NFL Concussion Protocol: The Tragedy by Kim Cancerous - HTML preview

I didn’t act on it, however. I kept the thoughts, the deep dark thoughts to myself. I hid them. I buried them. They were what I’d think of when I’d jerk off. When I’d look at the porno bitches on the screen, I’d think of myself behind them, myself with a knife to their neck, throttling their juicy ass and squeezing their jiggling tits.

The plotline to all my dark fantasies was identical. I’d rough the bitch into it, and once my dick was inside her, she’d lose her senses, love every second of it. My dick was a game changer. My dick was their medicine. These were my thoughts.

I kept the darkness buried until the summer before I went to boot camp. I was still a virgin. And I wanted to change that. I didn’t have a lot of friends, but the few I had had been teasing me because they’d all had girlfriends and I never did. One neighbor, a kid in my class, called me a fag and I punched him out, punched his fat ass right in the eye, left him a shiner, had the fat ass looking like a fat raccoon.

It was getting under my skin. I had to fuck a bitch. The need grew inside me. My erections were painful. My dick would get so hard just thinking of pussy. My dick would throb and hurt. I thought it might explode. I had to fuck a bitch. Almost any bitch. Even a fat bitch. I didn’t care. I just wanted to fuck a pussy. Pussy was the only thing I could think about. I’d stolen a few titty magazines from a People’s Drugstore and had been looking at Hustler magazines, Penthouse, daily, jerking off twice a day. It was as if pussy had a complete control and power over me.

It wasn’t pussy, I don’t think, looking back on it. It was something else. A force, perhaps. I couldn’t identify it. I still can’t. I just know it was dark. A dark force, man. And the dark force began to eat me from the inside. It was in control. I wasn’t.

A neighbor of mine had a young teenage daughter. She went to another school. She was retarded, sort of, had some shit like she couldn’t talk right, talked sort of like a Dolphin, in these high-pitched yelps... But her body was fine as shit. The Lord blessed her in body, at least, and maybe had forgot the head, I don’t know.

She’d sleep on the first floor. She’d leave her window open at night. That was the first time I’d stalked a bitch. I’d be watching her movements, from my window. Like the discipline I got from Dad, I knew how to plan, schedule, follow schedules. I mapped the bitch’s movements. I didn’t need to write it down, either. I kept it in my head. I could see it, in bold writing, the schedule, the times.

I watched their family, saw when they’d eat, when they’d sleep. I planned it out perfectly. When the night came to execute my plan, I wasn’t nervous, not one bit. I was excited, yes. I was hard, yes. But I wasn’t thinking of anything except the bitch’s pussy.

Wearing a dark hoodie, I snuck out my house, out my back door. My folks were already asleep. So were hers. Scanning around, I didn’t see any cars on the road or neighbors outside. I walked quickly over to their house, approached her window, panned around once more to make sure no one was looking. Then I hooked my hands on the window frame, hoisted myself up, threw a leg onto the ledge and lifted myself up and in and quietly slid over the threshold and plopped to the floor, feeling like a cat the way I was moving.

The retarded bitch didn’t say nothing. I guess I must have been real quiet. I tiptoed over to her bed, dug out the screwdriver I had in my sweatpants’ pocket.

Just like in all my fantasies, I threw my hand over her mouth. I kept it pressed firmly to her soft face. Her breath pulsed at my palm. Her eyes were opened and were huge. I pressed the screwdriver to her neck, poked it at her skin, and whispered that she better not say shit or I’d kill her. Would I have killed her? Really? I don’t know, I can’t say.

The rest of it was a blur, what I did. But I do remember liking it. I remember how good it felt, being up in her. How warm and soft her body was. Her body’s heat. How her body moved when I touched and fucked her. There wasn’t much thought other than that. I was just loving that I finally was getting pussy. Although it didn’t feel entirely like me that was doing it. I felt like I was on autopilot. There was something else moving me. Something else that was using my dick to fuck this bitch. Like it was the darkness. Like it was the dark force.

When I finished, I looked down and saw the blood. There was blood dripping from my hard dick too. She was crying and trembling. She was whimpering. She was making these convulsive swallowing sounds, like a man dying of thirst.

A voice told me to kill her. I ignored it. I knew she was retarded, so she probably couldn’t tell, even if she’d wanted to. I wiped her blood off my dick with her sheets, stuck my screwdriver to her jugular and warned her again that I’d kill her if she talked to anyone about it. Then I jerked up my pants and left, crawling out through the window. 

