotony of the conveyor belt, dunking freely into the drums of hot sauce, until finally being crippled by the damning words of Mad Ted. This memory pumped adrenaline through Baltazar's body, surging through his arms, all the way to every bending knuckle that firmly clasped each breast of the jump suit. Baltazar grunted with primal furry, as the twitching muscles in his beef filled chest ripped the jump suit from his body into two pieces. Baltazar stood before Troy Slushy in his free, naked flesh.

The toxic constraints of Mad Ted were permanently removed from Baltazar's body with the destruction of the jump suit, as the rickets in his knees straightened out, and the hunch in his back aligned proportionately with his corrected knees. Baltazar stripped the snorkel from his head, ringing out globs of grease from his hair, and plucked the galoshes off of his feet. He looked at Troy, liberated and enlightened, naked and free, reciting in rolling R's with a large grin, "so what kind of script do you have in mind?"

## Chapter 10

The Merger

Center city of Awful, Ohio anchored a majority of Awful's corporate production. There were hospitals, law firms, and financial brokers, employing a portion of the Awful, Ohio population. They were all dressed in suites, propping white collars and ties, holding cups of coffee, while keeping a close eye on the Awful, Ohio Stock Exchange. Traffic was always thunderous, with cars packing together through the streets, and working people packing onto the sidewalks. Center city of Awful, Ohio was also the location of the local newspaper, the _Awful Gazette_ , which employed Wilsie McHickoryboob.

Wilsie McHickoryboob briskly walked through the center city streets of Awful, Ohio. It was a chaotic mess with foot traffic littering the sidewalks, bouncing from building to building, avoiding the persuasive trashcan owners trying to sell their merchandise, and the soaring vehicles clogging the roads. But Wilsie transposed through the chaos, ignoring her surroundings, and persevering past the trashcan owners. She was desperately attempting to stir up her thoughts, trying to figure out the changes that Mad Ted was going to induce onto Awful, Ohio.

The meeting in the hot sauce warehouse that she had managed to overhear the other morning was the first time she had heard Mad Ted speak in correlation to his empire. It was an awakening moment for Wilsie, as she earned actual facts from Mad Ted. It was great for her credibility as an investigative journalist, but it positioned her in unfamiliar territory, as she wasn't sure how to deduce conclusions from facts. The boundless conclusions that she had deduced in her previous publications were all built off of assumptions. This worked out well for her career and popularity, but it indirectly handicapped her journalism skills. Wilsie wanted these newly discovered facts to lead to accurate conclusions. She wanted to forecast the changes that Mad Ted intended on forecasting onto Awful, Ohio through his hot sauce empire.

Wilsie wanted to be the first to inform the public, and she wanted to be the one that received the accolades for the information. Her feet pounded the pavement of the sidewalk as she walked, hoping to intimidate her brain into giving her what she wanted. But it wasn't working. Wilsie was growing agitated. She was unable to conclude a rational story from the facts that she had gathered, as her journalistic instincts had removed all intentions of delivering facts to Awful, Ohio.

Her hair remained parted in the center of her head, where the strands were tightly tucked behind her mackerel ears, enclosed into a smooth pony tail, stubbornly refusing to sway with the motion of her movements. It was determined to give nothing until a story had been breached. Her head slumped forward, parallel with the concrete sidewalk, staring at the ground to avoid the visual distractions of center city of Awful, Ohio from impeding her thoughts. Wilsie's eyes skipped over the vast visuals of footwear that protected the feet of the fast-paced pedestrians that were weaving around her. Wilsie remained focused on her facts from Mad Ted, not catching a hold of any specific shoe, as she was intent on finding out what Mad Ted was going to do.

The day was warm, heating up the concrete surroundings like an oven, warming her meat, enriching her hair and skin. The warmth was soothing and seductive, imposing unlikely solutions into her mind, causing fictional conclusions of Mad Ted's intentions. She had believed that Mad Ted was from a distant land, studying under the guidance of foreign disciples, teaching unorthodox business ethics from endowed knowledge that allowed him to acquire the success and authority that he had acquired. She brewed up another hypothesis, suggesting that he had traveled through the jungles of Guatemala, discovering a fountain of youth, which he had bathed in, allowing him to live longer, to absorb more information because of the excessive amount of time he was endowed with to study and practice business. Or, she imagined, him traveling on camel-back, through India and Asia, summiting the Himalayan Mountains, reaching the zenith, where he was confronted by Belgian monks, revealing meditative practices that would yield eternal bliss.

But these were only theories. Wilsie knew that these theories, of Mad Ted being a foreigner with greater knowledge, had no logical ties with anything that she had witnessed in the warehouse, and worst, she knew that these theories would not allow her to deduce the changes that Mad Ted was going to impose onto Awful, Ohio. Mad Ted was too cryptic with his thoughts and intentions, making it impossible to study the progress of his hot sauce dynasty. The only time his ideas were revealed was through the production of success, rather than the production of words, which is what Wilsie needed to write about. Mad Ted would never hold press conferences, nor stage interviews with the media. The only information that Wilsie was able to get a hold of was either from the members working inside of the hot sauce warehouse, or from the times that she was able to sneak into the hot sauce warehouse.

Wilsie McHickoryboob did not have enough facts to produce the story that she wished to produce. Agitation festered inside of her core, reacting violently with her joints and limbs, causing them to extend and retract quickly like the first steps of freshly birthed moose. She walked faster, stronger, and more prominently, powering through the pedestrians littering the sidewalks, still facing the concrete sidewalk, denying a pendulant sway from her disciplined pony tail. She walked this way for blocks, becoming more frustrated with her situation, having spent years concluding Mad Ted's history, sharing his story and knowledge with everyone else in Awful, Ohio, only to make no progress in exposing who Mad Ted was, and what his intentions were. Wilsie McHickoryboob was succumbing to abdication on the factual story of Mad Ted.

She continued her march, ready to give up on the story, surrendering her fruitless efforts. It had become time to discard the dream of Mad Ted, to forget about the facts that she acquired and pretended to know, and to discover a new journey that would excel her career. She released herself from the persecution of Mad Ted's existence, drifting off into unknown directions, eager to discover whatever story would reveal itself. Wilsie, still facing the sidewalk, charged into a vacant stretch of concrete, leading away from the mass of pedestrians. She wanted her mind to free range through open territory, travel through untouched areas, so that she could discover something that had not been discovered before.

There were no more shoes for her eyes to skip over in the vacant stretch of concrete. It was secluded and open. A foudroyant moment attacked, as she suddenly heard distressed sounds from an isolated alleyway. It immediately earned Wilsie's attention, as she was ready to dump Mad Ted and his resistant ways for anything, and pursue other options. She listened to the distressed sounds that were expressed in a yelping noise, ready to pursue and discover the story that wouldn't withhold information, potentially bearing a dynamic story that would be endowed with the bravado to belong on the front page of the _Awful Gazette_.

"That sounds like my new lead!" Wilsie thought, excitedly, thinking that it was going to be everything that Mad Ted wasn't. She directed herself towards the yelping noise, with high hopes of a political scandal, drug trafficking, or police corruption, replacing her failed ambitions of discovering and exposing the being that was Mad Ted.

Wilsie McHickoryboob crept closer to the yelp. She was deep in the alleyway with no witnesses in sight. Her nerves warned hysterically, telling her that the further she would go down the alleyway, the more likely it was that she would be seen from whomever was involved with the action. But it was too late. She had continued creeping until she saw someone that was either releasing or instigating the yelping. Her eyes attempted to focus on the yelper, but instead, a burlap bag was forced over her head, collecting her large, mackerel ears. Her pony tail wrestled back and forth, trying to remove the burlap bag, and her ears wiggled recklessly, trying to tear the coarse fabric. But the opening of the bag constricted around her neck, sealing her head inside. Strong limbs of another body restrained her flailing arms, as the power of a blockading hand strapped over her mouth, muffling her screams for assistance. She was lifted from the ground, and carried off to someplace that she wasn't able to see, evading her sense of direction. She was sedated from panic, removed from consciousness, and buried into the granulated world of trickling darkness.

The attractive yelp was emitted from the lungs of Doink McTriggers. Sammy Ammo, Chuck Splatter, and Doink McTriggers had left the contemplation rink in Sammy Ammo's shack, in search of Wilsie McHickoryboob. They devised a plan to restrain her, which they would then conduct an interrogation with hopes of extracting the information that they needed; the details of Mad Ted's vicissitude. They had discovered her charging through center city of Awful, Ohio, without a twitch of movement from her pony tail, as she faced the concrete sidewalk, ignoring all of the activity that was going on around her. They deduced her destination, as they stowed away in the back of an alleyway that was secluded from other people. They had expected Wilsie to charge in the vicinity of the alleyway, and unbeknownst to Wilsie, Doink McTriggers was to simulate the yelp of an infant in distress, attracting the attention of Wilsie, who would be lured towards the noise. It was then their plan to subdue Wilsie, and then bring her through the doors of the abandoned building that was in the alleyway, where they were then going to conduct their interrogation.

Wilsie McHickoryboob was now fixated to a wooden chair that was resting inside of a dark chamber. The thick air stuck to the exposed skin of her arms. There was only one ceiling fixture, dripping with light, emitted from a bulb shaped like an egg. The ceiling fixture was handing light down to Wilsie McHickoryboob's drowning body like a life-raft, which her conscience grabbed a hold of, opening her eyes. She looked around, only to see braided threads woven together to formulate the burlap bag still covering her head, still tied tightly around her throat, restraining any gasp for help. She tried raising one of her arms to remove the burlap, but only to find them tied to the armrests of the chair with nylon rope. She began chafing wildly, hoping to break free from the bondage, even at the cost of a few ounces of her own meat. But the nylon rope became stained in crimson red, cutting her flesh, as the bondage proved to be stronger than Wilsie.

The course fabric of the burlap abrasively rubbed against her face. It was irritating, chafing her cheeks and temple, collapsing all over her skin like a deflating parachute. Wilsie tried to breathe heavily, but every attempt to expand her windpipe was denied by the constriction. Her pony tail began to twitch back and forth like a rattlesnake, attempting to break free from the bounding burlap bag. But without the aid of her mobile limbs that were locked to the legs and armrests of the chair, her pony tail was unable to remove the burlap sack that concealed her vision. She was contained inside of the burlap bag, with all of her limbs immobilized.

Wilsie's concerns for a hot lead on a fresh story quickly evicted from her body. The dreams of success from her next discovery of a great story as an investigative journalist were quickly replaced with concerns of her own safety. She had no idea where she was, no idea who had brought her there, and unaware of the intentions of the people who had restrained her. Wilsie began violently coughing, as her lungs attempted to break free from her chest in search for oxygen. She imagined the organs leaping from her mouth, splattering onto the hard wood floor, with the insides splashing a perfect outline, as they would struggle to crawl across the floor boards for their oxygen salvation. It was their escape plan to abandon ship, and Wilsie hoped they would get what they were searching for.

Wilsie was no longer concerned with her journalist career. Her mackerel sized ears flopped to the bottom of the bag that was tied around her head, and her pony tail released its tension, dangling evanescently, caressing her back to try and restore comfort. Wilsie McHickoryboob had relieved herself of her career anxieties, no longer concerned about getting the hot scoop on Mad Ted, or the next scoop of a different story. She sat in the disorientated, cold room, where the only thing that she could do was wait. Her wrist clicked back and forth like a clock, counting the seconds, rubbing her hand against the surface of the armrest. It was smooth like melting ice cream, dripping in supple affection that was beaten repeatedly with leather straps soaked in Vaseline, tenderizing its density. Wilsie kept rubbing the smooth surface, enticed and sedated, inebriated from the affection, as it withdrew her from time and her failed ambitions.

She was separated from her current disposition, injected into desperate moments of comfort with the sensation of the grinding burlap transposing into pleasure. "This is good, " she stuttered to herself, rubbing her cheek against the fabric. She began to shake her head, rotating the mound methodically against the burlap fabric. Wilsie began to moan in pleasure, masochistically grinding her cheeks and chin until they blushed like a terra-cotta brick. "I was not meant to write stories for a newspaper," she prophesized. "My purpose is to remain in this situation. This is my purpose, and this is what I live for."

Wilsie McHickoryboob forced the diatribe from her mouth, attempting to convince herself of the idea that it was her destiny to become bounded inside of an abandoned warehouse, making it easier to accept the current disposition. This was her new home, and her newly discovered purpose in life, to eagerly accept the burlap nimbus swallowing her head that she was now a part of.

Sammy Ammo, Chuck Splatter, and Doink McTriggers all stared silently from the shadows of the room. The room was installed inside the boiler room of a building that was temporarily vacant. It was going to serve as an interrogation location for the three men, but they were unable to advance with the interrogation due to Wilsie's diatribe. It was an odd sight, watching Wilsie's rotating head, panting in ecstasy, mumbling requisites of sadistic acceptance. Sammy noticed the nylon ropes soaked in the blood from her torn flesh, and dictated Doink McTriggers to release the burlap, then return to the shadows.

Wilsie continued her diatribes, postulating the doctrines of her disposition. She was ready to submit herself, but before she could fully commit, the burlap bag was then removed from her head like a revelation. She quickly removed all doctrines that justified her situation from her memory, unaware that she was being watched. Wilsie's ears perked up like submerged buoys, and her pony tail wagged feverishly. She attempted to observe her surroundings, but the light was thick and blinding, forcing Wilsie to squint. From her blurry vision, she could make out a figure walking away from her confined body, holding the burlap bag in its hand, disappearing into the darkness that was surrounding her. She winced at the light, rejoicing eternally for the freedom, staring at the visual of the figure that must have been an angel, freeing her from imprisonment.

Wilsie McHickoryboob remained in the center of the light that was being handed from the ceiling fixture dangling directly above her restrained body. Her vision was beginning to regain clarity, as she was able to coherently see the contours of the floor boards supporting the chair she was linked to. There was nothing left to see, as the light fixture above her head was only strong enough to reveal everything that was sitting directly beneath it, which was Wilsie in the chair on top of the floor boards. Wilsie was surrounded by what she believed to be a pool of black antimatter that was being fended off by the weak beams of light emitted from the egg-shaped light bulb hanging above her head.

She viewed her surroundings, attempting to create understanding, attempting to find her angel again. But instead, she found a faint image floating in the bleak ocean. She couldn't make out its composition. It approached closer through the abyss, like the dorsal fin of a Great White shark, with the subtle calmness of a lurking predator, ready to strike wounded prey. Wilsie began to tense up, with her pony tail on high alert, prepared to deal with the individual accordingly, whether friend or foe. The figure approached through the thick waves of blackness. Wilsie's hands gripped the ends of the soft armrests, imprinting molds of her fingernails into the soft wood. And parting through the sea before Wilsie's eyes was the image of a pistol with a coagulated fin wrapping around the handle. The visual was perturbing, as Wilsie had wondered why an angel would carry a pistol. But as she questioned the moral integrity of what she thought was an angel, the figure holding the pistol with the coagulated fin emerged from the depths of the black ocean, and revealed himself before Wilsie as Sammy Ammo. Wilsie McHickoryboob ceased breathing. Her face turned pale, and her mackerel folded ears stiffened, ironing out every crease. Her fingernails broke off into the soft wood, as the angel she had been seeking had an alliance with a demon.

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers emerged from behind Sammy Ammo from the pool of darkness. Chuck Splatter had his arms crossed firmly against his chest, while Doink McTriggers stood like an immovable wall, gripping the burlap bag that he had removed from Wilsie McHickoryboob's head. Wilsie stared blankly at the images filling her perception. She had recognized them immediately, as they had been made familiar within Awful, Ohio through their actions towards store owners.

Each member stared down at Wilsie's restrained, helpless body, sizing her up, deciding their methods for extracting the information that they sought. Their faces were soulless, frozen in an iron cast of lifeless flesh, ready to consume everything that was Wilsie McHickoryboob into their mechanical beings. She was waterlogged with fear, drowning in her emotions as she remained tied to the chair. She had known their reputation, but confused as to why they were subduing her, as she was not a store owner.

"Unless," she thought, "they think that I am a store owner!" Wilsie then became even more fearful, thinking that she may have been wrongfully accused, and they were about to unleash their intent onto the wrong person. She was going to attempt to plead, beg and bargain for her freedom, thinking that there must be some form of misunderstanding, but before Wilsie was able to offer her voice of reason, Sammy Ammo summoned the following words from his thoughts:

"Are you Wilsie McHickoryboob?"

Wilsie's fear expanded through the body she thought would soon be her corpse. It was clear to her that she was the person that they were looking for. She quickly analyzed her most recent history of events, attempting to conclude what it was that they would want from her. But she was unable to think of anything that she was willing to admit to. Defensively, Wilsie attempted to think of a quick lie, misleading them into thinking that she was someone else. But they had already known who she was, treating the question rhetorically, as Sammy Ammo continued:

"We read your article in the _Awful Gazette_ , the one that describes Mad Ted's vicissitude and his plans of inducing it onto Awful, Ohio. Tell me more of these details on the vicissitude." Sammy Ammo grinned, staring at the pistol coagulated in his fin. He huffed hot breath onto the bluing steel, buffing it with his free palm, studying his appearance in the reflective metal. His free hand combed through his hair, making himself presentable.

Wilsie was concerned for her life, frantic and willing to comply however necessary, as she was no longer willing to accept the situation as her purpose, only hoping to escape from the situation unharmed.

"I don't know anything!" she erupted, eager to let them know that she can't help them. Her eyes popped from her skull like snow cones, with her mouth gaping, flooded with words, twisting her neck in the direction of each member to repeat her statement. "I have a heart!" she screamed, attempting to convince them that shooting her was unnecessary. The chair was banging violently on the floor, scuffing up the floor boards.

Sammy Ammo, Chuck Splatter, and Doink McTriggers looked at one another, confused by the composure being emitted from Wilsie McHickoryboob, as their solid faces drooped. They began to worry that their tactics to restrain her were too traumatizing, as they watched her shaking violently, causing damage to herself and the floor. They were sure that Wilsie knew something, and figured if they were to get to the information that they believed was contained within her mind, then they would have to find a way to calm her down from her hysteria.

"Wilsie," Sammy said, using her first name, thinking that it may calm her down, "my name is Sammy Ammo. We have brought you here because we need to know everything that you know about Mad Ted. We apologize for seizing you and bounding you without your permission into this chair, but after reading your article in the _Awful Gazette_ , Chuck, Doink, and myself were driven to find you." Sammy Ammo curled his vulpine mouth, displaying a lustrous smile filled with pearls that replaced his old teeth, given to him by an obliged store owner.

Wilsie McHickoryboob hesitantly eased her hysteria. Flattery overpowered her fear, as she tried holding back a sincere smile for the compliment. It was very rewarding to hear appreciation for what she felt was hard, disciplined work. She eased off of the intimidation, and was now able to observe Sammy Ammo and his cohorts without the biased filters of fear. She took notice to the poor attire that Sammy Ammo was dressed in, as his clothes were still ragged and torn, with the pistol molded perfectly into his predisposed hand. He had filthy skin that burnished through the tears, speckled with shaded hues of green. She then looked over to Chuck Splatter, viewing his rotting face, with all of its attributes misaligned, like the results of drunkards piecing together a puzzle. Chuck Splatter was overwhelmed with charm, as it was uncommon for women to stare at him so long. He smiled back at Wilsie, flaunting his scattered teeth, which only frightened Wilsie, as the repulsive visual involuntarily turned her face away. She redirected her eyes on Doink McTriggers. Her eyes rolled down his thick arm, stopping at his hand that was clenching the burlap bag that had been used to conceal Wilsie from her surroundings and abductors. He was her angel.

"Well," Wilsie attempted to respond, "I have been studying Mad Ted for a few years. But it's hard to remember all of the pieces of his history in this position. I think I could think more clearly if I were released from these restraints." Wilsie spoke hesitantly like a victim wishing for sympathy, looking down at her restrained arms, insinuating that they'd like to be free.

"Certainly," responded Sammy Ammo effortlessly, smiling, staring heavily into Wilsie's swollen eyes. He summoned Doink McTriggers with a subtle twitch of his left hand to release her. Doink made his way towards Wilsie McHickoryboob, bending down to her bounded legs, untying them one at a time. Doink then moved to the arms, but before he was able to release her arms, Wilsie's pony tail lashed towards his vulnerable body, attempting to induce a life-threatening wound, almost severing his hand. Doink jumped back, yelling "you keep that thing away from me!"

Wilsie apologized, controlling her pony tail, as it eased down to her back, but still on high alert. Doink returned to his duty, untying the nylon rope from around her arms. Wilsie was now free from the chair, but she remained sitting, as the soft wood felt nice against her skin. She rubbed her wrists, pleased to receive what she had requested. Her left leg rose, and then crossed over on her right leg. Her body slightly slouched in a comfortable position.

Then Wilsie fulfilled her part of the bargain by staring back at Sammy Ammo, saying "there's not a lot of information available about Mad Ted. He's extremely successful. He's so successful that Awful, Ohio would be a completely different city without his influence. It might not even be a city. His efficiency is unorthodox. No one is sure how he manages to organize everything so efficiently. His production level is off the charts. No one in recorded history, working in industry, has been able to produce as much as he has in the same amount of time. His changing chute is a mystical experience. All of his workers preach greatness about entering into one of those chutes, proclaiming that it has added years to their lives, resolving hemorrhoids, and even curing impotence. And people are even willing to work for less, just so that they can experience the changing chute. No one really knows how it works, but everyone knows what it does. And the construction is the miraculous part. I interviewed a few of the workers there, and none of them can recall seeing any construction or dust or debris. They all had gone home for the weekend, and when they returned to their next shift, they found their locker room lined with changing chutes. There really are too many questions that can only be answered by Mad Ted, but he's never been interviewed, and he's unwilling to be interviewed, or even witnessed. From what everyone can tell me, he sits inside of his office that hangs above the work floor."

Wilsie uttered these words from her mouth with alternative motives. She was eased to believe that they were not there to harm her. But more importantly, she was pleased to resurrect her inner ambitions to expose Mad Ted for who he actually was. Knowing that her surrounding audience was direly needing to know more about Mad Ted was enlightening. Considering the history of Sammy Ammo, it was clear to Wilsie that Mad Ted was his next target. She believed that she may be able to extract some type of information from what it was that Sammy Ammo was going to find out, and use it for the story that she had dismissed from her life. Wilsie regained her career fever, eager to start the investigative journalism that she had always loved to do, determined to find out who Mad Ted was, and what it is that he does to obtain so much power over Awful, Ohio.

