So far they had deduced that North Americans living below the poverty line were crazy about receiving vitamins and nutrients in the form of carved meaty chunks canned in slime, which could only be purchased at low-end pet food stores, and possibly White Castle. Once the tainted dog dinners had infiltrated the relevant demographics, they would wipe out the majority of Negro slaves operating the defense shield treadmills and America would be vulnerable to an attack of unfathomable magnitude.
* * *
You were blind drunk in the dark of Saturday morning, and there was something fucked going on with your shoulder blades. On the way to the hospital, you and your carry buddy "Ankhs" made a disaster of an attempt to hail a taxi.
Turns out White Castle had harnessed the powers of TARDIS, since the moment you finally got a cab you were lined up for something delicious; your hieroglyphic pal nowhere in sight. Your scapulas were making a different kind of crunching sound with each painful breath, and you found yourself wondering how fresh the lettuce on the burgers might be. Oh but look: next to the cash register, those colours, and that smiling French Bulldog framed in a yellow cardboard star it's black gums bared as glossy tropical slugs in pointy white boots for every sluppy dendroid foot. That sign, For Animal Consumption Only, reeling you in. That night were you an animal. Ankhs rematerialised at the last moment to heed a warning, that you weren't ready for that shit, that you should listen to the thirteen year old behind the counter and go with the wedges in antacid sauce. You were all Fucks To That, and then basically vomited in the cash register, after they didn't provide you with so much as a sundae spoon and you began to climb. When you unblacked-out on the floor, you found yourself already peeling away the lid.
The next fourteen minutes were spent trapped in some kind of failed Weighing of the Heart middledark, with momentary bursts of Theo the ambulance guy telling you he Really Needs The Company Right Now. Get fucked Theo, other people have their problems too. How many fucking information desks do you have to go to to get a Roesetta Stone in English? The only thing keeping you stretched out in the nightmare between the Fields of Yalu and having your genitals accosted by the Hounds of Hell (not in the good peanut butter way), was that life-affirming jerk-off zapping you every twenty-eight seconds. But then he got you a good one right between the shoulder blades and you felt the best you had all night. This was shortly followed by a retraction from all voreaphilic trips involving Anubis' main bitches as you resurfaced watching your own vomit drip from Theo's face.
Unfortunately the ambulance driver had also been reeled in by his affinity for smiling French Bulldogs, and his seizure sent you all hurtling into a tree in the hospital parking lot. Best Place To Have An Accident. But not even the goofy looking male nurse hovering above you through the cloudy She of life and death had enough electricity to bring you back a second time.