She didn’t tell on me, but it was impossible to hide, I guess, with all the blood on her bed. The cops came the next day. I watched them through their living room window and saw the police talking to her parents. Her father was enraged, face red as a tomato, and he looked to be screaming. Her mother was sobbing. But the girl was just sitting there, staring off into space. The cops then brought her out, drove her away.

After that, she disappeared. I don’t know where she went. Her parents were still there, but she was gone. I had wanted to fuck her again and was sad I couldn’t. I bragged to my friends that I fucked a bitch, but I wouldn’t tell them who, other than it was a younger neighbor girl and I couldn’t say nothing because her family was religious.

The news had a story about it. The newspaper was saying a girl was attacked. It was in the paper, but they didn’t say her name or exact address, only mentioned our neighborhood. They had a police sketch atop the article, but I didn’t think it looked much like me. It looked like a far older man.

In movies and TV, I’d heard of serial killers keeping press clippings and all, but I never did. Honestly, I couldn’t read anything after the first paragraph.

I remember reading what I’d done and thinking, like, wait, what the fuck did I do? I did what? I know I did it, but it didn’t feel like a crime. I didn’t even know why exactly I’d done it. And to make things worse, she was retarded.

After reading that article, I felt horrible. I hated myself. That was the first time I thought of killing myself. I’d thought of stealing one of my dad’s guns, plunging it down my throat, and eating a bullet.

Soon after that, I left for boot camp. When I was in the army, I didn’t have time or freedom to stalk any bitches. Me and my army buddies used to fuck hookers. We’d go out for drinks on the weekend, hit the brothels, Germany is full of them. Japan too. Every weekend we’d fuck hookers.

I got my dark urges settled, with the hookers. I could do what I wanted with them. They never said no. They never made me feel bad like the stuck-up cunts in my hometown, those girls in school who’d never even look at me.

Back then, I was so busy with army life and duties that I didn’t have much time to listen to my dark voices. I didn’t have time for the fantasies. Sometimes they’d pop up, in a dream, dark fantasies of roughing a bitch, stealing her pussy, but I’d never flashback to fucking that retarded bitch. I kept that silent. Blacked that out. Mostly, my stories went silent during those years.

It was when I came back to civilian life in America. It was when I was driving the truck. It was the free time I had. The dark voices returned. They were worse than ever. They were in control of me again. They were planning. They were attacking.

Yes, I liked it. I liked the fucking. But I’d never watch it on the news. I’d never read the stories. I’d never flashback on what I did. I knew I did it, or that I was the body doing it. That it was my flesh. But I never flashed back. I never reminisced. The only thoughts I’d have would be centered on the next bitch. The next target.

I didn’t think or care much about anything other than that. It was about finding another pussy to fuck. Pussy was my lifeblood. Pussy was my currency. Pussy was my motivation. When I’d fuck, I’d feel whole, I’d feel warm all over. It was the only time I wasn’t depressed. Pussy was my drug. Pussy was the only antidepressant that worked for me.

Man, I couldn’t believe it took the pigs so long to find me. Really a bunch of dumb motherfuckers, the cops. I always hated them. They should have had the army searching for me. The army, those boys, they’d have gotten me way quicker. The police, the dumbass, donut-eating motherfuckers, the stupid fucking pigs, it took them like over a decade to find me…

That’s what I asked them, too, the pigs, what took them so long.

When they showed up at my door, I knew they probably had DNA. I knew it was over. At first, I was happy. Because I wanted them to tell me why I did these things. I never knew, really. And I wanted to know. I wanted to know why.

Man, I mean, I could have just fucked hookers or gone to bars. Hell, there’s always bitches who want to fuck black guys like me. Back in the army, I got in great shape. I’m cabled with muscles. I got confidence. I didn’t have to do this. I shouldn’t have been doing this.

Shit, I was even married. Yet, I still did these crimes. I probably sneak-fucked over 30 of these bitches. And why? Why did I do it? I can’t say. Neither could the cops. Neither could their psychiatrists. I was expecting a quick answer. By the time they finally caught me, I thought they knew everything. But they couldn’t tell me shit. They didn’t say much of anything. They were only sitting there glaring at me like I was a piece of dogshit on the sidewalk. They were only asking me questions and writing down what I was saying.