Sammy Ammo continued smiling after listening to Wilsie's diatribe, and even released a little chuckle. "That little biography is fine and dandy, Wilsie," responded Sammy Ammo, looking at his cohorts who shared a laugh, flailing his pistol about like a conductor's baton orchestrating his response, "but we need to know what he plans on doing next. We need to know what it is that he is going to do that will affect Awful, Ohio so much that it is going to alter the entire city, and potentially even the world. Mad Ted has these powers. You already know this, my cohorts already know this, and I already know this."

Sammy Ammo paused to add a dramatic touch to his discourse, as he continued, "all we want to know is what he is going to do. You claim in your article that he is going to do something stupendous to his hot sauce empire that he will impose onto Awful, Ohio. All we wish is to gain some of these powers as well." The tone of Sammy Ammo grew louder, rattling through the abandoned warehouse like church bells. It was intimidating and demanding.

Wilsie wasn't sure what to say. She had been following and studying Mad Ted for years, but was never able to know anything about his plans or intentions. Even when he was planning the changing chutes, nothing had ever been mentioned until they were up and running. It was a huge mystery with all of the workers, as there was no construction, no debris, or anything else that resembled a change in infrastructure, except for the actual changing chutes that appeared in the span of a day. And the only reason that she knew of the change that Mad Ted was planning on inducing onto the workforce was because of her coincidental appearance into the warehouse on the day that Mad Ted expressed his intentions to the work force. But fear forced her to respond.

"Mad Ted is very insular. He's very secretive. He doesn't leak any information, and he doesn't hold press conferences or anything else that would allow the public to know what he plans on doing. I don't have any information on what he plans on doing next!" Wilsie spoke authoritatively, enforcing that she did not know what they were attempting to find out. Sammy Ammo's face grimaced in discontent, hearing the opposite of what he was hoping to hear. Wilsie regretted her honesty. Sammy Ammo turned to Chuck Splatter, and whispered an order. Chuck Splatter walked over to Wilsie McHickoryboob. Wilsie panicked, "I have a heart! I have a heart!" She was worried that they were going to do to her what Sammy Ammo had done to the rest of the store owners that he had gifted with hearts. But as Chuck Splatter approached, he did not attempt to restrain Wilsie. Instead, he pulled the chair out from underneath her, where she fell to the hard wood floor.

"It seems that we both have a dilemma here, Wilsie," responded Sammy Ammo, suave and collected, confident that he was going to get what he was after. "It seems that you, as an investigative journalist, covering the most influential citizen in all of Awful, Ohio, are lacking the information for the general public. You claimed that Mad Ted was going to induce changes, but you are now claiming to not know what these changes are. This may be true, but it is not helpful."

Wilsie remained on the floor, staring at Sammy Ammo, listening to his honest words, reminding her of her failure, as they penetrated her body like cold icicles. Sammy continued, "and it seems that I, a person in need of this information, am having a hard time retrieving it. So here's what I propose to you. I will keep searching for what it is that Mad Ted plans on doing, and you do the same. Except, we both search separately, in different parts of the city. This way we'll both cover more ground, increasing our chances of discovery. The payoff for each of us is that if either of us comes across any clues or information regarding Mad Ted, then we will share that information with the other, since both of us can make good use out of that information. How does this sound, Wilsie? Do we have a deal?" Sammy Ammo walked towards Wilsie McHickoryboob. He unfolded his arm that relayed his open, pistol-less hand to her, waiting for a confirming handshake.

Wilsie McHickoryboob already knew that she was going to shake his hand, excited and eager to investigate for more information on Mad Ted, so that she can retain the front page of the _Awful Gazette_ , capturing who Mad Ted was and what his plans are, exposing everything to Awful, Ohio. But she stared at his hand, so not to seem too eager with the deal. She realized that Sammy Ammo was a serious individual, and knew that a serious individual needs to get the impression that you are at least contemplating his offer. So Wilsie McHickoryboob remained laying on the floor, staring more at Sammy Ammo, until she raised her own arm, thrusting her hand into the palm of Sammy Ammo's, clenching it like a grenade, and shaking it vehemently with half a smile. Her ears were wiggling joyously, as her pony tail was swinging in lassos behind her head. "You have a deal, Sammy," responded Wilsie.

The four members all removed themselves from the abandoned building. They had decided which sections of the city they would consider looking for information, and where and what times they would return to the abandoned building to exchange any information that may have been collected.

"Remember, Wilsie," replied Sammy Ammo, "we're counting on you as much as you're counting on us." Sammy Ammo stared at Wilsie, stroking his pistol.

"I know Sammy. I've been trying to get a good story on Mad Ted since he started his hot sauce factory, but I haven't had appropriate resources by my side to assist me," responded Wilsie McHickoryboob, compatibly. "With you, Doink, and Chuck, we should be able to come up with the information that we are searching for."

They had all left the building, with Wilsie ready to start her investigation. Sammy Ammo headed back to the contemplation rink to devise a plan where he and his cohorts would start their investigation, too. But Doink McTriggers and Chuck Splatter weren't able to control their sensations. They disbanded from Sammy Ammo, and headed to Loogie's Diner, the predominant diner in Awful, Ohio, where they were intent on satisfying their hunger before they satisfied either Sammy or Wilsie.

## Chapter 11

Peace is Anti-Action Batter

Troy Slushy and Baltazar Garcia remained awake all throughout the night, envisioning the pieces that would formulate into a script meriting award-winning stature. They had both remained in the log cabin, where the air was cold and humid, preserving the paintings, and their image of Mad Ted. To counteract the preservation, Troy therapeutically encouraged Baltazar to turn the paintings around, so the presence of Mad Ted would no longer behold Baltazar.

Baltazar paced back and forth, nude, in the hallway coated in paintings, as Troy Slushy remained sitting on the floor, legs crossed, meditating. They had made great progress, determining what genre to focus on for their script, selecting action/adventure, as they had determined it to be the most entertaining genre for an audience to sit through. Along with the entertainment for the audience, it had been decided by Troy and Baltazar that an action script would not only be the most entertaining for their viewers, but it would also be the easiest for Troy and Baltazar to construct.

These profound conclusions proved to be the foundation of the script. Troy and Baltazar were still expecting to get their authenticity from authentic people from Awful, Ohio. All they had to do now was inject the necessary filling of details and characters and plots into the script, which Troy had anticipated Baltazar to do.

"OK," recited Baltazar, accepting his script-writing purpose with pride, "if this script is an action script, then we need to have _actioneous_ events taking place within this script," recited Baltazar, pacing back and forth in the log cabin, with his body standing upright, still naked, still speaking in rolling R's. Troy sat on the cold floor, anxiously listening to Baltazar's profound statements, waiting for the progress to pour from his mouth.

"OK," continued Baltazar, making progress, still pacing back and forth with his barrel chest, covered in excess skin dripping from his corrected posture, "so in order to create _actioneous_ moments to fill our action script, we need to void it entirely of anti-action batter. If we are able to void the script of anti-action batter, then the only batter that we will be left with is everything that we want our script to be composed of, which is action-batter! All we now have to do is figure out what it is that is anti-action batter." Baltazar went silent, hoping to discover what he was attempting to think of. He increased his pace, then slowed it down, hoping that the variance in rhythm would create the necessary thought process needed to eject the solution he was seeking from his mouth.

Troy listened from his position on the cold floor of the log cabin, trying to figure out if Baltazar meant to say "matter," instead of "batter." The floor was compacted clay, which Troy's palms pressed into, making imprints of his existence into the floor. Troy was hoping that this would work, relying on Baltazar Garcia to help him construct the script that would be sold for enough money to purchase the Behicle that would carry him and Lacy into their westward exodus. He was trying to ignore the fact that Baltazar was a being that he had never known, until he took the time to get to know him yesterday, who was now standing before him, completely nude, confusing "matter," the building blocks of life, with "batter," the building blocks of pastries, attempting to contemplate a reasonable solution to prevent anti-action from entering into the script. There was too much light in the log cabin, revealing Baltazar's naked flesh, flopping back and forth, gyrating from under his armpits like wet bologna, dangling over his hips covered in emaciated muscle.

Troy grimaced at the visual, regressing back into his dreams, protected from the exposed, where he wished to be sailing the Behicle westward through the Pacific Ocean, concealed in the pitch of darkness, with nothing to see but the sounds of echoing porpoises crashing through the inebriated waves falling in every direction. There would be nothing exposed, nothing attempting to entice him and Lacy, leaving them to rest with only their dreams and ambitions to stimulate their senses, leaving their westward exodus as their only concern.

Troy began to remember Lacy, and her beautiful hair fanning over the pillow case like a hand waving goodbye before he left to locate Baltazar. She was laying on the bed, sedated and calm, peaceful and content, void of all action and excitement, propelled in the bliss of her dark dreams. That vision of Lacy laying peacefully in their bed replayed through Troy's mind. It was void of action and excitement. Troy opened his eyes, to see Baltazar now standing on his head with his arms crossed over his chest, still naked, with the jelly filled handles lining his hips dripping close to his armpits. Baltazar was humming, hoping to erect the solution that he was searching for. But instead it caused ripples to trickle throughout his flesh like a stone hitting a pond. The question that Baltazar Garcia proposed replayed through Troy's mind, as the answer of voided action then personified itself as the image of Lacy peacefully sleeping on their bed, as Troy Slushy eagerly ejected the sought out solution from his mouth as "peace."

The solution collided with Baltazar, as he lost his balance, tumbling to the ground, landing softly in his stomach. The backward paintings, lining the log cabin walls, winced at the collision. Baltazar stood up, brushing the debris from the floor off his gelatin body, looking down at Troy who remained in the cold dirt. Troy's face was looking back, rearranged with a smile.

"Yes, that is it," muttered Baltazar, enlightened like an awakened monk. Baltazar started pacing again. "Peace. Peace is anti-action batter. So if we want a script that is entirely made from action, then we must void it of peace. As long as every moment in the script is void of peace, which is the anti-action batter, then we will be able to successfully complete an action script!" Baltazar continued pacing, succumbed to silence once again, allowing the new discovery to saturate into his being so that all of his thoughts would then filter through this newly discovered doctrine. The new idea settled within, becoming a part of Baltazar, as he progressed his thinking, continuing his pacing, attempting to think of the next element required in making this script award-winning.

"This is what we'll do," started Baltazar, finally discovering the elemental thoughts that he was searching for. He stopped pacing to face Troy, presenting him with the following idea: "we will introduce peace in the beginning of the script. Awful, Ohio will be at peace, providing work and labor to all of the residents. Everyone residing in Awful, Ohio will be living in peace, enjoying the rewards and compensation that comes from working. They will have nice homes, fancy cars, beautiful families, and respectable clothes. Both Awful, Ohio and its residents will remain peacefully united, sharing love and comfort between all of them. But all of this peace, or anti-action batter, will be eradicated with _actioneous_ events, birthed from an alien invasion from outer space, attacking Awful, Ohio. These extraterrestrial visitors will emerge with malicious intent, bringing forceful action against Awful, Ohio, attacking Awful, Ohio and its residents, voiding Awful, Ohio of the peace that the audience had believed was going to remain with the town."

Troy was confused as to why Baltazar would want to have any peace at all involved in the script, thinking that the script would then be contaminated with inconsistent tones, reducing its credibility of being an award winning script. But before Troy Slushy could vocalize his concerns, Baltazar explained, "If we allow a sudden change in tone, then this will create an element of surprise within the film. The audience will be deceived into believing that the film is meant to portray the quaint life of a peaceful city. But these malevolent extraterrestrials will throw them all off guard, allowing the script to make a larger impact than just a stale, stagnant script with only one element, surprising them with something that they weren't expecting!"

It didn't make sense to Troy, but Troy believed that it was because of Baltazar's greater understanding of script-writing. Troy was pleased that searching for Baltazar was starting to pay off.

"OK," said Troy, deciding to go along with the idea. "So what happens after the aliens invade Awful, Ohio?"

"Well," started Baltazar, allowing his creative impulses to answer the question. "The Awful, Ohio Authority will defend its city from the aliens. There will be a massive intergalactic war, which will cease all anti-action batter in our script, making it full of action! But, these plans are all contingent on the authentic reactions of the Awful, Ohio citizens. So we'll have to attempt to manipulate their dialogue, so that it remains authentic, without being entirely simulated."

Baltazar was excited with his conclusion, allowing his creative impulses to deliver the monologue precisely and carefully, selecting his words like a final meal. It was pleasing to be granted the opportunity to create, fully believing that he was an artist, offering aesthetic salvation to the ugly world of Awful, Ohio. He had never felt as confident with his production of the script as he had with the paintings that he had done while living in the log cabin. He was eager to leave the realms of the log cabin that concealed him from the outside world. The aesthetic caliber of the script empowered Baltazar with confidence and courage. "Troy," concluded Baltazar, "It is time for us to leave this log cabin, and to meld this script with the real people of Awful, Ohio."

Troy Slushy remained on the cold floor, soaking in all of the thoughts and ideas that were pouring from Baltazar's mouth. Troy had envisioned himself sailing hard into the ocean, heading west into perpetual darkness, with Lacy comfortably resting in the bunk of the Behicle. He had envisioned himself cruising the Behicle through the African Savannah in the pitch of night, traveling with the nocturnal carnivores hunting down prey. The image of nothing formulated into a completed copy of the script, which existed beautifully in Troy's mind. Troy had listened to Baltazar Garcia with great delight, pleased with the outcome of his idea. He felt that his plan to save him and Lacy was coming closer.

"We're almost home, Lacy," whispered Troy, under his breath that went unnoticed by Baltazar Garcia, who was distracted by the flooding hubris that had filled his being.

"Baltazar," interrupted Troy, "it is too dark right now to head into the center of Awful, Ohio. Unfortunately, we'll have to wait until it is light, because that is when the streets will be filled with authentic beings that we can use to help complete our script."

Baltazar readily agreed, still maintaining the hubris that he had acquired. Troy continued, "so until then, we shall remain here, we shall get you some clothes, and finalize everything that we can without our donors. And then tomorrow, we'll just fill in the rest of the script with the reactions from the donors."

Baltazar Garcia and Troy Slushy both agreed, acknowledging that they should do what was best for the script. They continued all through the night and into the early morning. They had finished as much of the script as they could, now only lacking the authentic lines from the authentic citizens of Awful, Ohio, as they now started to refer to them as "donors." It was now time to remove the script from inside of the log cabin, and retrieve field-data that would be injected into their script as authentic detail from the donors.

The morning arrived, and Troy Slushy helped guide Baltazar Garcia from the log cabin. It was the first time his skin had been exposed to sunlight, no longer protected from the hot sauce uniform. Baltazar had spent so much time in the log cabin, in the shadow extermination room, that fresh air was intoxicating. His body was quickly aroused, convulsing, snorting in as much fresh air as possible, as he adapted to the new environment, yearning for more fresh air. Troy was listening to Baltazar wafting in as many breaths of air as he could. But the fresh-air arousal quaked Baltazar's flaccid flesh, horrifying Troy, which he promptly provided an extra pair of clothes to Baltazar from the back of the blue hatchback. They both then entered into the blue hatchback, heading through the empty back roads of the coniferous that would lead them into the outskirts that would then reenter them into center city of Awful, Ohio.

Baltazar was a little hesitant, but allowed the confidence of his aesthetic caliber to justify his decision, as he left his paintings and his log cabin with no intentions of ever returning.

## Chapter 12

This is Art

Troy Slushy and Baltazar Garcia approached Awful, Ohio, driving in the blue hatchback. The city bloomed through their vision. It was magnanimous and sublime. Center city was swirling like the foaming eye of a hurricane, tossing the citizens of Awful, Ohio throughout their day, bouncing from store to store, building to building, tethered to the beaming rays of light that exposed them all to the unnecessary material sold from the trashcan owners, saturating the bodies with poison. A woman could be seen spreading cream cheese over a hot bagel that she had just purchased from a trashcan. A young man dressed in a suit and tie ran quickly through the streets, holding a brief case and a newspaper, trying to get to where ever it was that he had to get to.

Every citizen was trapped within the tractor beams of light directed from the sun, maneuvering each citizen from one building to the next, trading their acquired money that they earned with their lives in exchange for trash. Troy watched helplessly from his window, driving the blue hatchback, as he entered deeper into the center city abyss. He peered up to view the tops of the skyscrapers, seeing each building erecting towards the sun. They were trying to touch her warm hand, trying to penetrate what appeared to be a glistening hole secreting soft lubricants, floating desirably above them. Troy remembered the hot sauce warehouse, and how he sympathized for the building, being teased by the sun, as it would spend its entire existence reaching higher towards the sky, erecting as high as it could get, but ultimately never fulfilling its destiny. Troy saw the same deception in center city of Awful, Ohio, with every building, reaching further into the sky. It was a disdainful sight.

It was mid-day. The air was warm and soothing, lightly lubricated, hydrating the insides of every nostril that breathed in the refreshing oxygen. The sun was bright, exposing all of the feet that were attached to busy bodies that were chaotically littering the streets, trying to get from one place to another, desperately rushing to maximize the potential value of every second. Baltazar opened the window to the blue hatchback, and breathed in what he thought would be more fresh air. But the air in center city of Awful, Ohio was fuming with the exhaust from the bodies, as it made Baltazar light headed, like the first puff of a menthol cigarette. He decreased his inhaling.

"Alright, Troy, today is perfect. It is a beautiful day. Everyone in Awful, Ohio will be out, running around. We should have an easy time finding the donors that we need," reinforced Baltazar, attempting to spot the perfect authentic person to read the scripted lines to. Troy Slushy continued driving through the center of Awful, Ohio. He wasn't as delighted as being outside as Baltazar was. Troy actually grew comfortable in the log cabin, and would have considered living in there, if it weren't for his promise to Lacy.

The streets were chaotic, as Troy was attempting to sift through the afternoon traffic, avoiding the pedestrians flooding the streets, and every other flailing vehicle that was trying to cut him off. Troy's eyes bounced from each obstacle to the next, making sure that none of them ended up beneath the blue hatchback. His equilibrium began shifting violently. He began to feel nauseous. There was too much going on around him. Troy wanted to regress back into the darkness of his thoughts, back into the darkness of the log cabin, away from the toxic city that he was swimming through. His head began to tilt. His vision started shifting colors drastically, as all the images began to change shades. His palms began to coat with sweat. He began to overheat. The sunlight was too strong, cooking his exposed skin. He could feel each ray of light penetrate through the surface of his skin like the invasion of a thousand needles, injecting misguided beliefs of a benevolent sun. It was painful and unbearable. Troy grabbed the door handle, applying pressure, ready to tuck and roll as he planned to jump from the moving car, onto the sidewalk, beneath the securing shade of a bench.

But before he could open the door, Baltazar screamed, "there!" Baltazar was pointing to an open parking spot, lined against a sidewalk that was cluttered with what Baltazar believed to be potential donors. It was an excellent position. Troy removed his hand from the door handle, placing it back on the steering wheel, and began to parallel park into the vacant spot.

Troy Slushy and Baltazar Garcia remained in the car that was now parked along the busy sidewalk. Baltazar was glancing at every person that was walking by, studying their faces, their clothes, and their mannerisms. He was very specific with who he was looking for, analyzing every potential donor to the bare minimum quality. Troy remained in the car, silent, closing his eyes, nursing himself back to health with subtle doses of darkness.

"OK, Troy, there's the perfect donor." Baltazar was pointing to a man dressed in a suit and tie, holding onto a greasy bag that most likely contained his lunch. He was walking slowly, skimming through the front page of a newspaper, while haphazardly paying attention to the activity going on around him. Troy looked at the man, then looked back to Baltazar.

"Why him?"

"Because Troy, we have to show a peaceful environment. So what you are going to do is walk up to the man and read these lines." Baltazar handed the script to Troy, pointing to the lines that Troy was supposed to read to the donor. "And then after you read these lines, the donor will react, and I'll just record his reactions."

Troy dissected the situation, analyzing the results, concluding what was actually going on. He was going to approach a random person, and harass them until they reacted. He imagined the donor reacting violently towards Troy's harassment, swinging clenched fists, or tossing around open kicks to his groin. "I don't know if this is such a great idea. Maybe you should be doing this," Troy responded hesitantly, breathing heavily from the buildup of anxiety. But then Troy looked over to Baltazar.

"Nonsense," rebutted Baltazar, empowered by the aesthetic caliber of the script. "These parts are made for you. This is easy, just read these lines to him, and I will record his reactions. This will be perfect, this is going to be the best way to extract authenticity from reality and inject it back into our script," reaffirmed Baltazar to Troy, staring at the man from the passenger seat in the hatchback.

Troy was about to think skeptically, but he remembered his purpose, and quickly dissolved his emotions. But he couldn't help but wonder how exactly Baltazar had managed to get control of him like this, considering that he had intended on Baltazar reciting the lines to the donors, and that he was to record everything that the donors were saying.

"OK Baltazar, let me see this script. Give me a minute to remember these lines," said Troy.

"OK, Troy. Now remember, your character is generous and content. You are offering him a service. This is going to show how content and generous Awful, Ohio is in the script. And if you forget one of your lines, don't stop. Just yell 'line!' and I will pitch you the words that you forgot," said Baltazar.

Troy was listening and reading over his lines, muttering them to himself in a quick attempt to remember them.

"OK Troy, ready when you are."

Troy Slushy and Baltazar Garcia stared out of the windshield of the blue hatchback, staring at the donor. They sat there silently, observing his mannerisms, as he slowly strolled down the street. He was in no hurry to get where he was going, and appeared very calm and peaceful. Baltazar thought he would express excellent authenticity for the image that he was attempting to portray as Awful, Ohio.

"OK, I'm ready," responded Troy.

Troy Slushy and Baltazar Garcia left the car at the same time. Baltazar approached from an angle, so that he could be close enough to listen to the conversation, and offer the lines to Troy in case he had forgotten them. Troy was much slower in approaching the man. Stage fright was becoming strong, but Troy kept mumbling "westward exodus" as he approached the donor, to continuously remind him of his purpose. Baltazar stowed behind a lamp post. Troy Slushy then approached the donor.

"Good evening, sir!" responded Troy, generously and pleasantly. He had obstructed the path that the donor was on course to take. The man was forced to look up at Troy, making eye contact, forcing him to acknowledge his existence. The man stopped. He stared at Troy, unsure of how to respond, until he slowly replied, "no thanks, I'm not interested."

The donor had assumed that Troy was a salesman. He then sidestepped around Troy, continuing his stroll, reburying his face in the newspaper, still holding his greasy paper bag that probably contained his lunch.

