The bundle-turned-man broke from Mitzi’s arms and crawled not towards the door to his shack, but to the warehouse behind that was at least 8,000 square feet. The pasty skin clung to his body, fearful of falling off as he crawled. He attempted to stand but in finding that he could do nothing more than scuttle towards what he referred to as his “stores,” he made very slow progress. Everyone watched in bewilderment, in total silence, in complete disgust. Here was a man who hadn’t seen daylight for a thousand years, crawling like a slimy insect in a dark cave back towards his birth.
Unable to comprehend Katz’s strength, Mitzi stood in awe. The heads smiled down on the situation. They spoke to Mitzi: “Why do you bring this back?” He had no idea; maybe because he was told to by NORML. Maybe because he had nothing else to do. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to take all of the native and Mr. Katz in his hands and ring their necks, or join them, or leave them – anything but this. Anything but this.
Meanwhile, a pilgrim had taken it upon himself to run in front of Katz, not touching him, but blocking his path to the store-house. A hissing came from Katz, a hissing so vile that Mitzi stepped back, ready to fly from this scene at any moment. He took a few more steps back and tripped on a collection of re-barb stumps. Bringing him back to his senses, he ran once more to retrieve the man-child.
“You take the legs, I’ll take the arms.” They hoisted him up into the air, suspending his horribly emaciated midsection as if he were a show cat. His eyes had glazed, he was loosing energy (what little he had), and he began to slowly give in. They carried him to the van – this time with success – with the help of the other pilgrims. Dogbert and Vergil – those pissy little wastes of space, thought Matt – cowered among encroaching natives who seemed to be drooling over their thick bodies. Back-to-back, they hurried towards the protection of the van.
“One, two, three!” The pilgrims lifted the man into the van.
“What should we do with the other one?” He pointed over to the homeless man whose face had been blown off by a projectile.
“I dunno – toss him out?” Said another.
“K, I got it.”
The doctor, who would never have shot the man, now carelessly dragged him by the foot, a pool of blood tracing his path, and dragged him to the concrete. Thump. The body lay contorted on the pavement and left. The natives closed around the corpse and left Dogbert and Virgil to claw their way, puling one another in a war to gain the passenger’s front seat, into the security of the Mark III.
Mitzi couldn’t look back, but figured they natives – starving – were tearing apart the dead man bone from bone, joint from joint.
If he had only turned around to witness their humanity…
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