Why couldn’t they give me any answers?! I’ve had these dark voices, I’ve had these urges, these forces pulling me for years. I wanted them gone. I wanted to know what they were so I could stop them. But I wasn’t getting any answers. No one could tell me anything.  

It was eating at me, and, before my trial, I broke down. I tried to hang myself in my cell. I wrapped my sheets around my throat and tied the noose to the cell’s bars. I was gagging and choking when the guards rushed in. Why didn’t the hacks let me die? Why didn’t the court give me the death penalty? There are guys not half as terrible as me who got put down by the State. What are they keeping me alive for?

They shoot these niggers in the street for nothing and yet they keep me alive? Me? Shit…

I’m confined to this cell 23 hours a day. Sometimes 24. It’s got a shower in the corner that’s on a timer. I can’t have sheets on the bed since I’m designated a suicide risk. I spend my days watching religious programming on TV. I spend much of my time reading the Bible.

If I’m not reading the Bible, I’m working out. I’m doing sit-ups, squats, and push-ups. Lots and lots of push-ups. Push-ups and praying. Push-ups and praying. Push-ups and praying. That’s my daily routine.

Most days, I’m allowed an hour outside in a cage, and I’ll run laps, circles in it. It’s nice to breathe the fresh air, even if it’s really hot or cold out.

I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. He is what keeps me going. He is what gives me strength and hope. I don’t expect any of my victims to forgive me, but I know He will…

Reading the Bible, praying to God, that’s what quiets my dark voices. I know the darkness is there, is inside me, but it’s been quieter since I got right with God. These days, the voices are more whispers than shouts.

Occasionally the voices speak up, though, like in the mornings. The images flash. The images of faceless bitches. My hands gripping their throats. Me putting a gun to a bitch’s head. Me touching a bitch’s body, the bitch moaning. Yeah, I’ll think of a bitch. I’ll think of pussy and touch myself...   

None of my relatives speak with me. Unsurprisingly. My wife divorced me...  

I’m in the PC (protective custody) section of the prison that houses the sex offenders and snitches. I talk through the vent with my neighbor, a chomo, and we pray together some. I pass kites with a few of the other inmates.

Apparently, I read in a kite, there’s a hit out on me in this prison. The Aryan Brotherhood and the Black Mafia want me dead. Shit, I’m probably the only thing they ever agreed on. That and the food in this place. It sucks. I don’t know how they call it food. I wouldn’t feed it to dogs.

The food in this prison tastes so bad that I sometimes wonder if the guards are poisoning it. I bet the guards would kill me too if they could. The way they look at me. Not that I can’t understand.

The prison chaplain, Father David, is the only person I talk to. He’s huge. He used to be a football player. He must be about 6’6 and 260 pounds. He’s got this bushy white shock of hair and a glass eye. He visits me. He prays with me through the slot in my door. He believes the devil possessed me. He won’t say it directly. But I get that’s his meaning.

Before, I never was a believer in God. But I’ve come around. Father David told me to look at the shape of an atom, then look at the shape of the solar system, look how similar they are. That struck me, man. It’s proof. Proof that this is real. Proof this ain’t a mistake. Proof nothing can be coincidence. It’s all interconnected, man. Everything is connected.  

I’m a believer now, man. I know that there is a God. I’m not totally sure there’s a Devil, though. I think men like me are probably far worse than any Devil. Shit, I might even be the Devil. It wouldn’t surprise me. God putting evil in us, God putting evil on this Earth, to let us know about good. To remind us what good is, so we don’t forget.

Jesus:

I’m so tired of people talking to me. And wearing crosses. Don’t they know what happened to me on that thing?

Don’t people understand that I’m a Jew? I even talk like Woody Allen. Really, I do. Every dead Jew eventually does. 

I wish people would stop bothering me. Like it wasn’t bad enough that I got crucified? Now I have to hear from all these schmucks? Have you ever been crucified? It’s the worst! The worst!

Nailed to a piece of wood, left out to die in the desert… Then, to add insult to injury, I have to hear these complaints and prayers every day…

Knock it off already! Leave me alone… Your thoughts and prayers, yeesh…

Like crucifixion wasn’t painful enough, with the nails being hammered into my hands and feet. The pain was unbearable! 