Troy remained standing in the same position, discouraged from the entire idea. His elaborate plan began to crumble, as every page that constructed the script in his mind began to evaporate in seething disappointment. There would be no way for him to make a script meriting award-winning stature. He would not be able to acquire the Behicle, and then he would not be able to forever travel westward, avoiding the sun-induced toxins of the exposed. He had let Lacy down, and he was beginning to wonder if he'd be able to get his job back at the hot sauce factory. Baltazar revealed himself from behind the lamp post, approaching Troy.

"Troy! What the hell are you doing? He was going to be the perfect donor, and you just let him slip away like that?!" Baltazar was speaking quickly and forcefully, rolling his R's harshly, concerned about the script, and Troy's commitment.

"Troy, this script will work, but it won't work if I don't have your cooperation and, most importantly, commitment! This is a team effort, Troy. We both need to do what we both have to do in order for this to work. This is work, Troy. This is work that the both of us have to do. And this won't work if only one of us wants this to work."

Troy was staring at the ground, trying to avoid Baltazar who was gesturing disgruntled mannerisms. Troy's eyes were beginning to marinade with thin layers of tears. He was embarrassed, but managed to pull his head up and stare into the disappointment of Baltazar Garcia, who was staring sternly back at Troy.

"Troy, where is the motivated individual who freed me from the entrapment of the log cabin, liberating me from the ragged uniform from the hot sauce factory, and correcting my posture with a few words of devoted encouragement?" Baltazar placed his arm around Troy to comfort his actor.

"This is our mission, Troy. This is our purpose. We are here to graze the earth with our aesthetic caliber, and share the beauty that we see that no one else is capable of seeing. Our purpose is to manifest our creative ambitions into a concrete, physical object that can be enjoyed and experienced by all."

Baltazar's words had penetrated through the soft skin of Troy Slushy, driving deeply to the very core of his being, embalming his heart with faith. Baltazar was right, and Troy's body began to tremble with passion and encouragement to get the script completed. He had allowed the terror of the exposed to discourage him, the same terror that had discouraged Lacy when he had returned home from work to discover Lacy ready to accept their lives. And Troy stood before Baltazar, just about ready to do the same.

"Baltazar," replied Troy, confidently, "thank you. You are right. I was a little discouraged. I wasn't sure how exactly to approach the donor. But you are right. It was my fault. He was the perfect donor, and I let him slip away. And that will be the last one. I am devoted to completing this script, and devoted to working until the script is completed with the aesthetic caliber that it needs to be endowed with." Troy Slushy beat his chest, puffed out a quick gasp of air from his lungs, stared back at Baltazar with confidence, and said, "OK, let's get this script completed. We have work to do."

Baltazar was pleased to hear this. He and Troy began to look over the pieces of the script that they had to work with, making Troy more comfortable with the character that he was supposed to be reenacting. Baltazar had reduced the amount of lines that Troy was supposed to read, hoping that Troy would be more comfortable. Baltazar had spotted another donor. It was a different man. Walking in the same pace, but dressed more casually. He had black hair that was slicked back off his forehead. But, like the other man, had a newspaper that his face was buried into.

"OK, Troy. Remember what we talked about; anti-action batter," coached Baltazar, as he scuttled back behind the light post. Troy stood alone, surrounded by the exposed chaos of Awful, Ohio that was attempting to devour him.

"Here goes everything," mumbled Troy. Troy stepped in front of the donor, blocking his path, forcing the donor to look at Troy, where they made eye contact, forcing the donor to acknowledge Troy's existence.

"Good afternoon, sir!" shouted Troy, enthusiastically, offering a smile that stretched the entire width of his face. Troy's face was thrusting closely to the donor's, so that this donor would not be able to evade Troy's greeting. The donor remained standing in front of Troy, slow to respond, caught off guard by the unexpected greeting. But the donor was pleasant, flattered with a sincere acknowledgment, despite the exaggerated tone. The donor had decided to play along.

"Hi there," responded the donor, smiling. The donor patted Troy on the shoulder, sidestepped past Troy, and continued his casual stroll down the sidewalk, parting through the warm sea of sunlight.

The donor had left, leaving Troy standing there alone. Baltazar came running from behind the lamp post to approach Troy, shouting, "That was brilliant!" Baltazar was panting for oxygen, as he became winded from excitement, but he continued, "that was everything that we've been anticipating. It was honest, it was authentic, it was pleasant and peaceful. It was beautiful! That was art!" Baltazar hugged Troy eagerly, pleased at the results that they had acquired. Baltazar was hoping to get an authentic response from a donor that would help create the idea that Awful, Ohio is a pleasant, peaceful location to live in, and that donor's response was everything that Baltazar was hoping to receive.

"Did you really like it, Baltazar?" Troy eagerly asked, excited to hear how he did a great job. "I tried hard to make it authentic. I stopped the donor, and tried to be authentic so that I could get an authentic reaction out of him."

"Troy, that was a fantastic performance, definitely worthy of an award," confirmed Baltazar, grinning his face with a full smile. "And because of the excellent results, look at the progress that we've already made!" Baltazar handed the script to Troy. Troy ripped it from Baltazar's hands, and quickly began reading their progress. The script had read:

Character A

"Good Afternoon, Sir!"

Character B

"Hi there."

Troy's eyes blitzed from their sockets, blazed with amazement. "Baltazar, that is great! It sounds like a real scenario from real life! It feels so..." Troy slowed his speech, struggling to come up with the word that he was desperately searching for, as he continued, "it feels so, authentic!"

"Troy, this is only the beginning. Once we fill the rest of the script with the authentic reactions from the donors, then we'll be able to have our award-winning script!"

Troy's heart flooded with excitement. His mind constructed visions of him and Lacy, aboard the Behicle, rotating with the earth into the infinite west, protected by the veil of darkness that blocked out the dangers of light from the exposed world. This was exactly where he wanted to be, making progress towards the ultimate goal, saving him and Lacy. He was eager and excited, ready to complete the script.

"Troy," Baltazar said, "this is a great start, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. We still have the rest of the script to finish. So let's go make some progress and get you prepped for the next scene, you big, movie star." Troy blushed, flattered by the statement, as he and Baltazar walked through center city of Awful, Ohio, searching for their next donor.

## Chapter 13

The Aliens are Coming to Destroy us all!

Baltazar and Troy walked down the sidewalk, weaving through the foot traffic. Baltazar's eyes scattered wildly through the crowds, searching for their next donor. Sitting on a cold bench was a man without a home, dressed in ragged clothes. He was wearing a wool jacket that was covering his torn flannel shirt, all in an attempt to keep him warm. His face was coated in a scruffy beard that patched his face. The man was accompanied by a shopping cart filled with aluminum cans, which he was very protective of, guarding it with his life. He muttered obscenities at anyone that got too close to his cart, fearing that someone was going to attempt to take away his only material, as he was prepared to die for the only belongings that he had. The man was filthy and desired by no one.

"Perfect," responded Baltazar. Baltazar stopped walking and grabbed a hold of Troy, bringing him close to his mouth, so that Troy could hear his whispers. Troy was almost tickled by the rolling R's, but fended off the distraction by listening to the direction offered by Baltazar, taking his job seriously.

"OK Troy, this is what you are going to do. You are going to sit down beside that individual on the bench, and here are the lines that I need you to read to him," said Baltazar. "Just convince him that this actually happened to him. Make your presentation as believable as possible so that we are able to get authentic reactions."

Troy grabbed the script from Baltazar, and read the lines. He was reading them out loud so that he was able to remember them better. Troy then looked over at the potential donor on the bench. He was a scruffy man with grizzled hairs, dressed in clothes that have never been washed. His bald cranium was freckled with liver spots that formulated from the filth that covered his body.

"Look over here again and I'll wring your eyes from your skull!" screamed the man to an innocent bystander, strolling past.

Troy then looked back at Baltazar, and said, "and you are sure that this is the guy that you want me to read these lines to?"

"Troy, we don't have time for your questioning! Just do as I say. I am the director, and I know what I am doing. This is going to be brilliant, as long as you do what you are supposed to do." Baltazar held his head high, rolling his R's quickly and authoritatively, proud of his work, and very unwilling to listen to anyone that would question his vision.

Troy went along with it. Baltazar stowed behind a mailbox, with his pencil ready to record the conversation, watching Troy embrace the donor. The donor was on high alert, sitting on a bench, listening to the foot traffic, watching the cars pass by. Beside the donor was an empty bag that used to contain bread. The bread had been used to feed the surrounding birds. The birds had consumed all of the bread. But the bread bowel didn't sit in their system for too long, creating a moat of bird shit surrounding the bench, protecting the donor and his valuables. It was a mode of defense that couldn't keep Troy away, as perseverance pushed him through the thick material. He carefully approached the man on the bench, gently sitting down as if he were trying to catch a pigeon. The homeless man was dressed terribly, smelling strong of filth and booze. His shopping cart was filled with empty bottles that he had been collecting to trade in for currency, so that he would be able to buy more trash. Baltazar had selected this donor with delicacy, hoping that this donor would react strongly towards the content which Troy was going to recite.

Troy stared at the donor. The homeless man stared back at Troy, making eye contact, forcing him to acknowledge Troy's existence.

"I can't believe what they did to you?," started Troy, dramatically, cringing his face in fabricated dismay. The offensive odor of the man encroached Troy's face like a close-fisted punch, making the required mannerisms easy to produce.

The homeless man kept staring at Troy. The man wasn't sure how exactly to respond, and decided not to. The donor threw the empty bag into the shopping cart with the aluminum cans, and was ready to leave the bench. Troy panicked, looking over to Baltazar, stowed behind the mailbox for help. "Keep going," motioned Baltazar with his hands, nervous that Troy was about to let another donor slip away.

Troy cleared his throat, hoping that speaking more prominently would get the donor's attention. "Your condition. Your poor, helpless condition. How could they have taken advantage of someone so innocent and pure, those monsters!"

The donor stopped, pondered the statement, and turned back around to face Troy. He wasn't exactly sure what was going on, but the empathy was comforting. But he wasn't sure why he was receiving it.

"What are you talking about?" questioned the donor.

"You can't be serious. You don't remember a thing?" responded Troy, dramatically.

"Huh? Remember what?" asked the homeless donor, defensively, confused that there was something that he should know about but didn't.

Troy belted out at the top of his lungs, rhetorically, "You goddamn bastards!" screaming towards the sky while theatrically shaking his fist like a cliché.

The donor was still confused. He wasn't sure what Troy was talking about, and he wasn't sure what Troy's intentions were. The donor remained protective of his belongings, as he kept a close eye on the shopping cart and its contents, thinking that Troy may be a gypsy and attempt to take them away.

Troy looked back at the donor. He rearranged his face so that it looked concerned. The donor read the concerned face and responded, "What happened that I should remember?"

"Good god man! Don't you remember a thing?" screamed Troy.

"Remember what?" recited the donor, forgetfully.

"Those bastards must have erased your mind," recited Troy, scientifically.

"Who erased my mind?"

"Good god. It's much worse than I thought," responded Troy, rhetorically, now staring at the ground. His shoe was smothered in bird shit that perseverance had carried him through. Troy looked back up to the donor, rearranging his face, feigning with regret, stating:

"The aliens. They must have erased your mind. If you don't remember a thing, then they must have erased it all!"

The donor was even more confused.

"Huh? What aliens? What are you talking about?" Responded the donor, beginning to think that Troy was a nut.

"A few nights ago, you and I were abducted by alien invaders. I don't know how they got you, but they removed me from my home in the middle of the night. I woke up aboard their space ship, where they had me locked in a cage. I was naked and cold. And you were laying on an operating table. I'm not sure what they were doing to you, but I was sure as hell happy they were doing it to you and not me. But they kept injecting you with something. I did not have any clue as to what it was, but every time you were injected, your hair would reverse back into your head, and then grow out of your face in the shape of a beard, which caused all those liver spots on top of your head. You used to look much different before they performed their experiments on you."

The donor was attracted to the story. For a long time, he had believed that something incorrect had happened to him, as he could never remember how he was in his current, homeless situation. He took a long swig from a concealed bottle of gin, feeling that he had been mistreated at some point in his life, and that he had deserved much better. He responded to Troy, intrigued to discover some answers.

"What did the aliens look like?" asked the donor, unleashing a fetid gas from the catacombs of his stomach.

Troy was caught off guard by the question. Baltazar didn't apply any descriptions for the aliens, leaving Troy unprepared for a rebuttal. He was beginning to sweat, unsure of what to say. He started tapping his foot, shaking off the flakes of bird shit that had dried up on his sneaker. But then he remembered the direction of Baltazar, and he belted out, "line!"

The donor remained in a state of concern, after hearing the information regarding the alien abduction, as he anxiously waited for Troy's insight. But Troy remained sitting, listening carefully for Baltazar's lead before he could offer more information to the homeless donor. Then the faint response of, "improvise" could be heard from the background, bouncing into Troy's ears, landing in his brain. The donor ignored the background noise, as he was still focused on Troy's response, hoping to get some more answers.

Unprepared, Troy began to improvise his response:

"Well, the aliens were small and green. They had ant-like antennas protruding from their massive foreheads, which would always twitch when they would communicate with one another. They had mouths, which were shaped like the mouth of a leach. And there were a lot of them."

Troy was hoping that the donor wouldn't turn around, as Troy was staring at a billboard that advertised the bug exhibit in the Awful, Ohio Museum, containing pictures of a variety of insects and annelids.

The donor took another swig of his gin, then tossed the empty container into the shopping cart. "What did the aliens do to me?"

"I don't know exactly what they were doing to you," responded Troy confidently, "but from what I could see, it was the most vile, distasteful, and despicable thing that any person could go through. Considering the things that were being jabbed into you and everything that was being taken out, I'm amazed that you're even still alive! But I guess it's better that you can't remember any of the trauma that they put you through."

The donor began to feel around his body, nervously inspecting everything, making sure that everything he could remember was still in place.

"My body does feel different. I mean, things seem to be off slightly. They must not have put everything back they way it was before they took me apart," said the donor.

"Yeah, well, like I said, you looked much better before they took you apart and pieced you back together," recited Troy, thinking of Humpty Dumpty nursery rhymes.

"Do you know why they were doing any of this?" asked the donor.

"Well, one of the aliens, with his big antennas, did approach me after they were done doing whatever it was they were doing to you. They told me they were analyzing your body to discover its composition. They wanted to know our weaknesses. The alien informed me that they were planning a full-forced attack onto Awful, Ohio, to destroy all of the city and everyone that inhabited the city!" Troy paused, for dramatic effect. "Then the next thing I could remember, I was brought back to my home. I remembered looking out of the window, watching the alien space craft fly off into the sky until I could no longer see it. It made the sounds of a whistle. That's when I started searching for you. You and I have an obligation! We have been presented with information that we must use to save our brethren of Awful, Ohio! Everyone around us is in grave danger, and you and I are the only ones that can save everyone! We must warn as many people that we can of the devastation that is coming!"

The donor was shocked to hear what he was hearing. His body felt different, his head was hurting, and he couldn't remember how he got to where it was that he got to. Everything was beginning to make sense. Aliens did abduct him, erasing his memory, transforming him into his current state of drunken, homelessness, dissecting his body and then putting it all back together again. How else could he explain his current disposition? His emotions swelled with fear. He was scared and nervous that the aliens would come back to get him. He touched one of his liver spots, thinking it was a wiretap that allowed the aliens to monitor his every move. He began to scratch wildly at the liver spot, scraping it off his head in little, bloody pieces, thinking that he didn't want them to find him ever again.

"I haven't done anything to deserve this, brother," said the homeless donor, reaching out to Troy for comfort. "Everything in my life was going great. I had a job that paid, I lived in a respectable apartment, and I even had a reliable car. But then all of a sudden, this wretched curse attacked me from the sky!" The feigning donor stared up towards the sky, shaking an angry fist towards whatever pagan deity he believed delivered the monstrous aliens upon him. Troy listened intently, caringly.

For a moment, Troy had forgotten his purpose, as he was overtaken by sympathy, relating deeply with the homeless man, as he watched him shaking his fist towards the sky. Troy stepped out of character, and related to the homeless man, as Troy envisioned himself shaking his own fist into the sky, in disgust, expressing anger and resentment towards the sun. Troy wanted to express to the homeless man the cruelties that he too had experienced from the malicious intentions from above. Troy wanted to share his emotions, to relate with the devastation that the homeless man has endured, just like the devastation that Troy had endured from the exposure of the sun.

"I know what you mean, brother. None of us have deserved this! This wretched curse that emerged from the sky, breathing down upon us, threatening our existence and disrupting our peace!" recited Troy, honestly, forgetting that he was speaking to a donor. These were not words from the script, nor anything that Baltazar had suggested to Troy to converse about. But Baltazar listened from afar, still scribbling every word that was emitted from the conversation. Troy moved closer to the homeless man, forgetting that he was a donor, forgetting that he was supposed to be acting. Troy wrapped his arms around the homeless man, hugging him lovingly, caring deeply for the innocent being that he was, and despising the wretched curse that had disposed them both to the position that they were in.

"Don't worry, brother," responded Troy, caringly. "It will all be over soon." Troy and the homeless man began rocking one another gently. The homeless man began to cry, as he had never been treated so kindly.

"You are a good man, brother," responded the homeless man, as he and Troy released one another. "I will keep you in my prayers, and I will do everything I can to inform Awful, Ohio of the wretched devastation that the alien forces are planning to impose onto Awful, Ohio." And the homeless man grabbed his cart, pushing his way through the swamp of bird shit, parting through the foot traffic that eagerly avoided contact, as he shouted, "the aliens are coming. They've already ripped me apart and pieced me back together again, to study our weaknesses! We all must evacuate from Awful, Ohio because the aliens are coming! The aliens are coming to destroy us all!"

Baltazar remained behind the mailbox, scribbling down everything as quickly as he could, fearful that he would forget the scene. But he began to glow with joy, as he had successfully recorded everything that his actor and his donor had authentically simulated. Baltazar was breathing hysterically, believing that what he had just witnessed would win every prestigious film award, and even be the reason to create more prestigious film awards, because of the script's high literary endowment.

"That was so authentic. Real emotions, real feelings, real everything! This script is going to be so fantastic! There is no way that anyone will turn down this script. We're going to have offers from every major film studio. This is so great!"

Troy heard Baltazar taking notes of everything from behind the mailbox. Troy had then remembered that he was supposed to be acting, and that the homeless man was supposed to be a donor. Troy was worried that he screwed up again, injecting his emotions into the scene. Troy ran from the bench, over to Baltazar. Baltazar was moving erratically, uncontrollably enthusiastic for the results.

"How was it?" asked Troy, nervous that he was going to be lashed at again.

"It was perfect! This is going to be the greatest script ever created. I truly mean that, Troy. I mean, the emotion and feelings were so real. This script is going to be so authentic that we will have offers from every major production studio!" assured Baltazar.

"Well, here, let me read it," begged Troy, getting just as excited. Troy read through what Baltazar recorded, and was delighted to read how authentic and genuine the script was sounding.

"Here, let's keep this going," said Troy, handing the script back to Baltazar, overwhelmed by how grandiose the results were turning out to be. "I'm so excited, that I just don't want to stop!"

Baltazar readily agreed, as he too did not want to stop the progress. Troy Slushy and Baltazar Garcia continued walking through center city of Awful, Ohio. The sun was still strong, exposing more donors, as Troy recited more lines of alien abductions and invasions, convincing more donors of alien abductions and invasions, as Baltazar eagerly recorded all of the responses that the donors were donating.

Troy Slushy and Baltazar Garcia strolled through Awful, Ohio, recording their script, following their purpose, and creating the script using the ambitions manifested from the aesthetic caliber, as the walls of center city of Awful, Ohio began to echo with the profound declaration of "the aliens are coming!" from the deceived donors offering authentic lines for Troy's and Baltazar's script.

## Chapter 14

As fate would have it.

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers parted ways with Sammy Ammo. They were overcome with hunger while watching Wilsie McHickoryboob wiggle through the chair like melted cheese stringing from a toasted sandwich. It had reminded them both of grilled cheese sandwiches, invigorating their appetite, as they devoted the rest of their day to fulfilling their need for a grilled cheese sandwich.

After Sammy Ammo and Wilsie McHickoryboob confirmed their new alliance, Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers decided to take advantage of being in center city. They were both succumbed to fulfilling their existence, driven to saturate their needs, as they departed through center city of Awful, Ohio, searching for the structure that they expected to get fed hot grilled cheese sandwiches from.

The streets they were walking through were decorated with large buildings plastered over the surface of every block gridding center city of Awful, Ohio. The structures were articulate in design, modern in style, and aroused with prestige from the economic success, gloating in arrogance from the pompous architects that drafted their beings. Rarely entering into the center city of Awful, Ohio, Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers observed their surroundings, which filled them with the same awe that was used to endow Awful, Ohio with its entitlement. They were foreign to the sublime surroundings, growing accustomed to the piece of structure that was Sammy Ammo's. However, they had been there before, and began to walk in the direction they believed they should be walking in.

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers were witnessing the large portions of the Awful, Ohio population walking past them. Each disciple was walking urgently, dancing around the bases of the buildings, searching for locations to either exchange money or make money. All of the chaos and the aesthetics of the sublime buildings had an inebriating affect on Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers, as they were unfamiliar with the fast paced life style meandering through center city of Awful, Ohio. Their unfamiliarity with center city of Awful, Ohio condemned them from their whereabouts, as they began to question each step, wondering if it was getting them closer or further from their destiny.

The buildings overlooked the both of them with the power of a secluding maze, confusing their memories with identical street corners, not sure which direction to take, as the buildings could be heard laughing from above with every misstep. But perseverance pushed them through. They were able to make their way through the arrogant architecture, trudging past the meandering economic disciples, finally discovering their destiny.

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers stood before a building lacking the grace and allure that the surrounding buildings were possessed with. The structure was rebellious in appearance, dearth, and low to the ground, standing no taller than one story. A patina had began to sparkle from the aged metal, creasing into the folds around the window and door frames. It was elongated like a hoagie, covered in sheets of dented aluminum, resembling a mobile home. The splotchy outside did no justice to its purpose inside, as food was served all day long, every day, offering coffee, sandwiches, and other common foods for a relatively reasonable price. Protruding from the mobile-shaped structure was a rusty flagpole. And hoisted to the top of this rusty flagpole was a soiled flag, flapping like dirty toilet paper, releasing debris into the wind. The flag was crusty, grimy, and shabby, speaking in a layman's language, appointing the name of the building as "Loogie's Diner."

