When the workmen left, and my yard was brazenly taunting the neighbors with its shiny erect blades, I was content. But I had paid a terrible price. Painted fish and the broken bodies of my mime collection were strewn throughout the kitchen. The dining room was a gaping portal to Cleveland, and a thousand tourists were flocking there, going in and out, in and out, like some obscene camera-wielding respiration of evil, or maybe a porn flick with too many extras.
I had to jettison the kitchen, bidding a tearful farewell to my hard-won mimes. Luigi I will miss especially; his playful antics frequently propped up my bed at night. Without him, I will slide into an abyss of dirty laundry. Fortunately, I had not lost my connection to the State Computer, so I would still be able to have my rented dreams.
In the dining room, I opened a mock turtle rental shop and petting zoo, and raked in the cash. One day a man came into the shop. He was a regular, but he was not using his own eyes this day. He told me that his pancreas was entirely made of corn starch, and that because of this he had visions, and his vision was that I would soon have a clog. I laughed, knowing him for one of Their agents. His Hair gave him away. I shaved him, and he screamed, and I wished Catherine were there to see it; I knew she would want him bronzed, but with her gone, there didn't seem much point in it, so I sold his limbs to some Koreans who were trying to build a protractor. Yes, I was content, but without Catherine there, I had no joy. Glumly, I set the mock turtles free, closed the shop, and went outside to paint the grass.