To further illustrate, think of it like this, have you ever gotten a splinter? It hurts, right? Now imagine, instead, a big metal nail driven, purposely, forcefully, through your skin. Does that sound fun? Does that make you want to wear a crucifix? Huh? And it’s a fashion statement to people? Oy vey! Quit wearing those things on your necklaces! Have some respect, would you!

But… that crucifixion… even worse than the pain… was the waiting… The waiting to die. That was insufferable. That was the torture. That and the obnoxious people strolling by, throwing rocks and food at me. Like it isn’t bad enough, I’m up here, nailed to a wooden stake! Now you throw an apple at me! An apple? Really? The nerve of you people!

It was humiliating!

I felt like such a disappointment to my followers too. This wasn’t how I was supposed to go out! I thought God was my Father and everything and He leaves me out there to rot on a stick! A stick?! Come on!

Ah, it was terrible up there. I was naked! Naked as my birthday! That’s right! There was no loincloth, like in the paintings. I was naked! And my skin was sizzling in the hot, dry desert sun. I was burning, roasting up there… And I was thirsty as anything, my mouth parched, full of sand. And what do the Romans give me? They bring me vinegar to drink! Vinegar! The audacity!

My followers, my wife was down there, crying at my feet, and I’m dangling from planks of wood like a common criminal. And I’m like, hey, what gives? What’s going on?! I’m the Son of God over here! It’s not right! It’s not fair!

It wasn’t right! I was yelling out, “Why have you forsaken me?!” And I was serious too. I’m like, dammit, get my Jew ass off of this stick, end this already, take me! That would have been the perfect time for God to show up, bring the apocalypse. Nailed to that stick, I’m thinking any minute it’s coming, the horsemen riding in, gray swirls in the sky, the clouds darken, the horn sounds, thunder booms and the floods surge in.

But nope!

I don’t remember dying. It was impossible to sleep up there, on the stick. At least they provided a footrest. But I couldn’t sleep a wink. Could you? If you were nailed to a tree or something? Probably not!

I was wide awake the whole time but eventually I blacked out and it was over. Nature was far more merciful than Man…

Although, when I think of my crucifixion, I shouldn’t complain too much because a lot of people got crucified upside down. For shame! Hanging upside down, crucified, your excrement sloshing down at your face. The horror, the pain, a dizzying, humiliating death. Now THAT is truly blasphemous.

Thinking back on it, I’m not sure why I was even so concerned with saving human beings anyway, the ways they’ve treated each other…

Just look at these people, look at the Romans, the Europeans. They murder me, then blame it on the Jews! My people! They murder me then call MY people: “Christ Killers.” They murder me, then they sack Jerusalem, destroy the Temple, slaughter us like livestock.

Oh, then what do they do? They start a new religion. In MY name! Me! A Jew! A Jew they killed!

Then they steal money from the poor. In my name! Didn’t they hear what I said about taking money in the Temple? Don’t even start me on the child molesters, either…

I tell you, sometimes I think I should have just stuck to being a carpenter…

I don’t remember dying but I do remember waking up in Heaven. It wasn’t anything like I expected.

Heaven looks like a desert, a red desert, like Mars, and there’s a long line of people, stretching into eternity. They’re all the same age and in the same condition as when they died.

There are soldiers from every war, with gaping wounds, bullet holes that are burbling crimson, so, of course I fit right in, with the big bloody gashes in my limbs. I’m certainly better off than the car accident victims, all mangled and missing arms, legs, yeesh...

There’re even people who are just a severed limb, just an arm or leg just hanging in the air.

There are babies. Animals. Insects. Houseplants… Every form of life, standing in that never-ending line…

There’s tons of suicide victims. They’re blue from asphyxiation, nooses on them, dangling like a necklace, and there’s jumpers from bridges and buildings, and they’ve got hideously cracked bloody faces, faces deformed by impact, their limbs twisted and jelly-like.

Undoubtably, plenty of old people are there, in wheelchairs, hobbling on walkers, lying on a gurney, hooked up to beeping machines.

The people come from every time period, too, and are mixed together. You’ll see a Roman soldier, behind a Native American chief, next to an African tribesman, or an old Tibetan monk in front of a young, tattooed face Soundcloud rapper who overdosed on pills.

Death is truly egalitarian. 

Everyone in the line looks confused. Or like they got backhanded, smacked in the face. Some have grossly shocked expressions, their eyes bulging, their jaws dangling open.