"It's about damn time we find this place," grumbled Chuck Splatter, agitated at how long their walk through the city took, expressing his relief. He and Doink McTriggers walked towards the front door and entered into the disenchanted building that offered the purpose of their search.

Loogie's was a common diner that had become widely accepted in the center of Awful, Ohio. It wasn't a generic, overpriced restaurant that sold slabs of animal for the price of an automobile. It was a generic, underpriced restaurant that sold slabs of processed animal leftovers for a reasonable price. And because of these under prices, a large portion of the Awful, Ohio population bound to the economic gauntlet would flock to Loogie's to feast, savoring the reasonable prices like the breakfast gravy courting their biscuits. It was a city landmark, respected for its cheap food, and cherished for the convenience of being open all day and all night, every day, offering simple food from the comfort of a booth or a counter.

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers entered into the structure, walking towards the booth that appeared to be ideal for feasting on grilled cheese sandwiches. The booths were coated in an out-of-date, faux leather covering that was tearing from all the wear. A loud poof exhaled from the cushion, as Doink and Chuck sat across one another, compressing the broken springs all the way to the base board of the booth with the weight of their bodies. A waitress named Claire, dressed in a one-piece, tan suit with hot sauce stains matching her polished nails, walked over to take their orders.

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers had already known what they were going to order, without the assistance of Loogie's menu, informing Claire of their grilled cheese devotion. Claire recorded their orders onto her note pad with the pen that was gripped by fingers, tipped with long, red nails. Her gaudy gum smacked loudly with every chew, earning Chuck's attention, as he looked up to stare at her makeup filled face. She returned eye contact and quickly fled from the table after having looked at the facial massacre of Chuck Splatter, disinterested in empty flirts to earn extra tips. Doink laid his arms across the table, growing goose bumps from the cold laminate covering. It appeared to be marble.

Claire walked through Loogie's, away from Doink and Chuck, moving past the other booths that were covered in faux, red leather. Her slip-resistant, restaurant shoes tapped loudly on the square, tile floor, which continued tapping, as she returned behind the counter. She ululated to the chefs through the window, posting Chuck Splatter's and Doink McTriggers' orders for the cooks to prepare. She grabbed a pot filled with hot coffee, turned around, and filled up two empty cups belonging to two individuals that were sitting at the counter. The two individuals were Baltazar Garcia and Troy Slushy. They were sitting at the counter, going over the script that they were still in the process of putting together. They had encountered numerous donors, and had become rich with authenticity, extracting scripted lines of dismay, melancholy, ecstasy, fear, and grief, all creating an excellent recipe of anti-action batter.

Baltazar had recorded all of these emotionally filled reactions, creating their authentic script that they were relishing in, sipping on their cups of coffee. But, as an indirect result, all of the donors were believing the content that Troy was reciting to them. The donors believed that aliens were on the verge of attacking, that aliens had already attacked, and that aliens had even abducted members of Awful, Ohio. The message spread quickly through Awful, Ohio.

But Baltazar and Troy were still in search for more donors, as their search delivered them into Loogie's Diner, where they were expecting to find the last source for their authentic lines.

"OK Troy, we're going to need one last great scene here, and the script will be completed. Can we get that?" asked Baltazar, ready to progress with the script, swiveling in his stool like a Ferris wheel. Baltazar was serious with his question, gloating with belief that his destiny was starting to become fulfilled as a movie director. He was smiling at Troy, knowing that good directors need to get their actors motivated for their next scene.

"We have one more scene that needs to be finished, and then our script is completed. I know this has been an exhausting day, but if we keep our perseverance going, then we'll be able to get this thing finished," reinforced Baltazar, holding the script in his hand, staring at Troy, who was sitting beside him, preventing his chair from swiveling.

Troy Slushy was facing foreword, listening to the direction of Baltazar. Troy had grown exceptionally confident with his acting skills, feeling that the lines he extracted from the donors required an exceptionally skilled and talented actor, which he felt was also something worthy of high honor, which Troy took it upon himself to do.

"So what is it that I'll have to do next?" Troy spoke slowly, arrogantly apathetic, holding his cup of coffee, assured that whatever Baltazar was going to ask him to do would be accomplished with minimal effort because of his newly discovered talent.

"OK Troy, this is going to be the biggest scene in the script. A lot of things are going to be revealed for the audience, so we're going to need a pinnacle performance! You'll need to recite an improvised monologue. It requires emotions, purpose, feelings, and especially honesty! These donors need to feel your honesty. And as long as they do that, we'll have everything we need for a great scene!" Baltazar slapped his hand onto the counter, excited, exhausting supportive sentiments towards Troy Slushy, ready to get the final scene recorded for their authentic, award-winning script.

Baltazar had directed them to enter into Loogie's because the last scene was to take place in a booth, where he needed Troy to recite lines to two males sitting in that same booth. Baltazar continued to explain the scene to Troy, the details, the emotions, and the direction that the scene would require. Claire was working in front of them, ignoring their conversation. Instead, she was focused on the hot plates of grilled cheese sandwiches that the cooks had just completed, slipping through the warm window. Claire's bright, red tipped fingers grabbed the two plates of grilled cheese sandwiches, and walked from behind the counter, tapping her slip-resistant shoes against the tile floors, where she walked past the booths in Loogie's, until finally reaching her destination.

Doink lifted his arms off the table, as his goose bumps went away when Claire had finally returned, holding two hot plates of food. She handed one plate to Chuck Splatter, who smiled in return. She was going to smile back, but remembered the facial massacre that she had witnessed while taking his order, and quickly looked away, hoping to escape unscathed. She placed the other plate of hot food in front of Doink, and managed to avoid eye contact, fearing that Doink would look similar in appearance as Chuck. She left without saying anything to either of them, tapping back to the safety behind the counter, unconcerned about earning her tip.

"It's about time this gets here," mumbled Chuck Splatter, discouraged by being ignored by another woman, picking through the edible contents on his plate. The yellow cheese was melting from the bread, sticking to the plate, clinging for dear life, fearing the monstrosity that Chuck Splatter appeared to be. But its grip wasn't strong enough, as it stretched with the bread, elevating off the plate and positioned into Chuck's mouth, where he chewed violently, mouth wide open. Doink reacted a little more cautiously with his meal, picking up his fork, poking and prodding at the sandwich like an enema.

Chuck chewed his food, while contemplating his destiny as the disfigured being, ignored and feared by everyone in Awful, Ohio. The reaction of Claire and Wilsie sifted through his mind, unconcerned with his emotions, as they made him aware of how unworthy he was to be in their presence. Chuck then remembered how Sammy fearlessly faced him on that day when they first met in the alley, treating him like a human, accepting him immediately, because of a simple heart beat that proved his worth, and asking him to join his destiny. Chuck loved Sammy, and his warming acceptance, and he wanted to continue being part of that destiny. Chuck then began to think of Wilsie, and how she was abruptly trying to prevent that destiny. Chuck then determined that he would despise Wilsie. All of these thoughts developed emotional, irrational reactions that Chuck then presented to Doink McTriggers.

"So what do you think of Wilsie McHickoryboob? Do you think that she'll help us find anything on Mad Ted?" Chuck Splatter paused, chewed for a little bit to see if Doink would respond. He didn't.

"If you ask me," continued Chuck Splatter, "I think she has no business being in our business. Clearly, we're capable of handling things like this on our own. And what can she actually offer us? I mean, she hasn't even been able to find anything on Mad Ted, and that's what she's supposed to be doing for a living!" chortled Chuck Splatter, spraying pulverized cheese and bread bits from his mouth like a spigot, laughing at what he thought was a unique point of irony.

Doink McTriggers avoided the edible shrapnel. He was still prodding at his food, attempting to line it up onto his fork. His grilled cheese sandwich looked beautiful, and he was very particular about how to handle the organic creation that he believed was a work of art. He insisted on using utensils, as he was armed with a fork and a knife, carving slowly through layers of toasted bread and cheese, so not to rupture the surface. Doink stared closely, watching the jagged edges of each serrated tip of his knife dive into the surface of the toast. He was focused, meticulous, and crafty, carving like a surgeon.

A satisfactory piece was removed from the whole body of the sandwich. Doink placed the severed appendage onto his fork, and then proceeded to enter it into his mouth, as he started chewing, while responding to Chuck, "yeah, I know what you mean. Sammy wants us to work with a story-starved journalist, incapable of finding anything on Mad Ted, expecting that all of us working on it will increase our chances. It seems like we'd be better off trying to find something on our own." Doink was relatively calm with his response, keeping focus on his sandwich. "It would be a modern day miracle if we do come up with something, considering how little information there actually is on Mad Ted."

Silence had overcome both of them, as they reengaged themselves with the activity of eating. Chuck Splatter continued forcing the food into his mouth, while Doink was trying to figure out what to do with his French fries. They both plowed a few loads of food into their gullets, chewing mercilessly, which Chuck then continued, "I just hope that we do find something. The payoff will be huge. But I just don't want to find out that there is nothing out there for us to find. I don't want to waste time searching for something that can't be found, when we could be doing what we've always been doing. I mean, we know what works. Sammy points his loaded hand at a store owner, and we get everything that is entitled to us. We know it's a reliable system. This thing that we're doing with Wilsie, we don't know if this is going to work." Chuck Splatter spoke vehemently.

"Yeah, but I think Sammy may be trying to accomplish more than what he's already accomplished," replied Doink, eyeing the sandwich that remained on his plate.

The suggestion confused Chuck, as it appeared to him that the three of them had everything that any reasonable person could ask for. His memory opened like a golden satchel, exposing visions of the three of them, saturated in the glory of their camaraderie, enjoying the jubilee of all their labor.

"Why do you say that?" Chuck asked, rolling the assemblage of his face in perplexed, heart-broken gestures.

"I don't know, I just have this feeling that holding up store owners is no longer satisfying," responded Doink, haphazardly listening, still focusing on dismembering his sandwich.

Chuck Splatter stopped eating for a moment to stare across the room, allowing his thoughts to digress. He looked over to his right to see a different waitress behind the counter, impatiently waiting for a few customers to finish browsing through Loogie's menu. Behind the waitress, the cooks could be seen from a window slapping spatulas against a large grill like the front line of a hockey team. Periodically, the waitresses would routinely stick their heads into the window to hark orders to the cooks, telling them which meals to prepare. Chuck looked around to his left, watching the few booths that were seated with people. All of them were deep in faux leather, supported by broken springs, face deep in Loogie's menu, trying to decide what it was that was going to fulfill their appetites. Chuck then turned back to Doink, watching him intricately carve another segment from what was a perfect sandwich.

"Well, what else could he possibly need to satisfy him?" questioned Chuck again, depressively angry, accepting the possibility of Doink's suggestion. His finger tips began clanking against the laminate table top like jumbling torpedoes, one hot fuse away from erupting. "Everything he needs is right here! He's got us, and we've got our routine; everything that we need is right here!" The tapping finger tips exploded into a raging fist that pounded the surface of the table top. The plates and glasses jumped.

"Yeah, but I still think he wants to do more with his life," replied Doink, unaffected by the outburst of wrath.

"Do you think he's getting bored with everything? Do you think he's looking for new partners?" Chuck fearfully asked, regretting the question as soon as it fled his mouth, fearing the answer that Doink may respond with.

"Maybe," responded Doink. Doink had little interest in Chuck's concern, as he was consumed by the articulate complexity of his sandwich, propping another segmented piece of grilled cheese onto his fork.

Chuck deeply analyzed Doink's haphazard suggestions. He grew insecure, thinking that Sammy may actually be growing bored with the monotonous, daily routine of running a muck with him and Doink through Awful, Ohio, holding up store owners for all of their goods. Chuck Splatter began to envision his next encounter with Sammy, being informed by Sammy that he was now going to start working with Wilsie McHickoryboob, the investigative journalist who was incapable of finding anything on Mad Ted, and that he and Doink were left to handle the rest of their lives on their own. The thought was hurtful.

"I don't know what to think. If he is looking to replace us, then we've got to stop it from happening!" concluded Chuck, scared and uninformed. "We're just going to have to find something on Mad Ted before Wilsie does, to prove our worth to Sammy. That way Sammy will need us to stick around, because of the information that we have, making us more important than Wilsie!" Chuck Splatter then grabbed the knife, and began tapping the blunt end against the laminate table top that pretended to be marble, sounding like a nervous woodpecker, hoping it would energize his mind into discovering the information on Mad Ted that he was searching for.

Doink McTriggers swallowed a dismembered portion of his sandwich. He grabbed a napkin to wipe off the debris that sprinkled the edge of his compressed lips. He responded calmly, disinterested, "Yeah, it would be great if we could come up with something. But I just don't think it's worth putting too much into it. Wilsie hasn't found anything. So it seems pretty clear that we're not going to be able to come up with much either."

"No!" shouted Chuck Splatter, powered by the tapping knife. He was concerned with Doink's motives, now questioning his reasoning. "We can't just roll over dead like this! We have to find something useful on Mad Ted! It is what Sammy wants, and we will find something that will help Sammy overtake Mad Ted's power, so that he may liberate Awful, Ohio! It is for the sake of Sammy, our friend, and for the sake of us!" Chuck sat back in the booth, remembering all of the debauchery with Sammy Ammo, imposing purpose into his life. It was meaningful and encouraging, offering Chuck a destiny that was missing from his life, before the day he witnessed Sammy amalgamate with the pistol in the alley. Chuck felt that there was no essence in his life without Sammy, and was determined to be the source of the information that Sammy was searching for.

But before Doink was able to respond to the concerns that Chuck was presenting, a stranger emerged from the surroundings of Loogie's diner. The stranger was dressed recklessly and greasy, purposely approaching the booth that was hosting Chuck and Doink. The stranger sat down beside Doink McTriggers, sitting with a loud poof as his body compressed all the way to the base board of the booth, unsupported by the broken springs. Both Doink and Chuck stared at the stranger, focused on his actions to discover his intent. The stranger prepared himself by clearing his throat, but was hindered by the unsightly appearance that was Chuck Splatter. The stranger thus switched booths, sitting beside Chuck Splatter so that he would not have to stare at him. The stranger was Troy Slushy, whose purpose was unknowingly embodied in the solution that Chuck Splatter was seeking.

"Gentlemen, we're all in grave danger!" Troy spoke quickly, to emphasize the importance of the words that he was about to tell Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers. He kept turning his head around, as if to keep an eye out for someone that was coming after him, giving the donors the impression that everything that he was saying was honest. Chuck Splatter's and Doink McTriggers' attention was refocused onto the unexpected entrance of Troy Slushy into their booth, as they were no longer relaxed.

"I am bearing valuable information that I managed to retrieve through unbelievable methods that no one would believe. This information will affect all of Awful, Ohio and its citizens for the worst! It is crucial that you deliver this message to your leader so that the catastrophe that my information is predicting is prevented!" recited Troy, twitching with paranoia.

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers looked at one another. They weren't sure what to make of the stranger and they were sure what to make of the information that he claimed to have. Chuck ceased tapping the knife on the table, as he was intrigued by the statements that the stranger was saying. He didn't believe that Troy was speaking with truth, and felt that he was playing a prank on him. But instead of unleashing some corrective wrath, he decided to play along with the statements of Troy Slushy, signaling to Doink to question the stranger's intentions.

"What is this danger that we are all in?" questioned Doink.

Troy Slushy lowered his head towards the table, so not to be seen by anyone, and he then began speaking slowly, and quietly.

"The information that I am endowed with is sought by the authorities. They are attempting to stop me from speaking the truth!" announced Troy. His face flexed in wild folds of paranoia.

"So what is this truth that you have that is so important," mocked Chuck Splatter, smirking. Doink was listening, also smirking with sarcasm.

"The information that I have will affect the rest of your lives if the proper actions are not executed." Troy Slushy spoke with a stoic face, reciting his lines with strict precision, so that the two donors would respond with seriousness. "Within forty-eight hours, Awful, Ohio will be under a full assault by an alien invasion!"

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers lost any chance of taking the stranger seriously. They began laughing wildly, mimicking whirly noises like a UFO, asking if the aliens were going to be little green men that were coming to Awful, Ohio to eat all the cattle. Troy was upset that they were not cooperating with the script, jeopardizing the authenticity the script needed. He felt his reputation as an actor being threatened by not being able to extract the most important lines necessary for the script. Troy began to feel the emotions within his own being, allowing him to transcend through the pretended situation, and transform it into a reality.

Troy slammed his fist on the table, screaming, "listen to me! You and this entire city are going to be destroyed if you don't do something about this!" Troy was grinding his teeth, breathing quickly through his mouth that wheezed like the snarls of a growling jaguar. Panic traveled through his veins, believing that aliens were on the brink of invasion.

Doink and Chuck stopped laughing. They were startled by the anger, no longer taking the situation lightly. They sat there silently, until Doink had managed to respond, "How do you know this?" Doink spoke slowly. He was having a difficult time releasing these words from his mouth, considering the content of extraterrestrials and world invasion, not wanting to give the subject matter such serious consideration. Troy was able to calm down, pleased to have gotten their attention.

"Two nights ago, I was laying in my bed. I heard a noise in the kitchen, so I went up to investigate the noise. When I walked into the kitchen, a bright, strong light was overwhelming my being, knocking me down on the floor. I hit my head hard. Here! you can feel the bump!" Troy offered the bump that he earned in Baltazar's log cabin to Doink and Chuck, hoping they would be even more convinced of the validity of the subject matter. However, both donors declined to rub his bump.

"But anyway, the light was so blinding and so thick that I was unable to see anything around me. It was like I was in a pool of white stuff! I couldn't tell where I was, I couldn't tell if I was alive anymore, I wasn't able to distinguish anything. Then, I couldn't feel the kitchen floor beneath me anymore. Gravity had disappeared, as well as temperature and my clothes." Troy was theatrically waving his hands through the air, describing his abduction as an experience in a changing chute.

"I wasn't sure what was going on. I was scared. But then, the lights began to dim down. I was now resting on the floor of a different location. I was still naked, but I was no longer in my home. I tried to move my body, but I was paralyzed. All I could do was rotate my head and try to make out my surroundings. I was in an oval room, resting on the floor. The room was very clean, but it had an odor that I wasn't able to make out. It made my eyes water, blurring my vision. The walls of the room were lined with paintings. I was having a difficult time seeing the paintings, because of my blurred vision, but it appeared that the paintings wouldn't face me. I kept trying to rotate my head so that I could get some sort of visual. But every time I would try to look at them, they would rotate in the opposite direction. I couldn't see anything, but then there was a distinct noise that sounded like movements of multiple objects. And then, I was raised from the floor, and implanted into a chair that I didn't even know was there! I was still paralyzed, naked, but warm. I think I was comfortable, but I can't remember all that well."

Troy Slushy jumbled as many recollected memories together as he could gather. Before engaging with the scene, Baltazar had directed to Troy that the more redundant details the monologue would contain, then the more believable the situation will be for the donors, regardless of logical accountability. Chuck and Doink remained sitting in the booth, frozen at the details that the stranger was reciting to them. They were focused, entertained, and in disbelief of their own excitement, eager to hear the conclusion of the stranger's remarkable story.

"But as I was sitting in this chair, the noise formulated into a language. But I wasn't receiving the noise through my ears. The noise was vibrating from the chair!" Troy began to pound the booth to add affect to the story, but it was muffled by the broken springs. But he continued "The vibrations carried through my body, landing into my brain. These vibrations coming from the chair were communication vibrations, and I was able to understand everything that these vibrations had to say. Apparently, the aliens, as they had told me later on, had injected me with a gelatin worm that had wiggled into my brain, allowing me to understand their language. They spoke a ticklish language, crawling all over my naked body, like the lice of a massaging bed in a hotel room." Troy thought the description would dub him as Awful, Ohio's poet laureate.

"But the vibrations explained to me that I was aboard an alien space ship, from a distant planet. Apparently, the aliens had done some tests and analysis on my body. They were searching for weaknesses of the human body, so that the aliens could discover the easiest way to exterminate the human population from Awful, Ohio, so that the extraterrestrials could take it for themselves."

Chuck and Doink's faces began to elongate. Their mouths had opened, as they were hypnotized by the information. They remained frozen in their seats, and flabbergasted to what they were hearing. They wanted more. Troy was watching their reactions, subconsciously praising his performance.

"They then returned me back to Awful, Ohio," concluded Troy, as he ran out of details, abruptly finishing the story without any closure.

"Well, what else did they tell you? They must have said more to you," rebutted Chuck, anxious for more information. His body was frozen, locked into the booth, unable to be released from the position until it was able to receive the information.

"Yeah," reinforced Doink. "What else did they tell you?"

"More details!" shouted a distant voice from a nearby booth. It was Baltazar Garcia, recording everything being discussed in the booth, hoping to give Troy some guidance.

But Troy had used up all of his detailing resources. Loogie's was a troubling location for Troy to improvise his actions. It was very dull inside, and it lacked the motivation that he needed to continue his monologue to the donors. His forehead began to collect beads of sweat, as his wrists and hand started to become balmy. He began to look around Loogie's for some type of inspiration to help construct a conclusion to offer to the questioning donors.

"What are you looking around for? Do you see any authorities?" asked Chuck, lowering his head towards the table, also concerned of being seen by the authorities.

"Why, yes!" praised Troy, going along with it. "Ever since I returned, I've had this inclination that there has been someone, or thing following me. I'm confident that it is the Awful, Ohio authorities," repeated Troy, forgetting that he had already mentioned the paranoia of being followed.

"Yeah, we're always on the lookout for them too," spoke Doink, lowering his head.

Chuck and Doink looked around for anyone that may have looked suspicious. Troy continued looking for inspiration, glad that he was able to buy some time. He looked down onto the laminate table pretending to be marble, and then like an answer to a prayer, a bright, red bottle of hot sauce was resting on the laminate counter top of the table at their booth. It spoke: " _Mad Ted's Uckin Hot Auce_." Motivation once again filled throughout his body, as he had now discovered the solution to his problem that he was going to use to convince the donors. And that was the closure that Troy needed.

"Gentlemen," Doink and Chuck stopped looking around Loogie's, refocused on Troy. "As I was sitting inside of what I believe was a flying saucer, I was informed by the extraterrestrials through their vibrations that their home planet was on the brink of destruction. So years ago, they had sent a lone, courageous member of their alien race to Awful, Ohio. The alien member's mission was to herd the human population, enforcing them to construct a massive city, so that the aliens may then invade the area, and live in the city after the humans have constructed the city. This alien member was to create a monetary currency, derived from fabricated value that would entice the Awful, Ohio population into creating the habitat for their own personal desire."

