A belch lifted from his inner belly, brushing his palate with previous poison. His torn shirt hung wet to his tanned and calloused body. The trash eaters were out en masse, flexing their waxy jaws, pulverizing age old grime. He stumbled over broken glass, both hands balled into fists and teeth grinding as crimson blood ran from the raw soles of his feet. The dried earth greedily drank him in. The sky was rent down the middle, a line that cut across the universe. He waddled toward it.
He lifted his fist above his head, and screamed, screamed so loud that he began to bleed, the flecks of blood moistening his parched throat. He started swinging. He could barely see it through the dust, That big purple twister—that phantom thing.
“Enough, enough, enough,” he cried.