"How is an entire planet worth of aliens supposed to live in one city?" reasoned Doink McTriggers, interrupting with his rationality.

Troy was growing agitated by the reasoning, but knew that a great actor would not be hindered by the limits of logic.

"Well," Troy started slowly, "the aliens are the size of hamsters. So they have a large enough population to fill a planet, but because they are so small, they only take up a smaller amount of space. So all of Awful, Ohio will be large enough to house all of the members of the distant planet." Troy was relieved at the rebuttal he was able to provide, praising his improvisational skills that only reinforced his belief that he was rising talent in the acting scene.

"Who is the alien member?" questioned Chuck and Doink, at the same time.

The question whacked Troy in the face with earnest ambitions, as he had prepared the perfect answer for the anticipated question that he was desperately trying to extract. He calmed himself down from overreacting with the opportunity, and with sternness and discipline, he remarked, "the alien member is Mad Ted."

The answer tolled through Chuck and Doink. They immediately looked at one another, staring deeply, as they both were abducted into excitement by the information that had just been delivered to them. They were relieved of all fear of being replaced by Wilsie McHickoryboob, as they had discovered the information that they were going to deliver to Sammy Ammo. They wanted more information and demanded to know more.

"Mad Ted?! Tell us more!"

Troy stuttered, caught off guard by the excitement that his performance was receiving. He started to develop more details on Mad Ted, fearlessly knowing that whatever he would say would be believable because of his exceptional acting skills.

"Well, decades ago, before Awful, Ohio became the economic success that it is today, it was a small, shabby location, with very little structures and very little production. It started to really become successful once Mad Ted opened his hot sauce factory into the area. That's when 'money,' really started to become abundant into the area. And this 'money' was used to herd all of the population, and it helped increase the population, and it was used to trick people into constructing all the buildings and structures that create Awful, Ohio."

"Yeah, it all makes sense," responded Chuck Splatter to the misconceived statement lacking empirical evidence. Chuck Splatter was enlightened with this new knowledge. "Money does control everyone in Awful, Ohio."

"And Mad Ted has been the director behind all of it," reinforced Troy, continuing the fallacy.

"Yeah, but Mad Ted doesn't look like any alien," suggested Doink, thinking that Mad Ted's odd appearance was completely normal.

"You're right!" agreed Troy. He was growing more frustrated with Doink and the rational questions deduced from his observations. But Troy knew that an actor of his caliber would not have any problems delivering the response to the donor's rebuttal, and offered the following reason:

"That's because Mad Ted wears a human suit. The cockpit is actually Mad Ted's head. You see, the hamster-sized alien sits inside of Mad Ted's head, where it controls the body of Mad Ted with lots of controls, switches, and toggles. All of these controls are powered by a master computer processing chip that is more powerful than all of Awful, Ohio's processing chips combined. This chip is how Mad Ted is capable of being so successfully efficient. And this alien has been living in that suit for decades, utilizing this computer processing chip, herding all of Awful, Ohio, for the benefit of the alien invasion that will take place in forty-eight hours."

Chuck Splatter leaned across the table to whisper something to Doink McTriggers.

"I can't believe what I'm hearing. We've got to get this information to Sammy right away! I mean, that computer processing chip is exactly what Sammy is going to be looking for! We have to go find Sammy as soon as possible!" demanded Chuck.

Doink readily agreed. Doink removed himself from the booth, leaving his unfinished grilled cheese sandwich. Chuck pushed Troy Slushy out of the way, to leave with Doink, as Troy fell hard to the tiled floor.

"Hey, where are you going?" recited Troy, from the floor.

Chuck turned around to answer, "we've got to get this information to someone who knows what to do with it." Chuck Splatter was forceful with his response, as he and Doink made their way out of Loogie's Diner, without paying for their grilled cheese sandwiches, or leaving a tip for Claire.

Troy Slushy was still laying on the floor, as Baltazar Garcia emerged from the concealed booth, gloating, "Troy, that was brilliant! You were able to extract everything and more for the script! They believed everything that you said, and not only that, they had responded to everything that you said with accurate responses that will work perfectly into the script!"

Baltazar was very excited with the work that he just witnessed, as he helped remove Troy Slushy from the floor. They both took a seat into the booth that Chuck and Doink had just vacated.

"How were you able to come up with all of that great material, Troy?" questioned Baltazar.

"Well, Baltazar," responded Troy, puffing out his chest, huffing on his knuckles like he had just defeated an enemy with ease, "it really just depends on the person. Some people have it, and others don't." Troy propped his feet onto the table, leaning back into the broken springs. He grabbed a piece of unfinished grilled cheese sandwich, and apathetically started eating away at the leftovers.

"Well, Troy, that was incredible, and that's the end of the script," responded Baltazar, holding the thick manuscript in his hands, showing it to Troy. The news was refreshing, as both Troy and Baltazar relaxed in the broken springs, anticipating the great rewards that they expected to receive from their hard work.

The success that Troy believed he was guaranteed to receive as the next great actor in Hollywood inflated his hubris, concealing his hatred for the sun, and his desire to voyage into the infinite darkness of the west with Lacy. He imagined glam and fortune, receiving large contracts from big time, Hollywood executives after displaying his acting talents. Troy Slushy remained in the booth, feet propped up, enjoying the leftovers of Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers, as he was quietly thinking of the great life that awaited him, as the next great actor.

## Chapter 15

**Clearly, none of this is a coincidence**.

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers walked through Loogie's Diner, towards the exit doors. Chuck Splatter was determined to bring their newly discovered information on Mad Ted to Sammy Ammo. It was a divine message that Chuck believed he received, removing all of his worries, and replacing them with uplifting confidence. Chuck envisioned Sammy rejoicing with the news, as it would deliver him everything that he sought, praising Chuck with attention for all of the credit. Chuck took his vision further, as he then imagined Sammy Ammo forcefully demanding Wilsie to remove her worthless mind and body from their presence. Chuck began smiling, as his revenge birthed an image of Wilsie being humiliated, incapable of retrieving information on Mad Ted, forever imposing the truth within her mind that she was a journalistic failure.

Chuck Splatter would forever be grateful for his desire of that grilled cheese sandwich. Thoughts of the three of them, wreaking havoc through Awful, Ohio, earning the goods that they were entitled to, portrayed nostalgic images through Chuck's head. It was pleasant and blissful.

As they approached the exit of Loogie's Diner, Chuck and Doink anticipated the same chaos that they experienced when searching for Loogie's; foot traffic flooding through the sidewalks, and busy automobiles squeezing through every open space to inch closer to their destination. Chuck and Doink pushed through the exit doors, ready to embrace and fend off the voracious crowds. They clenched their fists, bulged their biceps, and broadened their shoulders, ready to muscle their way through the anticipated chaos to get to Sammy. They punched through the exit, slamming the doors hard against the aluminum exterior of Loogie's Diner, conceiving a thunderous noise that echoed down barren streets. But to the surprise of Chuck and Doink, instead of chaotic waves of anxious citizens and cars rummaging through the sidewalks and streets to exchange currency for debris, there was nothing.

The noise of the slamming door vacated through empty streets, leaving Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers alone in silence. There were no noises echoing off the buildings, and there were no cars or citizens chaotically searching for material to exchange for their money. There was no foot traffic to fight through, and there were no anxious cars to dodge out of the way from. The sidewalks and streets were clear, void of all of Awful, Ohio's busy bodies. Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers remained standing in front of Loogie's Diner, unsure of what to make of the lifeless surroundings that never occurred in center city of Awful, Ohio.

They looked to their left, searching for anything, then looked over to their right, only to see the same emptiness on both sides. The sun was out, bright, and illuminating with warmth, which normally unites the masses towards center city of Awful, Ohio. But apparently, the warmth wasn't appealing enough to unite the masses. A tumbleweed dribbled through the streets, blown by the lonely wind, rolling past Loogie's Diner, searching for someone to play with. The wind blew up to the soiled flag, hoisted above Loogie's Diner, gently flapping, releasing some of its debris. The debris fell from the sky, landing softly into the hair of Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers, and the surrounding area, creating a soft tune from the contact of the ground that was loud enough for Chuck and Doink to hear.

The center city of Awful, Ohio had become desolate. Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers weren't exactly sure what to make of it. They had remembered all of the punishing chaos that they had to embrace in order to find Loogie's Diner, and they had anticipated the same discomfort of the punishing chaos when exiting Loogie's Diner. But rather than the anticipated discomfort, a warm breeze wrapped around their bodies like a protective blanket, encapsulating the details of their figures, freezing into a solid mold. Chuck and Doink stepped forward, breaking free from the mold, as the empty space filled with warm air.

They walked down the empty street of center city of Awful, Ohio, fearless of the rampaging automobiles that drove without mercy. They drifted through the streets, carried by the warm rays of light that coated their bodies in bliss and comfort. Their chaotic anticipation evaporated from their beings, as they began to overflow with sensations of serenity. There was a lot of space that they were able to enjoy without the hindrance of other beings, and a lot of actions that they could enjoy doing without worrying about the judgment of spectators. They eyed up all of the defenseless stores, debating which one to enter into first, discussing all of the booty that they were going to help themselves to. They started running back and forth, enjoying the limitless freedom. Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers were laughing like they had when they were school children, playing tag in the streets, chasing one another gaily around the light posts and mail boxes. They had temporarily forgotten their purpose, unconcerned with delivering the message to Sammy Ammo, as the quiet desolation of the empty streets rewarded their inner ambitions with innocence.

But their enjoyment was promptly terminated. A powerful noise could be heard from above, encroaching closer to the game of tag taking place on the surface of Awful, Ohio. The vacant streets condensed with the punishing sound waves, as it continuously chopped through the sky, directly above them. It was loud and intimidating, echoing back and forth from the walls of every building. Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers stopped their game of tag, analyzing the noise to unveil the source. They expected the source of the noise to be from all of the citizens stampeding through the streets, thinking that they had not realized that today was the Awful Marathon. The looked down to the end of the street, awaiting the herd of marathon runners, unaware that the noise was coming from above.

But instead, a blinding light, brighter than the sun, incarcerated their bodies. An aerial device hovered directly overtop of them, spewing a spotlight from its belly, entrapping both Chuck and Doink, locking them beneath the light, immobilizing them. They were frozen, unsure of everything that was taking place before them, as their minds raced for answers. The divine stranger from Loogie's Diner and his divine message was fresh in their minds, offering the only conclusion to the current anomaly that they were experiencing, as they both then thought that all of the Awful, Ohio population had been abducted, leaving them both as the sole survivors to fend for their lives.

"Are these the aliens?" Doink asked Chuck, attempting to break free from the imprisoning light, reaching for Chuck Splatter to tag him back.

"I'm not sure, Doink," replied Chuck, trying to squirm away, so not to get tagged.

But Chuck's response wasn't assuring, as Doink's mind constructed images of flying saucers, terrorizing Awful, Ohio from the heavens, beaming his helpless body into their science induced possession. He envisioned aliens probing him, dissecting his body for scientific analysis, rearranging his body in perverse ways, until his segmented body parts would be transformed into trophies, rewarding the alien surgeons of their earthly discoveries.

"Chuck, I don't want to be abducted. I really don't want to be abducted! I'm scared Chuck! I can't be removed from earth! My body works best the way that it is!" Doink started hyperventilating, as his imagination transformed into futuristic provisions, fearful of being mounted onto a laboratory table, light years away from Awful, Ohio, having his body segmented into trophy bits, perched on the mantels of the alien scientists. His heart beat quickly, twitching every nerve, rattling his internal organs like maracas. "Chuck, I can't move. I want to run. I can't run! Oh my god! They're going to take us, Chuck!"

"Would you shut up!" responded Chuck, yelling, as the hovering craft continued pounding its furious sounds against the surroundings. Chuck wasn't so sure that it was an alien spacecraft that was directly over top of them, but he wasn't able to tell because of how blinding the light was. Chuck Splatter shifted to his body enough so that the light above him would no longer flood his eyes, so that he could make out the aerial structure. Also, so that he would be too far away from Doink to tag him back.

Chuck had to blink a few times, but once his eyes were free from the blinding light, he was able to regain focus, and the object that took shape before his clarifying vision was not a flying saucer, but instead a black helicopter. The blades were whirling quickly, holding the body of the helicopter in the sky, as the side door was propped open, withholding a human hanging from the propped door. The human was wearing dark sunglasses, shielding all eye contact, dressed in a black uniform, holding a megaphone.

"A perfect disguise for an alien hamster," conspired Chuck, freshly influenced from the divine stranger's message in Loogie's Diner.

Chuck Splatter avoided eye contact with the individual propped from the helicopter, avoiding obligation to acknowledge the individual. Chuck then moved his eyes over to some scripture that was tagged on the side of the helicopter. He read it silently, anticipating some undecipherable, alien language. But to Chuck's surprise, he was able to decipher the scripture, understanding all of it, which translated into "Awful's Coercive Prevention Force."

"Oh shit," whimpered Chuck Splatter, realizing that they were not aliens.

"What, what is it, Chuck?" responded Doink, hysterically. "Are they beaming us up?"

"No Doink! It's the authorities! Quick, we gotta get outta here!"

Doink and Chuck broke free from the spotlight, realizing that their fear was the only thing keeping them locked beneath the light.

"Stop where you are!" shouted the man holding the megaphone, hovering with the helicopter.

Doink McTriggers and Chuck Splatter ran for their lives. They weaved and bobbed through the empty streets, cutting away from the mailboxes, crisscrossing through the street lights just to avoid the menacing aerial vehicle. But no matter how quickly they ran, they could hear the punishing chopper pounding the air directly behind them. The noise bounced off every wall of every building, as it gained ground on Chuck and Doink. The spotlight nipped at their heels, as the helicopter was only inches away, as the man with the megaphone continuously demanded them to stop running immediately.

But Doink and Chuck did the opposite, as they quickly turned into the seclusion of an alleyway, hoping that it would provide enough cover from the menacing helicopter. But the helicopter grew louder, with their surroundings beginning to glow from the encroaching spotlight. The plangent sound vibrated back and forth against the enclosed walls of the buildings, rattling the fear exposed ground, terrorizing both Chuck and Doink with the heavy spotlight. Chuck and Doink had no where else to run, as they reached the end of the alley.

They turned their backs to the wall, compressing their bodies as hard as they could, hoping that they would miraculously dematerialize into the building through the solid brick structure. But their bodies remained whole, as they faced the approaching helicopter and its ensnaring light. They anticipated their arms and legs being shackled together, bound to the insides of the helicopter, as they would then be hauled off to Awful, Ohio's prison. Chuck and Doink grabbed each other's hand, fearful of the end, as they then looked into one another's eyes, expressing to each other all of the enjoyable moments that they had shared together up until that very moment of panic.

"Welp, this is it," admitted Doink, ready to accept his fate.

But before Chuck could respond with some condoling words, another voice was overheard.

"Hey, over here!"

Both Chuck and Doink looked over to their right, and there was Wilsie McHickoryboob, propping out of a door attached to the abandoned building that they had all originally departed from after the interrogation. She was waving wildly, expecting her extended efforts to bring them towards her faster. Her mackerel sized ears were waving just as wildly, pushing the air beneath her body, almost uplifting her into the sky.

Chuck and Doink released each other's hands, hoping Wilsie didn't see anything. They peeled their bodies from the building, leaving imprints of their figures in the brick, and they ran into the propped door, ducking inside of the abandoned building, just before the eyes in the helicopter could see where they had gone.

***

Wilsie McHickoryboob slammed the door behind them, as both Chuck and Doink fell onto their knees, gasping for air. The room was dark, with plenty of cold air to offer their hot lungs, as they inhaled heavily, feeding their over worked bodies.

"Who knows what they would have done to us," exhaled Doink, attempting to fill his body with oxygen. Doink looked up towards Wilsie, relieved that she was there to let them into the abandoned building, saying "thank you."

Chuck Splattered elbowed Doink sharply in the ribs, discouraging Doink from offering Wilsie any praise. But Doink was unaffected, as he was too relieved. "For a brief moment, I had an out of body experience. I was able to envision the future, and I could see myself, screaming and kicking as I was being apprehended by the Awful, Ohio authorities, where they then mercilessly sentenced me to an eternity in the Awful, Ohio prison."

"Why would you think that?" questioned Wilsie, listening to Doink's story. She analyzed the both of them, thinking that they were two imbeciles unaware of anything around them. "They would have just relocated you both to their safety locations. They are scouring the area for anyone that is outside."

Wilsie was calm with her response, opposing the hysterical and theatrical ideas that were formulating inside the minds of Chuck and Doink. They both had envisioned the Coercive Prevention Force helicopter permanently incarcerating them because of their history of misbehavior. But instead Wilsie had simplified the purpose of Awful's Coercive Prevention Force as a public service, offering aid to those in need.

"What? What safety locations? Why are they doing that?" interrupted Doink, still panting while resting his upper body on his knees.

"Where have you both been in that past few hours?" criticized Wilsie, empowering her knowledge over the uninformed, shocked at how unaware they were of the important events taking place. "It's been all over the papers and everywhere in the news. I mean, no story in the existence of Awful, Ohio has ever gotten so much coverage."

Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers both looked at one another, unaware of how unaware they were, listening to what Wilsie was talking about, as she was guiding them into the belly of the abandoned building, towards the boiler room.

"There have been numerous reports in the past hour of people reporting to have been abducted by aliens. All of the abductees are prophesizing the mass destruction of Awful, Ohio and the genocide of all its citizens. It is all over the front pages of the _Awful Gazette_." Wilsie began to lead them both further into the abandoned building. Doink was subdued by Wilsie's information, as another out of body experience overcame him, projecting a futuristic image of him watching his decapitated body being dissected on a laboratory table by the little, hamster sized aliens, as his separated head watched from the isolation of a liquid filled jar from the corner of a room.

But Chuck was more focused on Wilsie's comfort in the abandoned building, rather than her breaking news report. He watched her walking in front of him, barricading through the hallway, like it was an underground bunker. Her shoulders were prominently confident, as her pony tail strongly strapped over her clavicle like a body guard, ready to fend off all enemy insurgents. Chuck Splatter thought it was odd for someone who was kidnapped and interrogated in that same building to be cruising through it so comfortably. Chuck thought it would have been more appropriate had he seen Wilsie cowering in fear at the sight of him and Doink, pressing deep into the confining shadows, so not to be seen by her kidnappers.

Chuck Splatter believed that something occurred while he was in Loogie's Diner, something to displace all the fears that Wilsie McHickoryboob should be going through. Possibly a reassuring encounter with Sammy Ammo? Chuck just couldn't figure it out. He was growing increasingly paranoid. But regardless of his skepticism, Wilsie continued leading the way, as Chuck and Doink both followed, further into the abandoned building, advancing closer to the boiler room, as Wilsie proceeded to inform them of what they were unaware of.

"These articles explain the warnings that the abducted Awful, Ohio citizens are professing." Wilsie had the articles in her hand, turning around to show Chuck and Doink.

"Supposedly," Wilsie continued, "every one of them was crusading through center city today, pronouncing the alien invasions that are about to take place. No one believed them, of course. But after they were all questioned, all of their stories matched up!"

Chuck Splatter was frustrated at having to listen to Wilsie, and even more frustrated for having to rely on her for information. He felt inferior, submissively listening and following her towards the boiler room, as if the years of working with Sammy Ammo no longer held any value. The tender flesh constructing his misaligned face began to swell from the anger-induced heat, as it began to conquer all of his nerves. Chuck Splatter involuntarily leaned forward, balancing on the tips of his toes, ready to lunge towards Wilsie and strangle her neck until she was permanently incapable of ejecting words from her mouth. But before he could commit to his intentions, a gentle fly glided through the air, softly hovering above Wilsie's shoulder, ready to ease down for a smooth landing. But on high alert, her pony tail launched out like the tongue of a frog, grabbing a hold of the fly before it could land. The tips of her hair quickly tied around separate parts of the fly's body, pulling away in every direction, dismembering the fly in several pieces, before engulfing each body part. Chuck Splatter prevented his assault, as he watched the pony tail devour the fly, one body part at a time, with each portion protruding from the surface of Wilsie's pony tail, like the outline of a freshly swallowed fawn entering into the evaporating bowels of a satisfied python. Chuck fell back onto the heels of his feet, keeping his distance from Wilsie's overseer, as he allowed every hammering word of information, spewing from Wilsie McHickoryboob's mouth, to wallop him on the head, driving him further down the hierarchal ladder.

"Multiple sources had confessed to the alien invasion," Wilsie further explained. "They were all flocking wildly through center city, preaching of the aliens and their destructive intentions. They had all described the same story, how they had been abducted, and how they had forgotten about the abduction because of a mind erasing praxis. But then they all remembered, because one individual had not been induced to the mind erasing praxis. Supposedly, that one individual that sought everyone that was abducted, to remind them all of the abduction, is the chosen one!"

Wilsie spoke with deep appreciation, thankful that the chosen one had been relieved from the mind-erasing praxis induced by the aliens, so that he could bring forth this important information. She thought that this individual, deemed as the chosen one, was a messenger, warning them from the aliens' damnation. She thought of the messenger the same way one would think of a protective angel, unaware that it was actually Troy Slushy and his scripted intentions.

"Clearly, none of this is a coincidence!" she reaffirmed.

Chuck Splatter felt his worth reduced, as he submissively listened to Wilsie McHickoryboob, accepting all of her statements as true. And worst of all, as bothersome and unnerving as it was, Chuck felt compelled to continue listening to Wilsie for more information, as he wanted to know what else was going on in Awful, Ohio, only reinforcing his submission as an inferior cohort.

"So where is everyone?" questioned Chuck, quick to ask the obvious question, hoping to at least keep Doink at the bottom of the hierarchal ladder. Chuck tried looking into Wilsie's eyes while asking the question, but she remembered his facial impairment and refused to make eye contact. The loveless neglect painfully surged through Chuck Splatter, compressing his jaw, causing his teeth to grind loudly. Chuck Splatter continued following, hating every ounce of lipid flesh that was Wilsie McHickoryboob.

"The mayor had learned of the information," Wilsie continued, "taking immediate action. Here, his entire announcement is listed in this article." Wilsie handed Chuck a newspaper that was headlined:

Special Edition: Alien Invasion In Awful, Ohio!

Doink pulled up closely to Chuck, tagging him, then reading the following, front paged announcement with Chuck, spoken from the Awful, Ohio Mayor:

"FROM NOW UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, AWFUL, OHIO IS UNDER COMPLETE LOCK DOWN. I AM ISSUING A PANIC OF EMERGENCY, AND ALL CITIZENS MUST REMAIN INSIDE OF THEIR HOMES, AND SHELTER THEMSELVES FROM ALL EXTRATERRESTRIALS INVADING AWFUL, OHIO. ANY SAUCER SHAPED STRUCTURE, FLOATING IN THE AIR, IS OTHERWORLDLY, AND SHOULD NOT BE APPROACHED. IT SHOULD BE TREATED WITH EXTREME FEAR, AS IT IS THERE TO INFLICT HARM AND DANGER TO ALL OF US. I HAVE ISSUED AWFUL'S COERCIVE PREVENTION FORCE TO CLEAR THE STREETS OF ANYONE WHO HAS NOT FOUND SHELTER FROM THE INVADING ALIENS THAT ARE CERTAINLY GOING TO INVADE OUR STUPENDOUS CITY, AND CAUSE CIVILIAN HARM. ONCE THE COERCIVE PREVENTION FORCE HAS AFFIRMED THAT THE STREETS AND SIDEWALKS OF AWFUL, OHIO HAVE BEEN CLEARED, AND THAT ALL OF THE CITIZENS ARE IN FACT LOCKED SAFELY WITHIN THE SHELTERS OF THEIR OWN HOMES, THE COERCIVE PREVENTION FORCE WILL ENGAGE IN OPERATION BLACKOUT. AWFUL, OHIO WILL BE ENTIRELY BLOTTED OFF THE MAP, SO THAT ANY INVADING EXTRATERRESTRIAL WILL BE UNABLE TO DISCOVER THE LOCATION OF AWFUL, OHIO, AND PREVENT THEM FROM CAUSING ANY MORE HARM TO OUR BEAUTIFUL CIVILIANS.

"IN THE MEAN TIME, WHOEVER IS THE ABDUCTED INDIVIDUAL THAT DID NOT UNDERGO THE MIND ERASING PRAXIS, DEPLOYED BY THE ALIENS, PLEASE SURRENDER YOURSELF TO THE AUTHORITIES. WE WISH YOU NO HARM, AS WE ONLY WANT YOUR KNOWLEDGE, AS YOU ARE THE ONLY RELIABLE SOURCE OF ABDUCTED INFORMATION, AS YOU HAVE NOT BEEN HARMED BY THE MIND ERASING PRAXIS. ANYONE BARING KNOWLEDGE OF THE ABDUCTED INDIVIDUAL THAT DID NOT UNDERGO THE MIND ERASING PRAXIS, PLEASE BRING THAT INFORMATION FORWARD. IT IS EMINENT THAT WE FIND OUT AS MUCH OF THE ALIENS' INTENTIONS THAT WE CAN FIND, SO THAT WE MAY BE BETTER PREPARED FOR THEIR INVASION.

"I WILL INFORM YOU ALL WHEN IT IS APPROPRIATELY SAFE TO LEAVE THE SAFETY OF YOUR HOMES, WHEN WE HAVE CONFIRMATION FROM THE COERCIVE PREVENTION FORCE THAT AWFUL, OHIO IS ONCE AGAIN ONE OF THE MOST SHELTERED PLACES ON EARTH. I HOPE THAT ALL OF YOU REMAIN IN PEACE, KNOWING THAT THESE ALIENS ARE NOT COMING IN PEACE, AND HOPE THAT WE ARE ALL SOON RELIEVED FROM THESE UNFORTUNATE INCIDENTS OF EVENTS."

The announcement of the mayor conjoined with the information that Chuck and Doink had received earlier that day from the stranger, reinforcing the message of alien invasions. Both of their view points on reality had just transformed, with life's meaning and importance exploding beyond the realm of money and materialistic possessions. They were now dealing with otherworldly creatures entering into their cosmic equation. Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers both remained silent, contemplating life's new equation.

"Holy smokes," recited Doink McTriggers. "It really is happening." Doink had another out of body experience, foreseeing the future, envisioning his body caged in a zoo, located on a distant planet. He could see little alien children passing by, just to see the "earthling exhibit," as they all threw pellets and peanuts in his cage, to watch him eat off the floor.

"You're damn right this is really happening" insisted Sammy Ammo. Sammy Ammo emerged from the shadows of the boiler room, walking upright and poised in his torn clothing. His gun was shining, still warmly fused in the kneading palm of his caressing fin. He walked slowly towards the other three individuals, engaging into their conversation, seeking resolution. "And instead of being out there, trying to discover Mad Ted's intentions, we're stuck in here."

"Sammy, I didn't know you were here," responded Chuck Splatter, softly, unphased by Sammy Ammo's concerns. Chuck stared at Sammy Ammo, as he emerged from the shadows of the boiler room to stand beside Wilsie. Chuck looked in their direction, as their figures stood side by side in his visual periphery, realizing that the both of them had been alone while he and Doink were at Loogie's. Thoughts of Sammy and Wilsie flaunted through Chuck's mind, as he envisioned Wilsie engaging with Sammy in menacing acts of debauchery throughout Awful, Ohio. He envisioned Wilsie, helping Sammy retrieve the objects that they were entitled to, through the fearful store owners. He envisioned them running aimlessly through grocery stores, having their pick of food, and he envisioned Wilsie and Sammy helping themselves to the contents of every convenient ATM machine.

"Yeah, well, after you and Doink left," responded Sammy Ammo, "Wilsie and I tried to find anything we could on Mad Ted. We were making good progress. But then, all of these news reports of alien invasions were popping up, and then the masses were evacuated from the city, and Wilsie and I stowed away in here, not sure where else to go."

But Chuck was too preoccupied with his burning emotions to acknowledge Sammy's statement. The news of Sammy Ammo and Wilsie McHickoryboob working together caused Chuck Splatter's emotions to collide, generating friction that built exploding heat. A bowel colored mist began to surround Chuck Splatter, as the liquids inside of his heated body began to evaporate through his pores. Chuck Splatter continued growing with paranoia and envy, fearing that he was becoming increasingly replaced with every moment that Sammy Ammo and Wilsie McHickoryboob spent together.

"Are you alright?" questioned Doink, watching the mist evacuate from all of the ducts on Chuck Splatter's body.

But Chuck Splatter was unresponsive, as the increasing rage fueled the inferno building inside. The vision of Sammy and Wilsie burned Chuck Splatter's heart, as he felt betrayed, growing envious and wrathful. Chuck Splatter thought of Wilsie standing alone with Sammy in the abandoned building, planning their next great vicissitude, without the aid of Chuck. Chuck looked over to Wilsie, who was now comfortably sitting in the chair that she had originally been interrogated in, as if she had never been forcefully bound to the chair without her consent.

Chuck's mind began racing with fabricated conclusions of what took place in the boiler room, while he was busy being served a grilled cheese sandwich from Claire in Loogie's Diner. Chuck had to offer something to Sammy, to regain his value, as his mouth dropped open, to exhaust the burden of withholding the message that he received in Loogie's Diner, as it became clear to him that the message that he received was delivered by the chosen one, as dubbed by the mayor.

"Sammy!" Chuck interjected, thinking that if he spoke quickly he'd be able to recapture his worth, looking towards Sammy Ammo. All three of them were already staring at Chuck, unsure of what was happening to his body. But Chuck managed to proceed, "Doink and I have found valuable information on Mad Ted from the chosen one mentioned in the article."

The words echoed powerfully in the boiler room, like the revelation of an awakened minister, eradicating the vapors of the bowel colored mist like demons.

"What information!" cried Wilsie, ears wiggling mercilessly with the echoing vibrations. Her conceited desires ignored Chuck's intention of delivering the information to Sammy Ammo.

"What information did you both manage to find," replied Sammy, more calm, stepping towards Chuck. "Wilsie and I have both been searching and haven't been able to come up with anything. So what is it that you both were able to discover?"

"Well," Chuck started, recollecting his thoughts, increasingly intimidated by everything he could lose if he did not deliver the message correctly. The room became quiet again. Wilsie's and Sammy's visceral eyes shackled around Chuck's body, concealing him into the room, until he released the stranger's divine message.

"A long time ago, before Awful, Ohio was the economic success that it is today, an alien was sent to earth to herd all of the Awful, Ohio population. That alien was to have the herded population build Awful, Ohio. Then, after the alien had successfully herded all of the population into constructing Awful, Ohio, he would then signal to the aliens from another planet that the construction was completed. This is why all of these aliens are now coming to Awful, Ohio, because it is completed. The aliens are going to over take the civilians, and infringe onto the structures that the civilians built. That is why they've been abducting people, so that they can find our weaknesses." Chuck spoke, allowing the effects of the divine message to impose the importance on its own.

"Well, yeah. We already know that aliens are coming to Awful, Ohio, Chuck," responded Wilsie, unimpressed with her pony tail chiding behind her, not allowing Chuck to impose new information upon her. "All of that is listed here in these articles," Wilsie reaffirmed.

"Yeah, but what you don't know," rebutted Chuck, aggravated at Wilsie's attempt to talk over him, but remaining calm "is that Mad Ted is the alien that was sent to Awful, Ohio."

The information broke free from the confines of Chuck Splatter's mind, as it pounded against Wilsie's brain, slapping her hard with enough bravado to be on the front page of every circulated newspaper. Visions of awards and prizes began prancing through her mind, for bringing forth this illusive secret, exposing everything that was Mad Ted. Her pony tail started wagging, with her ears perking straight up, gathering every trinket of information that ejected from Chuck's mouth like a discovered treasure chest.

"From the information that I've discovered," continued Chuck, trying hard to remember the details of the stranger's message, "the alien is the size of a hamster, and the alien is living inside of Mad Ted's head. And inside of that head, are a bunch of control panels that the hamster-sized alien is using to operate the human suit that appears to be Mad Ted. And all of these control panels being operated by the alien has a computer processing chip that is more powerful than all of the combined computer processing chips in Awful, Ohio. This computer processing chip has allowed the alien to maximize its efficiency with minimal effort, allowing it to create such a successful industry."

The room remained quiet, as all of the information soaked into the absorbent minds of the beings inhabiting the room. Chuck exhaled, relieved that he was able to project the information accurately, as he awaited the responses.

"It all makes sense," Wilsie mumbled slowly, in disbelief. The impact of the information blinded Wilsie from all of her surroundings, hypnotically transforming her active awareness into an involuntary train of thought. She began to mutter everything that would sequence from this information, like a fortune teller deep in thought.

"This is why Mad Ted is so secretive. This is how he is able to transform all of his ideas into efficient forms of success, using otherworldly knowledge that has more sophistication and intelligence than anything on earth. This is clearly the most probable outcome," Wilsie determined, using what she believed to be exceptional use of logic. "Mad Ted is a foreigner, and not just of another state or country, but of another planet bearing otherworldly knowledge!"

Wilsie gathered excitement, listening to the information, as the story she sought her entire career had just been delivered. It instantly inflated her ego, blimping her arrogance, as the subject that she had been attempting to expose for a majority of her journalistic career, was so secretive because he was in fact an alien, just as she assumed she had accurately assumed. Journalistic accolades and warming receptions floated through her mind. She envisioned the day that her article would be published and distributed to the masses, as each continuing second of that day would then become the most rewarding moment of her existence.

While the information had Wilsie McHickoryboob drifting through praise of her next article, Sammy Ammo began salivating. Thick liquid glossed over his chin, dripping over his chest through the ragged shirt, as the intoxicating information overwhelmed Sammy Ammo with simplicity. The divine message replayed in his brain, with each time eclipsing in more enjoyment than the previous time. It was empowering and rewarding, exceeding all of his expectations. Sammy was expecting that overtaking Mad Ted and usurping his power would require some complex plan of attack, derived from a theory needing a full sized text book to explain. Sammy Ammo was under the impression that his destiny of overtaking Mad Ted's power was going to take years, maybe decades to accomplish. But instead, with the delivery of Chuck's information, Sammy's destiny had simplified into the tangible figure of a computer processing chip. And with the exposure to this divine message, Sammy Ammo realized everything that was his existence, clarifying his purpose, as he was solely created to acquire that chip.

"Chuck," bellowed Sammy, as he caringly stared at Chuck Splatter's massacred face, listening to his beating heart.

"Yes, Sammy," replied Chuck Splatter, warmingly, enjoying the attention that cradled his orphaned soul. Chuck Splatter tensed up, anticipating Sammy's response.

"How were you able to retrieve such valuable information?"

The question was sobering, as Wilsie turned to Chuck Splatter as well, wanting to verify the source. Chuck didn't want to persuade Sammy with doubt, as he obediently expelled the source of the information immediately.

"The sole abductee, the chosen one that didn't undergo the mind erasing praxis approached Doink and me while we were at Loogie's Diner. He sat down with us, explaining everything to us, about Mad Ted, and how he was sent here decades ago on a mission to build Awful, Ohio for the benefit of the alien race that is going to invade Awful, Ohio."

Sammy Ammo reloaded his eyes, as he blinked, looking over to Doink, asking, "can you confirm this?"

Doink repeatedly nodded his head, as he was becoming increasingly fearful every time the alien invasion was mentioned. Doink continued having out of body experiences.

"Chuck," said Sammy Ammo, returning his vision back onto Chuck Splatter's face. "This is wonderful information." Sammy Ammo wiped his chin, as the salivation was increasingly embarrassing. He folded his hands behind his back, caressing the pistol that attached to his fin with his open hand.

"Clearly, the chosen one that embraced you both was intentionally salvaged from the mind-erasing praxis. It was his destiny to enter into the heavens, extracting the information from the divine, and bring forth that information to the both of you, so that you could then deliver it to me. His message is divine, and it is clearly no coincidence that it was brought to me. You both hold a deeper purpose than you realize."

Chuck Splatter blushed immensely, as his toes curled hard enough to tear the insoles of his sneakers.

Sammy Ammo started to pace through the lit room, reciting the thoughts that freely entered into his mind, allowing everyone in the room to receive all of the profound information that he believed to have been delivered to him from divinity.

"With this information, I will be able to receive Mad Ted's power, so that I may fulfill my own destiny of acquiring Mad Ted's power, so that I may cease his opulent rule over Awful, Ohio and impose my own! It is my great intentions of utilizing all of this information so that I may follow my purpose, and release Awful, Ohio from its oppression, saving them from the intentions of Mad Ted. This has elevated into intergalactic warfare, as I must conquer what it is that I am being told to conquer. Chuck, clearly, it was your purpose that you and I were brought together, so that I may achieve my destiny for the salvation of mankind. Be proud of your purpose."

Chuck Splatter allowed Sammy to continue staring at his disfigured face, warming the imperfect structure of his misaligned skin with comforting rays of attentive compassion and care. Sammy's message was unclear to Chuck, but it didn't matter to him, as the comforting position of returning to Sammy Ammo's assistance was all that he sought.

"This evening, we will find Mad Ted, so that I may receive this computer processing chip." Sammy started to circle the room, observing everyone, issuing priorities to each individual, to fulfill the objective of acquiring the computer processing chip.

"Wilsie, you will need to interrogate Mad Ted with an interview, so that we are able to receive this chip. Use your journalistic persuasion to extract that chip, so that I may then utilize it for my purpose."

Wilsie McHickoryboob was thrilled with the assignment. She imagined all of the exposing information that she would receive from her interview that would only further expand the exposure of her award-winning article.

"Chuck," replied Sammy, as he looked back at Chuck. Chuck grew comfortably warm, as he was expecting his job to be rewarding with importance, requiring his technical experience, all earned because of the divine information that he brought forth.

"You keep an eye on Doink, and combat any alien trying to abduct him," continued Sammy Ammo, looking over at Doink, who was cradling on the floor, holding his knees, fearful of what the abducting aliens were going to do to his being.

Sammy Ammo then approached Wilsie McHickoryboob, utilizing the scripted information of divinity that transmitted from the mouth of the Loogie's Diner messenger, into the mind of Chuck Splatter and Doink McTriggers, finally dispensing into Sammy Ammo and Wilsie McHickoryboob. Sammy and Wilsie united into a contemplation rink, allowing the information of the divine to clarify their purposes, as they both conducted the details of the interrogation and how they were planning on locating Mad Ted.

Chuck Splatter remained standing. His heart had dropped to the bottom of his feet, as he watched Sammy and Wilsie unite into an uninviting contemplation rink. They were heavily engaged, with unbreakable focus, listening carefully to each other's ideas, of how they were going to achieve what it was that they both desired. Chuck's plan had backfired, as it had only brought Sammy and Wilsie closer. Chuck no longer had to envision Wilsie and Sammy conspiring, as their unity was already on display. Chuck's stomach dropped to the bottom of his feet, landing beside his heart. Disappointment pumped through his arteries. He looked down at Wilsie, who was still sitting in the chair, gloating in her own presupposed journalistic glory. She remained above him on the hierarchical ladder, conversing with Sammy, receiving the responsibility of the important duties, while Chuck was stuck as the baby sitter.

## Chapter 16

" **Mad, can I call you Mad?" – Wilsie McHickoryboob**

The contemplation rink adjourned. After listening to Wilsie McHickoryboob's suggestions, Sammy Ammo concluded that the most likely location to locate Mad Ted would be in the eagle's nest that rested inside of the hot sauce warehouse. Sammy informed Wilsie of the decision, sternly taking credit, leading the way from the abandoned warehouse. The information trickled down the hierarchal ladder, as Wilsie then informed Chuck Splatter like a golden fart plumbing into his face. Chuck was still discouraged for not receiving a more important duty, as he was left out of the contemplation rink, to keep an eye over Doink McTriggers from any abducting aliens. But regardless of his disapproval of inferiority, Chuck managed to cooperate, all for the sake of Sammy, as he motioned to Doink that it was time to get up from the floor of the abandoned warehouse and follow Sammy and Wilsie to the eagle's nest in the hot sauce warehouse.

They left the abandoned building, entering into the baron streets. Sammy informed them all with the tip of his pistol that they needed to avoid being seen by the helicopters flying above. The three members readily obliged, as they dodged stealthily from one object to the next, hiding in the shadows from the Coercive Prevention Force. However, the helicopters flew over head, butchering the sky with blades of decadence, as their search lights danced in a theatrical show uncovering the shadows.

All of these sensations rattled reality from Doink McTriggers' perception, causing him to have another out of body experience. He imagined the hamster aliens prodding his body with knives and forks, taste-testing his flesh, discovering that it was an adequate source of nutrition and flavor, thus, decidingly to process his body, pulverizing him into cans of food that would be distributed through extraterrestrial food market outlets. The active vision froze Doink's body in the middle of an open street. The sun had spotted him like a watchman, exposing his flesh for all to see, coating his being with revealing light.

"Com' on, Doink!" hollered Chuck Splatter, hiding in the shadows, trying to keep an eye on Doink as Sammy informed, listening to the helicopters over head, fearing that they would find them. But it was too late. Doink McTriggers was the only flesh baring entity posted in the center city streets of Awful, Ohio, making him easy to notice. A howling helicopter, operated by the Coercive Prevention Force, dropped its large spotlight over the four of them. A man, wearing black sunglasses, hanging from an opened side door, shouted from a megaphone, "stop where you are!"

Chuck Splatter ran to Doink, who was still frozen in the streets from his out of body experience. Chuck grabbed a hold of Doink, recognizing his duty, and fled from the scene with Doink as quickly as he could. Wilsie McHickoryboob thought running was a good idea and followed right behind Chuck and Doink, fearing that the helicopter would prevent them from making their way to the eagle's nest, withholding her from discovering her conquest of revealing Mad Ted.

Chuck, Doink, and Wilsie all ran from the menacing, mechanical sky hawk that attempted to prey on their exposed bodies. But Sammy Ammo stood his ground. The helicopter recognized the challenge, ignoring the fleeing members, as it remained still, showing no signs of fear, embracing Sammy Ammo in the middle of the baron street for a duel.

The man in the helicopter raised his megaphone, lining its crosshairs directly over Sammy's forehead, ready to announce his demands. His fingers tingled over the trigger of the megaphone, as his lips were ready to part, but before he could release the words from his mouth, Sammy Ammo raised his fin that bore the pistol. The chamber was loaded with heart shaped bullets targeted on the helicopter's core. Sammy aimed, squinting both eyes, pulling the trigger before the man could release his demands. A fat bullet pushed from the chamber, splitting through the sky, searing the steel frame, lodging firmly in the helicopter's core. The helicopter's internal database permanently altered, as the heart shaped bullet rested comfortably into the helicopter, pumping life into its being, reprogramming its intentions. It was a moment of clarity. The black helicopter tilted to the side, pushing the man with the megaphone out of the door. The helicopter flew away, liberated from the demanding man, flying away from the sun, using its newly implanted heart to discover its own destiny. Chuck, Doink, and Wilsie had stopped running, watching the scene from a protective shadow. Sammy Ammo approached their abashed figures, with a trail of smoke swagging behind him from the barrel of his pistol like a tail of confidence, saying to his cohorts, "let's go."

They dashed from center city of Awful, Ohio, avoiding any more conflicting helicopters, hop-scotching from shadow to shadow, fleeing all the way to the city's edge. The city's edge was the hot sauce delta, as all the productivity and profit bled from the hot sauce warehouse and into the land that bloomed the thriving city of Awful, Ohio. They all stopped, looking up the canal, only too see the land parched with a dry gully, that lead to the curve of the earth. The surrounding terrain was sprinkled with sprouting communities and various warehouses, plantations, and factories that fed off arteries that connected to the dry gully. This evening they were dead.

"They must have shut down his production," said Wilsie, digging her feet into the empty gully. "Mad Ted never shuts down. He must be preparing for his alien brethren to invade."

Sammy Ammo remained silent. A breeze kicked up a clod of dirt that misted Sammy's face, causing him to squint. Chuck Splatter watched the squinting, assuming that Sammy was becoming discouraged with their journey, and his destiny. Chuck remembered watching a trail-guide from a movie, sniffing and tasting all of his surroundings, to find which direction to pursue. Chuck Splatter decided to simulate the behavior to reassure Sammy of the validity of their journey, as he knelt down, scooping up some of the dry soil, placing it into his mouth, seeking answers. Chuck Splatter chewed the sediment, swooshing it through his teeth and over his tongue like mouth wash, hoping to stimulate the direction that would guide them to the hot sauce warehouse. Chuck intently convened the debris before swishing some more, as he uttered, "ok, the hot sauce factory is this way."

But the other three members stood there, watching Chuck, unsure of why he was eating dirt. Chuck tried spitting out the soil, but it churned with his saliva, mixing into a thick mud that slowly dispensed from his mouth.

"The hot sauce factory is this way," said Wilsie, pointing in the opposite direction. She turned towards the gully, dry from production and profit, using her experience to guide them to the hot sauce warehouse, as Sammy Ammo and Doink McTriggers readily followed. Chuck Splatter stood still, engulfing the chagrin, picking bits of dirt from the abut of his teeth, as he watched Sammy loyally following Wilsie, only to leave him behind.

"Wait for me!" hollered Chuck, as he departed from the hot sauce delta, running up the dry gully to catch up with the infantry that headed towards the hot sauce warehouse.

***

The cohorts finished walking the length of the empty gully. They all turned around to observed their decent from center city of Awful, Ohio, listening to the steady sounds of blades beating in the back ground from the patrolling helicopters surrounding center city. They turned back around, embraced by the empty parking lot of the hot sauce warehouse. Because the hot sauce warehouse had been forced to shut down, all the employees were locked away in their homes, fearing the aliens, praising the enshrined accumulation of garbage that they had collected over the years. Sammy Ammo and his cohorts observed the solid base of the warehouse, staring up at its roof, watching it earnestly reach for the sun. The sun was still dangling, exposing the hot sauce warehouse for Sammy, Wilsie, Chuck, and Doink, as they all stood before the warehouse, anticipating the deliverance of their destinies that rested inside.

Wilsie, empowered by the duty given to her by Sammy, looked all of them in the eyes, deploying her knowledge to direct their actions.

"OK," informed Wilsie, "the eagle's nest does not have an entrance from inside of the warehouse. So the only way to get inside is from the roof. There should be some sort of door that will allow us to enter."

But the orders didn't go over so well with Chuck Splatter. He could feel the words crawling over his skin, which he confused with his body lice. Chuck was still frustrated that his plan to prove himself more valuable than Wilsie had faulted. Chuck developed a vendetta against Wilsie, and sought vengeance by assuming suspicion against her actions, which he planned to reveal to Sammy Ammo. He used his imagination to combat Wilsie's knowledge, envisioning an alternative motive that influenced Wilsie to override Sammy's destiny for her own subjective goals. Chuck Splatter convinced himself that Wilsie would purposefully conduct the interview so that she would be rewarded with the information for the sake of her own articles, rather than for the completion of Sammy's destiny. He continued imagining, concluding that she would even acquire the chip for her own needs, and broadcast the contents of the chip to Awful, Ohio, so that she could receive all of the glory and praise for the exposure of Mad Ted. Chuck found his imagined news to be devastating for Sammy's destiny, deciding that it needed to be brought to Sammy's attention immediately.

The four intruders had managed to climb to the top of the roof by using a ladder that was attached to the side of the warehouse. Rung after rung, they progressed closer to their destiny, finally reaching the roof. But to their surprise there was no door or stairwell leading to the inside. The roof was entirely flat, with the exception of a protrusion pulsating from the surface, glowing ominously like the breathing amber of a orange-tipped cigarette. The protrusion was positioned in the perfect center of the warehouse. It was domed shaped, like a pimple, glowing, and beating like a heart. They approached the apparatus, unsure of how exactly to pursue.

"What is it?" Doink asked.

A heavy bass was thumping rhythmically from the dome, increasing in depth, resonating heavily into the eardrums of the spectators surrounding the doming protrusion. It had the outer appearance of a jell-o mold, belonging as the center piece of a Thanksgiving meal. Its diameter was perfectly circled.

"Only one way to find out," said Chuck, as he pushed Doink on top of the pulsating dome. Doink fell on top of the dome, absorbed into the gelatinous trap with each pulsation of his panicked body. Part by part, he was swallowed like quicksand. He started yelping erotically, as the compound was warm and pleasing, caressing all of the boundaries of his body. It gripped every square inch of his skin, stimulating every nerve. His erotic yelping was finally muffed, when the dome's content had finally swallowed his head. Sammy, Wilsie, and Chuck all watched Doink's body blur through the translucent surface like a hologram, as the opaque compound completely swallowed Doink, disappearing into the bowels of whatever it was that he had just entered into. The dome then retracted back to its original shape, glowing once again in the ominous orange pulsations, that bumped rhythmically with bass vibrations.

"Where do you think he went?" asked Sammy Ammo, pointing his pistol wielding fin at the dome, anticipating it to attack.

The three of them were still huddled around the protruding dome, staring at the structure.

"It kinda looks like a stomach," recited Chuck Splatter, watching the rippling compound tingle with pulsating vibrations, peering for a belly button.

"The location of this thing is directly above the eagle's nest that should be housing Mad Ted. So, Doink must've fallen all the way to the eagle's nest," concluded Wilsie. "This must be how Mad Ted enters into the eagle's nest."

Sammy intently stared at Wilsie, wanting more evidence for her conclusion.

"I mean, this should lead to the eagle's nest," justified Wilsie, staring back at Sammy. Her pony tail was tightly tucked behind her ears, oscillating with the vibrations from the pulsating dome.

But Chuck Splatter took notice to Sammy's intense stare of displeasure. Chuck reacted, lunging for Wilsie. She tried to get away, but Chuck managed to grab her pony tail. The pony tail bit his hand, but without any teeth, it was unable to inflict enough pain for him to release her. Chuck Splatter restrained her kicking torso, as he fed her to the glowing, orange dome, like a sacrificial virgin.

Her body landed on top of the mound, absorbing all of the shock from the force of her fall. She flailed her arms, but the compound bound to her body like fly paper, swallowing her faster with every exertion of resistance. She started yelping erotically, as the compound had engulfed most of her body, coating every inch of skin beneath her neck, stimulating every nerve pleasingly. It was gratifying and sensual. Her yelping finally ceased, as gravity forced a final push of her head, into the gelatinous compound.

Chuck Splatter and Sammy Ammo stood around the dome, watching Wilsie's figure slowly disappear into the orange swell, leaving Chuck Splatter alone with Sammy Ammo on top of the roof. Chuck watched the sun, sinking further into the west, leaving a glowing residue of amber light that coated everything in a maudlin sheen. Chuck then looked towards Sammy. He hadn't been able to enjoy a moment alone with Sammy since they had first met. He admired his tenacity and envied everything that he was, venerating Sammy's coagulated being as an immortal deity standing before him.

Chuck Splatter swallowed his pride, wanting to tell Sammy his imagined news of Wilsie, sabotaging the interview, and taking the computer processing chip for herself. The silence on the roof top was strong, intimidating Chuck. He gathered his courage and thoughts to confront Sammy with his beliefs. But as he turned to confront Sammy, Sammy was gone. Sammy Ammo was leaping into the air, tucking his knees into his chest, somersaulting like a ninja, before erecting his body into a straight figure, diving gracefully through the orange mound head first. Sammy was quickly swallowed, leaving Chuck Splatter, exposed in the sun's residue, cemented in his entrapment of silence, staging his solitude and unfulfilled emotions on top of the warehouse, before the compassionless sun.

***

Chuck Splatter followed, filtering through the pulsating dome, crash landing onto a carpeted floor. It was graceless and disastrous, thudding loudly once making contact. The crash knocked the lost opportunity from his mind. He rubbed his back, surprised that he had come out as clean as he had entered, then continued to examine the room that was the eagle's nest. The walls were made of double sided mirrors. He was capable of seeing out of those mirrors, viewing different sections, hot sauce cauldrons, conveyor belts and everything else that was inside of the hot sauce factory. None of these things were able to see him, however. He then looked over to the other side of the room, where there was a minimal office desk infected with Sammy and Wilsie, ferreting its papered contents, turning the drawers inside out.

"Damnit, there's nothing here!"

Chuck Splatter could hear Wilsie muster these words in aggravation. But the desk had nothing to offer, as Wilsie then looked around for more opportunities. She looked over to the double sided mirror by the desk. Hanging from the window was a shelf. Wilsie walked towards the shelf, with inspective intentions, as there appeared to be an object that would reward her for these intentions. She grabbed the object, analyzing its potential, discerning that the object was a trophy. The base was heavy, made from dense marble, and mounted on top of the marble was a sculpted figure, holding out its arms, symbolizing philanthropy. A small plaque was clipped to the base, engraved with:

This award is presented to Mad Ted for his

humane services in clothing the homeless.

"It's an award for his humane services," concluded Wilsie, proud of her deduction. It was nothing that she could use in her next article, but it was a fine discovery, nonetheless. It reinforced Wilsie's assumption that she was a great investigative journalist, as she remembered her chapter in her book that assumed Mad Ted's award for clothing the homeless with his advertised t-shirts and stickers. Sammy Ammo walked over to Wilsie, to analyze her discovery. He grabbed the trophy, reading the engraving. Each word slipped through his thoughts like feathers tickling his toes, as Sammy Ammo began laughing at the irony.

"I have a hard time believing that the most opulent ruler puppetteering Awful, Ohio with tyrannical dictations was given an award for humanity," recited Sammy Ammo. He threw the trophy to the floor, hoping to break it. But the carpet coating the floor was too deep, gently catching the trophy like a caring mother.

The trophy rolled beside Chuck Splatter. He ignored it, as he stood up from the floor after rubbing his back. He continued watching Wilsie, as she progressed to the filing cabinet with Sammy, viewing her as a conartist and a fraud. It was clear to Chuck that she was guided by her alternative motives, rather than Sammy's destiny. But she was covering them up well, as Sammy didn't appear to have any idea. Wilsie and Sammy were collaborating their ideas elegantly, breaking into every drawer of the filing cabinet, communicating with effortless expressions that resulted in clear understanding. Chuck regretted not having talked to Sammy on the roof, displeased for losing what he believed to be his only moment to express to Sammy his concerns of Wilsie's true intentions. He watched Sammy, enchantingly engaged in a criminalizing activity with someone else, as he thought that that could've been him instead. The visual was a heavy loaded cannon pointing directly at Chuck's heart, but even heavier was watching Sammy Ammo being deceived by Wilsie's alternative motives.

Chuck Splatter turned away from the painful scene, to study the rest of the room. It was fairly empty, deeply carpeted, and mostly bare, as the humane trophy was the only piece of decoration in the room. Chuck continued gyrating his figure, until he took notice of Doink, circling another fixture that was in the room. Doink was surrounding a long tube that stretched from the deeply carpeted floor to the ceiling. The tube was wide enough to hold plenty of professionally dressed blazers, as Chuck thought that it was a closet, sporting all of Mad Ted's wardrobes. Doink was grazing his fingers against the surface. It was smooth and warm, appearing to be made entirely from one piece. But his fingers clipped into a subtle groove. Doink redirected his fingers, following the lining of the groove, which outlined a sealed entrance to the tube. The entrance was large enough for a person to fit through.

"Hey, what is this?" asked Doink, as he stepped back, fearing that it was an alien structure, waiting to abduct him.

"It's just a closet, Doink," grumbled Chuck, emotionally discouraged from pursuing further into their expedition, fearing that his last opportunity to recover his value as Sammy's cohort was long lost.

Wilsie, who was growing discouraged from finding no article-worthy information, repositioned herself towards the long tube after overhearing Doink's question. She left behind trails of papers that she didn't bother to return to their original drawers, surrounding the tube in the same manor that Doink had, studying it suspiciously, finding the exact same groove that Doink had found. She outlined it with her fingers, discovering that it was an entrance large enough for a person to fit through.

"This is a changing chute," she concluded. "They are usually inside the locker rooms, but this one appears to be located in the eagle's nest."

Sammy walked over to the chute to study its contents, impressed with Wilsie's discovery, thinking that it may lead them to the reason they were in the eagle's nest.

"Mad Ted must be inside of the changing chute," concluded Sammy Ammo, looking at Wilsie engagingly, excited to remove the contents that he believed would deliver him to the computer processing chip that he sought. "Open it. Let's get him out of there."

Doink feared Mad Ted, and the complexity of the changing chute. He had remembered the stranger and his message regarding Mad Ted in Loogie's, and he had remembered the implausible features that the changing chute had, the ones that Wilsie had described to them. He was fearful of what the changing chute was capable of, stepping away, wrapping his arms around the torso of his body, rubbing his obliques, attempting to comfort what he now considered his vulnerable, innocent body.

Chuck Splatter reexamined his situation, as the changing chute presented another opportunity. Chuck Splatter imagined breaking open the changing chute's entrance, discovering the alien in a candid moment, undressed from the human suit that was recognized as Mad Ted. Chuck would quickly snatch the human suit from the alien, and remove the computer processing chip, handing it to Sammy, which would then earn the praise of Sammy Ammo, forever immortalizing their renegade partnership. Hope had reemerged back into Chuck's life, as he envisioned himself regaining his value with Sammy, acquiring the computer processing chip himself, and physically handing it to Sammy.

"Let's pry it open!" responded Chuck, enthusiastically.

"Yeah, let's get this thing open," encouraged Sammy Ammo. Sammy was growing anxious. He wanted Mad Ted to come pouring out of the tube, exposed as a foreign being from another planet, possessing a computer processing chip of great magnitude. He wanted that computer processing chip and everything else that would result from possessing it. He imaged all of his dominance, restructuring a new empire that would overcome Awful, Ohio, as he was highly encouraging, gesturing to Chuck with his coagulated fin to open the changing chute. "Chuck, open that chute!"

"This is my chance," thought Chuck, as he eagerly cruised towards the chute, anticipating the exposed alien, and its vulnerable human suit with the computer processing chip. Chuck placed his fingers in the groove that outlined the entrance and attempted to remove the seal. But the groove was too shallow, resisting any attempts to provide a strong grip. Chuck Splatter pulled with all his strength, but the changing chute held its position, breaking the tip of every fingernail. Chuck winced back, embarrassed that Sammy had watched his failed attempt, holding his bleeding fingers close to his body for warmth.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," mumbled Chuck, stepping away from the chute with his bleeding fingers.

"Oh for Christ's sake," responded Sammy, annoyed at the failed attempts. "Can't anyone do anything around here?" Chuck whimpered like a scolded dog, hunching his back with the rivets in his spine protruding from his shirt. Sammy raised his fin that was coagulated with his pistol. He pulled the trigger, releasing a heart shaped bullet. The determined bullet traveled mercilessly, but deflected off of the strong metal coating the chute. The bullet ricocheted throughout the room, until it finally broke free from one of the windows. Wilsie looked over to Sammy Ammo, mockingly stating, "do you have any other bright ideas?"

But before he could react to Wilsie's sarcasm, the changing chute sputtered a noise like a coughing muffler. The four of them looked at the changing chute, waiting for something to happen. They anticipated the front entrance to open like a swinging door. But as they watched, piece by piece, the outlined door began to deconstruct. Pieces the size of gum-sticks began to dematerialize, rapidly debuilding, disappearing into the black material inside the changing chute.

The four of them stood still, with the exception of Doink, who began stepping further away from the changing chute, fearing that it would open a black hole into the eagle's nest, teleporting him to another galaxy of a probing alien race that would inspect every nook and crevice of the precious body that he held tightly to.

The door dematerialized. The large entrance that had been fully sealed was now entirely exposed. Wilsie, Sammy, and Chuck all stood their ground, gazing inside of the chute from where they were, each projecting an incriminating visual of Mad Ted that could be used for extortion, to help them acquire the computer processing chip. But instead, their visual expectations were obstructed with what appeared to be a deep pool of oil. The inside of the changing chute was pure black, dense, and invulnerable to the exposure of light. The temperature in the room began to disappear, overwhelming the four intruders with frightening unfamiliarity. They all started stepping backwards, watching the entrance, waiting for the deep pool of oil to stretch from its chamber like a massive demon tongue that would boil them into the fiery stomach of eternal damnation.

"Maybe we should get out of here," suggested Doink. But the other three remained, frozen with fear, incapable of looking away, anticipating the advent of Awful, Ohio's occultic prophet. And then, breaking free from the vertical surface of the black pool of oil, was a bare foot. It stepped forward, proceeding with a leg, that was then followed by its attached body. Sammy Ammo, Wilsie McHickoryboob, Chuck Splatter, and Doink McTriggers all watched in revelation, looking up at a man tall enough for his liberated scalp to scrape the top of the ceiling.

The man emerged wearing a long, clean lab coat, white as a pearl, draping to his thin ankles. The sleeves were long and clean, protecting his little wrists, as the coat appeared to be freshly pressed, wrinkle free with perfect creases scaling down the sides of his legs. His head was hairless, as well as his face, wind resistant, as he glided towards the desk using angelic motions. His eyes were embedded in thick sunglasses, preventing all eye contact, abolishing all obligations to acknowledge the surrounding existence.

His graceful motions carried him towards the desk, gliding over the scorn paperwork scattered over the floor and desk. He bent his wrist, which clicked with each receding degree, locking onto the back of the chair with the tips of his skeletal fingers. The chair pulled out from underneath the desk, positioning directly beneath the man's malleable body, which reshaped accordingly to the dictation of the chair. The combined beings hovered beneath the desk, easily and comfortably, securely packaged. His arms raised, with each limb landing on top of the desk, uniting sacredly like fevered lovers, as each finger interlocked fluidly like the tentacles of mating squid. He lowered his head towards the direction of the four intruders, as he was still taller than all of them. His lips began to unravel, chapping away the halcyon layer of degenerated skin, calmly remarking through the concealed identity of the sunglasses, "how can I assist you?"

Sammy, Wilsie, and Chuck all looked at one another, then looked back at Doink, who was pressed hard against the glass wall, hoping that the pane would pop from its mold, colliding into the ground with him riding on top like a kamikaze surfer, protecting his body with death from any otherworldly experience. The cold tipped pistol in Sammy's fin pressed against Wilsie's back, as Sammy pushed Wilsie forward to conduct the interrogation. She hesitantly approached the desk, staring at the hairless man whose eyes were still concealed inside of the sunglasses. He had a hard smile, eagerly pleased about something that the four intruders were unaware of, as they all had a face of deeply seeded concern.

"Are you Mad Ted?" asked Wilsie.

The man was Mad Ted. He remained sitting behind the desk, with his fingers still intertwining into one another like braided rope. Never before had the eagle's nest been infested with beings that were not Mad Ted. He was in a state of unfamiliarity, having been the only person to have ever been inside of the eagle's nest. But he had been programmed with etiquette, aware of the importance of making eye contact when engaging in conversations. He raised both hands to the sides of the sun glasses embedding his eyes. The tips of his fingers locked onto keys that protruded from each half of his glasses. Slowly, he started twisting the keys, as each glass curled open like a can of sardines, revealing his eyes soaking in preserving liquid. Each eye was the size of a baseball, with bloodshot veins stitching through the porcelain surface, as they stared back at Wilsie. His response crept cautiously from his lips, dripping with the viscosity of hot wax, elegantly ejecting his responses with the grace of a soliloquy.

"Yes, I am Mad Ted. Or, I am the being that has been deduced as the being to be entitled as Mad Ted, which I'm assuming is largely in part of the condimental product that has been created by myself, deducing me as a creature of madness because of unfathomable complexity."

Mad Ted spoke mechanically. The intruders pretended to hear the subtle sounds of compressed pistons, faintly in the background, hydraulically unhinging the gears in Mad Ted's jaw. Wilsie was pleased with her own accomplishment, overlooking the automated behavior. Discovering Mad Ted in the location where she predicted him to be located was an honorary reward, as she thought that it reflected highly of her credentials as an investigative journalist. She was now bound to advancing the expedition through the execution of an austere interview, as a slew of questions thrashed through her mind. But she sustained her compossure, resorting to her journalistic integrity, remaining calm, taking the interview one question at a time.

"Well, that's good to hear, Mad Ted," recited Wilsie with pretension, hoping to conduct the interview professionally, regardless of the unannounced appearance into Mad Ted's private quarters. "I've been looking to get an interview for a long time. My name is Wilsie McHickoryboob. I am a journalist for the _Awful Gazette_."

Wilsie approached the desk, with her pony tail wagging eagerly, showing Mad Ted her identification. It was a plastic card, saying " _Awful Gazette_ Press Pass," photographing a headshot that was taken a brief second before unleashing a sneeze that squished her face into what resembled colliding potatoes. Wilsie then stepped back, continuing her interview.

"I have some questions that I'd like to ask you, so that I may post them in the next issue of the _Awful Gazette_." She spoke with jest, excited to be so close to receiving the interview that would be a landmark moment for her career. Her excitement flocked through the flesh that constituted her body, fluidly gyrating.

"Continue," acknowledged Mad Ted, assertively forceful with his response. His large irises remained locked onto Wilsie, with each stitching of blood-gushed vein pulsing softly within the gelatinous compound that structured his baseball-sized eyes. They were listening intently at what it was that Wilsie was going to say.

Wilsie blushed immensely, with her pony tail swinging excitedly behind her head, eager to fully engage in the moment that she had been desiring her entire career. She stood in the same spot, unaffected by Mad Ted's large, pummeling eyes, exhaling repeatedly to gather her nerves, until the words that she had been preparing her entire career were finally released from her locking mouth.

"Mad, can I call you Mad?" she began, fluttering her ears, reduced to girlish charm because of the flattery. "There have been a lot of theories on how you have come to earn your success. Can you enlighten us on how you have come to earn everything that you have obtained?"

Mad Ted exhausted some heated breath that chortled like a laughing muffler. The question was broad and incapable of being served with a resolution of a simple reply. His mind began scanning through the recorded scripture that encrypted his thoughts, searching for the solution to the compound equation that Wilsie had presented to him. He located a few sources that deemed most appropriate. Mad Ted unhinged his jaw with the subtle noise of hydraulic pistons that the intruders pretended to hear.

"I have been engineered by divine sources that have embedded within me the formulaic efficiency that is necessary for birthing the success that is surrounding."

"Divine sources?" quickly responded Wilsie McHickoryboob, cooing with impressive noises. "Where do these divine sources come from?"

"Divinity from above has vested within me power to erect a structure that has resulted in everything that is surrounding us," responded Mad Ted. He spoke with monotone resonance, void of emotions. Wilsie recorded as much as she could on her pad of paper, hoping to expose Mad Ted as being an extraterrestrial entity.

"So you are receiving your plans of strategic execution from sources above?" questioned Wilsie, referring to the aliens.

"Yes," responded Mad Ted, referring to the sun. "The influence is directed from a source that arises from outer space. There is a large, energy bearing source that distills energy onto everything that is in Awful, Ohio. This energy distillery distills a divine brew that we are suckling on, extracting the contents as feverishly as possible. Those who are capable of obtaining the most energy, will profit greatly with success." Mad Ted's expression remained stoic, expelling as little energy as possible for the sanctity of his own energy reserve.

The divinity that Mad Ted was referring to was the sun. He had believed that because of his larger size, he was able to absorb more of the sun's expelled energy. And because he was receiving more energy than others, he was able to expel more energy, utilizing the energy for the creation of his empire.

"Clearly, he's referring to the aliens," concluded Sammy Ammo, factoring Mad Ted's answers with the mechanized movements that he pretended to hear from Mad Ted's body. Sammy galvanized in his revelation, believing that he could now be a profound astrophysicist, as he took part in more conclusions from his observations, whispering them all to Chuck. "The aliens are the divine source that is transmitting energy waves to the human suit that this alien is wearing. Certainly, the skull of this alien suit is constructed of some metal alloy that is acting as an antenna, allowing it to catch these alien energy waves, coded with alien intentions, that none of us can catch."

But regardless of his discovery, Sammy started twitching with frustration, as Wilsie wasn't making the progress in getting him the highly sought computer processing chip.

"What the hell is Wilsie doing?" Sammy whispered again into Chuck's ear. The hot breath swirled into Chuck Splatter's cochlea. It was comforting and reminiscent, reflecting visions of their past crime sprees without Wilsie. Sammy's skepticism of Wilsie was very rewarding, as Chuck wished to reinforce it with offers of his own doubt.

Chuck whispered back to Sammy, "I don't know, but she's blowing the opportunity for you to get that computer processing chip! You have to watch out for Wilsie. I don't trust her. I think she just wants to conduct an interview for her article and try to get the chip for herself."

Sammy Ammo meditated on the information that Chuck just presented to him. It flickered through his mind as a possibility, thinking out loud, "Wilsie may be trying to gain the chip for herself. She had expressed that she too is in need of information on Mad Ted, and acquiring the chip for herself would easily fulfill that need, completing her own destiny." Sammy Ammo continued thinking of the possibility of conflicting interests between him and Wilsie, wondering how many destinies he was going to have to combat in order to fulfill his own.

"I have to get that chip!" grumbled Sammy, easing away from Chuck Splatter, focusing his attention towards Wilsie.

"Hey Wilsie," shouted Sammy, interrupting the interview. Wilsie turned around to face Sammy. Mad Ted remained in the same statuesque position that he was in. "How about you start asking the right questions, and find out what we came here to find out." Sammy was tapping his pistol in the open palm of his other hand, reinforcing to her that they were there for his destiny and no one else's.

Wilsie was compliant, agreeing quickly, showing no signs of being alternatively motivated, throwing her pony tail around. She turned back to Mad Ted, taking a deep breath, inflating her head with composed confidence.

"Mad Ted," she spoke, "we have come here to acquire your computer processing chip. We know that you are the reason that the aliens are coming to Awful, Ohio. We know that they delivered you to Awful, Ohio, long before it ever became the economic success that it has become, and that your purpose was to create the economic success so that you could herd all of Awful, Ohio, and have them build Awful, Ohio into what it is today!" Wilsie began to pace, reciting her diatribe, unleashing her verbal vengeance onto Mad Ted, on behalf of everyone in Awful, Ohio.

"And we know that you are summoning the aliens from your former planet, to exterminate all of the Awful, Ohio residents, so that the small aliens will be able to inhabit Awful, Ohio once it becomes vacant!" Wilsie pounded her fists onto the desk, snorting through her nostrils like a raging bull, moments away from pulverizing the foreign being because of believing everything that she had just said.

Mad Ted remained at the desk, comfortably tucked into the chair, with his arms remaining in their interlocked position. He looked down at Wilsie and her petite structure, studying her face, analyzing the ears that were recklessly protruding from her head like buckling mackerel. He knew of her associates, having read of Sammy Ammo and his cohorts in the newspapers, running wildly through Awful, Ohio like outlaws. His vision scanned the coagulated pistol that resided within Sammy Ammo's possession, watching it represent all of the Awful, Ohio citizens that have been attempting to obtain everything that Mad Ted has earned. He mocked them internally, knowing that he'd rather perish than hand over his secrets to the undeserving.

Mad Ted looked down at Wilsie, listening to the gritty noise that fled from her puffing nostrils. He began scanning his memory for the encrypted code that would provide the appropriate solution. The compound equation that Wilsie had presented to him required a large solution. He diligently sifted through everything in his memory, gathering everything that he could. But because he had removed his past from his memory, he wasn't able to retrieve any honest solutions. The only source of information that he had from his past was the assumed information that he had read from the book written by Wilsie McHickoryboob. He analyzed the assumed origins from the content of the book that remained in his memory, collecting the coded scripture that would appropriately answer the equation. The intruders pretended to hear subtle noises of decompressing hydraulics resonating through the eagle's nest, as Mad Ted began to offer Wilsie a response for her accusation.

"My name is Theodore Sphinctor. I am not from Awful, Ohio, but I am from planet earth. I consume the same energy from the same sun that we all consume energy from. I entered earth from a womb-portal attached between my mother's legs. I was rejected by this mother and entered into a grand oak tree, where two individuals assumed the responsibility of parenthood upon my discovery. This consequently transformed me into a member of a family. There were other siblings within this family that I was bore to, but they were unwilling to expand the operation that I had been designed to establish.

"Efficiency had always been the great ingredient for my success, which I was ready to earn from within the housing of the family that I was living with. I had accumulated enough money to attempt to buy out the parents that had been ruling over me with strict authority. But instead of offering gratitude for the offer, they were mostly offended. So I was forced to leave the home, where I had embarked for several months, until landing in Awful, Ohio, which I had calculated to contain exceptional conditions to begin the empire that I had sought to erect. I have refocused my attention to everything that is going on here. I have removed most of my past memory that goes beyond my time in Awful, Ohio, because all of the memory that was acquired during that time holds no value. Everything that I experienced and accumulated before entering into Awful, Ohio holds no value, either. I am aware that I had siblings, and two parents. But they were unwilling to help create the purpose of my being, so I was forced to relocate. And so I did. And everything that is around us, was brought here because of a foreign source of greater knowledge that is embedded within me."

Wilsie McHickoryboob scratched everything down on her note pad as quickly as possible. She watched Mad Ted mechanically move his jaw, pretending to hear the subtle noises of hydraulic pistons with every word emitted from his mouth. She studied his motionless body, listening to the emotionless words that spewed from his mouth. He was perfectly efficient like a machine being remotely controlled from outer space. Wilsie was overwhelmed from his response, believing that he was recollecting this information from his past, rather than collecting it from a book he read about himself that she had written.

Wilsie started believing that she could assume no wrong, after listening to Mad Ted's story and how similar it was to the book that she had written. She stood there, stargazed, thinking of her own glory, no longer interested in her interview, as she believed that she could assume everything that she wanted to know. But, what she couldn't assume, was that computer processing chip being physically in her hand.

Mad Ted wasn't admitting to the alien genesis that had been revealed by the stranger from Loogie's Diner, nor to his alien brethren that were coming to invade Awful, Ohio, and he wasn't admitting to the alien that he was, that was secretly controlling him from inside of his head with the power of a computer processing chip, proven by the subtle noises of hydraulics that the intruders pretended to hear. Sammy Ammo listened to the interrogation, increasing in outrage over Wilsie's inability to extract the information that they had sought. Chuck's theory on Wilsie had garnered validity, as it was becoming more clear to Sammy that Wilsie was conducting an interview, seeking information for her next article, rather than attempting to discover the information that he sought for his destiny.

"I need that computer processing chip, and I need it now!" grumbled Sammy Ammo.

Heat transferred from the rage growing in Sammy's body, conducting through his fin and into his pistol. The pistol started glowing like hot coals, releasing steam that floated to the ceiling of the eagle's nest. Chuck Splatter looked over, watching Sammy, his idol and friend, experiencing the pain of failure at the hands of the deceptive Wilsie, as he recognized Sammy's disappointment.

Chuck Splatter found this to be intolerable. Sammy's disappointment transferred into Chuck Splatter, fueling him with rage, influencing him with purpose to rectify Sammy's disappointment. And at that moment, the only thing that Chuck Splatter knew was that there was an alien inside of the head of that human suit, controlling it with a powerful computer processing chip, that was desired by Sammy Ammo. The purpose to rectify Sammy's disapointment took control of Chuck's nerves that unilaterally controlled all of his limbs, guiding him towards the trophy lying on the floor. Chuck grabbed the trophy, flipping it upside down, clenching it like a sledge hammer. Each knuckle turned white, as he strangled the figure that exemplified philanthropy.

Chuck powered towards Wilsie McHickoryboob, pushing her out of his way, continuing his journey, kicking out the desk that separated him and Mad Ted. All eyes were on Chuck. Mad Ted remained stoic, no longer tucked beneath the desk, looking down at Chuck Splatter. Chuck Splatter stared back, looking deeply into Mad Ted's eyes, searching for life, watching each blood-stitching vein pump blood from the well of its artificial heart. His eyes looked cold with thick irises carved from ice. Mad Ted was about to speak, but Chuck Splatter pretended to hear the sounds of compressing hydraulics, and used every ounce of rage and anger to swing the humane trophy like an ironsmith, with enough power to break through what he believed to be a metal alloy cranium, that acted as the cock-pit to the hamster-sized alien, receiving radio waves from the fleet of aliens approaching Awful, Ohio.

The marble base made solid contact with the cranium of Mad Ted, as Chuck Splatter swung through the target, exhausting all of his emotional buildup, releasing his catharsis. He envisioned sparks and wires and a hamster sized alien evacuating the flesh-vehicle. But instead of a resistant metal alloy, Mad Ted's cranium collapsed, shattering into a thousand pieces. It was made of organic tissue. Skull and brain burst through the air of the eagle's nest, splattering against the two sided mirrors and ceiling, spraying all over the changing chute and staining the carpet deeply. The baseball sized eyes disconnected from their optic nerves, popping from their sockets, rolling on the soft carpet, stopping at the feet of Dionk McTriggers. Doink reacted violently, thinking the eyes were alien spy cameras, stomping the large eyes that squished like bursting water balloons.

The trophy that was still clenched by Chuck Splatter, representing Mad Ted's humane efforts, was covered in thick blood jelly, bits of brain, and splintered skull. The body that was Mad Ted remained stoic, sliding out from the chair, landing on the soft carpet with the same grace that he used to exit the changing chute. His malleable body realigned with the shape of the floor, as Mad Ted silently lay on the soft carpet, unconcerned of the intruders, no longer interested in the interview, only wishing to remain with his creation.

Sammy Ammo and Wilsie McHickoryboob both stared at the body, laying on the floor with the exposed cranium, recognizing the opportunity. They both dove towards the soft, pulpy flesh. They hunched their bodies over the open skull like starving hyenas, gesticulating wildly, arms deep in pulverized brain and splintered skull, madly searching for the computer processing chip. Chuck Splatter stood above the body of Mad Ted, watching Sammy Ammo and Wilsie McHickoryboob, digging through the result of his purpose, hoping that Sammy would see the value in his efforts.

## Chapter 17

Operation: Blackout

The blue hatchback pulled up in front of the yellow mustard house that resided in the outskirts of Awful, Ohio. Troy Slushy had managed to make it home without being relocated to the shelters by the Coercive Prevention Force, as they believed that no one would willingly drive a blue hatchback of such unsightly nature. The sun was still dangling in the west, exposing all of the poison that surrounded the area, creating unwarranted desire and need for unfettered objects that would yield misleading euphoria.

Troy Slushy sat in the driver's seat of the hatchback, alone, disinterested in the chopping noises that were produced by the Coercive Prevention Force's helicopters surrounding center city of Awful, Ohio. Troy had returned Baltazar to the deeply planted, log cabin that rested in the dense coniferous surrounding Awful, Ohio. The dense coniferous protected them from the events inside of the center city of Awful, Ohio, preventing them both from the exposure of the news of the invasive extraterrestrials that sought to exterminate the Awful, Ohio population.

Troy had returned Baltazar, informing him to gather his possessions. Troy had led Baltazar to believe that while he was gathering his possessions, Troy would head back to his home to do the same. Half of what he told Baltazar was true, as Troy did return to his home to collect the necessary belongings for a trip to Hollywood to begin his acting career. But he never intended on returning to the dense coniferous to pick up Baltazar, leaving him permanently embedded in the coniferous of Awful, Ohio, knowing that Baltazar would be unable to find his way out.

Troy Slushy stared at his house. The shutters carelessly dripped from the broken windows, as soft patches in the roof engulfed the sinking shingles. The concrete pathway, connecting the driveway to the front door, was lined with cemented dirt, imprisoning shriveled daisies into the lifeless, sun-scorched ground of Awful, Ohio. The home was a wreckage, unworthy of housing a being bearing the residual talent that Troy possessed.

"Thanks for everything," mocked Troy Slushy from the torn seat of his blue hatchback, thinking of the years wasted in the unworthy structure that prevented his stardom. He was staring at the ignoble structure that could barely keep itself together. He grabbed the completed script, gingerly rubbing it with his thumb, treating it with care and devotion, expecting salvation in return. He flipped through the pages, reading through some of the lines, admiring the authentically rich content that was extracted from the authentic citizens of Awful, Ohio. He sat in the hatchback, gloating in the conquest of what he lauded to be a solitary accomplishment, dismissing Baltazar's intervention, applauding his performances that single-handedly injected the award-winning credentials that would grant Troy with the acting career that he was unabashedly qualified for.

Troy Slushy stepped out of the blue hatchback, walking past the motionless flowers that lined the walkway. His mobile body pushed a breeze past the brittle flowers, shattering them into tiny pieces. Troy's plan was to pack his suitcase with clothes and toiletries. He wanted to leave Awful, Ohio for Hollywood immediately. He stepped into his home, greeted by two piles. One pile was large, full of the possessions that he had accumulated throughout his life, and the other pile was small, filled with the toiletries and a few clothes that he was needing for his trip.

Troy walked towards the small pile to grab everything. But the figure of a being appeared from the corner of his eye. He feared that it was Baltazar Garcia, seeking proprietorship of the script. Troy rotated his head to collect the rest of the predicated image of Baltazar's disgruntled appearance, planning his excuse. But instead of a misshaped figure of an unkempt man, the figure pieced together in winding curves of elegance and beauty. It was a woman, standing in the doorway, stretching her arms towards the ceiling, yawning like a hippo rising from a tranquil sleep, displaying her molars and cuspids. It was Troy's wife, Lacy, standing as innocent as a dream. She had just woken from the peaceful sleep that Troy had induced upon her. Her eyes were squinting like little lines on a graph, as her face was covered with wrinkles pressed from the folds of her pillow.

"What's going on, Troy?" she asked, dressed in the same clothes that she was wearing when Troy put her to sleep.

Troy had forgotten about Lacy. He had forgotten about the ether and the original plan to acquire the Behicle so that they could travel west into perpetual darkness, protected from the exposed. He stared at Lacy with disappointment, thinking that she was going to interfere with his acting career.

"Lacy, things have changed. I have completed the script," recited Troy defensively, submerged by his own guilt.

"That's wonderful!" Lacy interrupted, excited that the completed script would bring them closer to their dream-bred lives. Troy had induced Lacy with such a heavy dose of ether that the excess fumes seeped into her memory, erasing the apprehension that Troy had subjected her to. But she remained strong and focused, not allowing the noxious surroundings of Awful, Ohio to affect the dream that she and Troy had concocted together, anxious to sell the script so that they may purchase the Behicle with the proceeds, and forever travel west, rotating on the dark side of the earth, to live together in the perpetual darkness of their dreams.

"So now we can acquire the Behicle!" Lacy continued, smiling erratically, leaning towards the small pile of belongings that she had separated for their westward journey to avoid the damning sun. But Troy's discovery of his new talents had redirected his intentions.

"Lacy, there has been a change of plans," Troy repeated, fearing that Lacy's short term memory may have been permanently damaged from the ether.

"What do you mean, Troy?"

Troy walked towards the large bay window in the living room. He leaned, resting his body on the frame, staring out of it. The shutters could be seen swifting like handkerchiefs in the gentle wind. He looked further out, staring at the center city of Awful, Ohio from a distance. The mocking city was swarming with Coercive Prevention Force helicopters. From the bay window, they appeared to be the size of hornets, chopping through the sky with their punishing wings, orchestrating something with what appeared to be deliberate maneuvers. Troy wasn't paying heavy attention to the helicopters, or to the objective "Operation Blackout," that the Coercive Prevention Force helicopters were attempting to deploy, issued by the mayor. Troy's eyes remained fixed and unfocused on the window pane, indirectly absorbing the contents from outside. But his thoughts were focused on Lacy, and how to explain to her that he was going to Hollywood to start his acting career.

"Lacy," Troy said, turning around to face her. He grabbed her by her little shoulders, staring in the eyes, struggling, but confessing, "as it turns out, I am a great actor. It turns out that I am possessed with unmatchable talent that has never been seen or witnessed by any other before. It is my responsibility to utilize this newly exposed talent, as I am the drama society's chosen one."

Troy stared heavily into Lacy's eyes. He was nervous that she wasn't going to understand, and that the support he was going to need wouldn't be offered. But Lacy stared right back, breaking her eyes free from the encapsulating crust of shit that her protective eyelids were able to withhold from her submissive mind. She dreamed luscious fantasies while sleeping, depicting majestic worlds with beautiful surroundings, structuring the elements that pieced together her soul into a utopia of perpetual bliss resting in the coffin of her dreams. Troy had been seduced by the exposed, by the deceiving rays of light that presented an undesirable world, dressed in an alluring manor. Lacy needed Troy, to pursue their dream together, to live peacefully in perpetual darkness, and to drive the Behicle. She had never desired Troy so badly.

"Troy," Lacy lifter her arms, grabbing a hold of his gaunt shoulders. She rubbed his skin through the fabric of his shirt, hoping to rejuvenate some of those previous libidinous thoughts that had launched their salvation.

"Troy," she repeated, "remember your message." She spoke calmly. "All of these material surroundings are nothing worth living for. And this acting career will only result in more of these things surrounding us, more things with fabricated meaning distilled into the nothingness of what they are. The misery of the exposed is something that we want no part of. You can see through all of their translucent pretension and ostentatious appearances, Troy, exposing the nothingness that is inside all of them! But you and I, we do have something inside." Lacy grabbed Troy's hand, rubbing it against her chest. Troy felt the heart beating softly beneath her sternum, pumping her with life and consciousness, impaling her body with desires of truth and meaning, and she wanted to share all of them with Troy.

"This acting career," Lacy continued, "is only going to repeat this empty life that we are already a part of, returning us to the things that we are attempting to break free from, eternally reoccurring. We need to break free from this eternal reoccurrence, Troy. We need to sell this script, we need to acquire that Behicle, and we need to forever travel westward, into perpetual darkness, so that we can remove our selves from the exposed world of the enduring damnation of the sun!"

Troy had listened deeply to everything that Lacy was saying to him. His hand was still placed on her chest, absorbing all of her heart beats, believing everything that she had said. The pumping beats of faith transferred from Lacy's chest, into Troy's hand, traveling throughout his arteries, restoring his relapsed mind with the same faith that he had originally delivered to Lacy. Troy began to remember the hot sauce warehouse, the conveyer belt duty, Lou Stooles, Mad Ted, his blue hatchback and everything else that the sun had exposed to him, every day, manipulating him into accepting a worthless existence. Troy remembered the imagined thoughts of him and Lacy, mounted on the Behicle, directed westward, enjoying their travels through mountains, canyons, deserts, and oceans, protected from the fear of the exposed with an everlasting shield of darkness. The image fended off all acceptance that had overpowered Troy with asinine ideas of acting in Hollywood. Troy could feel Lacy's thin fingers stroking the bones protruding from the shoulders of his shirt. Her touch was warming and honest, and fully committed to his best interest. She was offering him love, something that had been void during the creation of the script, and he greatly enjoyed it.

"Lacy, thank you," said Troy Slushy. He lifted his hand, stroking the soft red curls that bounced off her head. His innards were cleansed from the cancerous exposure by the curing words of Lacy. Thin liquid released from the crevices of his eyes, dripping over the mounds of his puffy cheeks.

"I had relapsed, Lacy, and almost accepted the exposed world of Awful, Ohio. I thought I was strong, and could prevent my submission, but the exposed world of center city of Awful, Ohio swallowed me whole, removing everything that bore meaning and importance. I lost focus on what I was actually out there for, discovering something that I never meant or wanted to discover. I was deceived by the exposed world, and I'm sorry, Lacy."

Troy Slushy pulled Lacy Slushy into his chest, wrapping his arms around her so that she would never have an opportunity to leave. Lacy Slushy's body pressed hard against the frame of Troy, wrapping her arms just as tightly, fusing both beings into one perfect entity.

The helicopters of the Coercive Prevention Force could be seen from the large bay window, swarming, uniforming in the center city of Awful, Ohio. They formulated a circle, with each helicopter pointing outwards, facing in different directions. Attached beneath the body of each helicopter was the fringe of a large, black tarp. Each helicopter hovered steadily, purposefully, anxious with trembling motors, ready to receive the signal to execute their destinies.

The signal was made. All the helicopters disbursed into their pointed directions, each one traveling away from Awful, Ohio, evenly blooming, spreading the black tarp across the enter city of Awful, Ohio like an opening flower. They persevered with strict intentions, guided by the intentions of their purposes, as the tarp stretched over the center city of Awful, Ohio, reaching the outskirts. Their plan was to blot Awful, Ohio with a large black tarp, concealing them from any aerial view, to prevent invasive extraterrestrials from discovering the Awful, Ohio location, so that invasive extraterrestrials would never be able to locate Awful, Ohio.

The helicopters steadily pounded through the air, reaching the coniferous, which connected to the end of the Awful, Ohio boundaries. Simultaneously, the helicopters released the tarp from the underside of their bodies. Each helicopter disbursed into separate directions in the empty sky, leaving the black tarp. The black tarp, in a free fall, floated from the sky, parachuting with pure intentions, gracefully falling from the heavens like a protective, black angel, ready to deliver peace to the fear-ridden society in protective darkness.

Troy and Lacy Slushy remained in each other's arms, facing the window. Their eyes were closed, blocking out the exposed, allowing their loving hold to be the only thing that could influence their vulnerable bodies. And as they remained in the living room, in front of the large bay window of their mustard colored home, holding one another with closed eyes, envisioning a dream-filled world that engineered everything according to their desires, the tarp landed like a black, dead cloud, covering their home and all of Awful, Ohio. Awful, Ohio removed itself from existence, blotting itself from the map, hiding from the assumed aliens that were believed to be invading their precious town.

Troy and Lacy Slushy remained standing in their living room, in front of the large bay window, as all of Awful, Ohio was coated in perpetual darkness from the preventive layer of the black tarp. They opened their eyes, exposed to nothing, unable to see anything, believing they were still resting in the peace of their dreams, protected in their desired world of permanent darkness.

The End.