None speak. They just stand, separated by an equidistant 6 feet. When I arrived there, I was beamed to the front of the line. My form, my body dissolved into a puff, into a white cloud, and then I snapped to, and was standing at the front of the line.

An old man, in a toga, maybe a Greek, stood first in the line. He had horn-rimmed, solid gold eyeglasses hanging over his nose. He grabbed his crotch, and then I was sucked forward, almost vacuumed, into a cave, a hole, that looked like a black hole in outer space.

Inside, there was a narrow room. It had a low ceiling and dim rectangular fluorescent lights that blinked on and off, giving it a strobe light effect. The room was similar to a stock room. There were shoebox-sized, brown boxes piled to the ceiling, endless rows of them on each side of the white walls, the boxes stacked to the back, as far as the eye could see.

A black marble table sat in the center of the room. Behind it was an ivory chair. The ivory carved into meticulous patterns of curling snakes and dragons.

In the chair sat a mirror. Its edges were gilded in a shiny gold that had a phosphorescent aura to it. The mirror had to be approximately 3 feet tall and 1 foot wide.

The mirror spoke in a telepathic voice that sounded like my own thoughts. It told me it was God. It told me I wasn’t its son, but that it appreciated my doctrine. It told me it created Earth life, then man as an experiment. It had created other species, lifeforms on other planets, other galaxies. God said God was created by another God. That God created by another, and so on and so forth.

No one knew exactly who the first God was, or if there was a first. It was likely to have been an accident, said God. Or an experiment by another creature or force. 

And what is this room? What is this Heaven?

God said that in every box, there’s a soul. The bodies outside are flesh vessels, soul vehicles, carriers. Compost. They’re to be used again.

But as what? God wasn’t sure. God confessed to be overwhelmed by how fast humanity had developed and was overwhelmed by its cities, its problems. God tuned out a long time ago. God doesn’t have time. Time isn’t even a concept to God. God isn’t even a concept to God.

God sits in mirror form, watching a window; the window sandwiched between stacks of boxes; the window the size and shape of a coffin…

The window displays views of faraway galaxies, explosions of stars, emerald green planets inhabited by humungous bees, and little gray men acrobatically frolicking, dangling on gargantuan vines and trellises. The little gray man are smooth, naked, appear genderless and eyeless. They are living among the bees in buzzing electric hives nestled in thickets of pastel palm trees and flowers. Their planets have hot pink skies and are peaceful and lush. Their planets are endless garden fields of animated radiant plants that move with maws like Venus flytraps. Their planets are all greater and brighter than could be imagined.

God gazes most longingly at pure, clean, cobalt blue water planets, at purple octopus the size of whales, with tentacles the size and length of smokestacks, the immense creatures swimming, twisting, and plunging deep, living happily in superstructures of neon coral reefs.

God doesn’t bother watching Earth. Not too much. Here and there, God tunes in, and if annoyed or angry, throws a wildfire, hurricane, or tornado or tsunami. The majority of the time, though, God watches the other planets, watches the stars.

I asked why God stays in this room… Why not move on elsewhere? Go swim with the octopuses? God had no reply. I asked other questions to which God also didn’t reply. I was finding God to be a fan of the silent treatment.

Moses popped his head in, then emerged from behind the boxes. He was holding a wine bottle and smiling at me. His teeth were crooked, and I noticed he walked with a pronounced limp.

Muhammed, Buddha, Ganesh joined us later. God let us keep our souls. God lets us watch our followers, if we want, but we rarely do. We prefer to sit next to God and watch the collisions of stars, watch the green planets and the water planets.

God never had an animal body. God can be anything. God was the sun for a billion years. Then God was a mountain. Then God dug this space cave, this black hole.

So every black hole is a Heaven, I inquired. God didn’t respond. Nor did God disclose anything regarding the golden mirror. I told God the sun would be a better form.

But God said God made the sun a finite star so it’ll explode and that’ll be the end of man. God believes in journeys. God believes in a beginning and an end to every experiment. Even if there is no end to God.

The Hotel:

“Oh, God, please…” Jim murmurs into his clasped hands. He wants to kneel but can’t bend on one knee anymore after the injuries, all the surgeries. Instead, he prays standing up, his head thrown back, his eyes pressed closed. He talks to God every day. He asks for wisdom. He argues with God. He tells God about his problems. He knows God is listening and will bless him. He knows God better than he’s known anything ever in his life.

His wife emerges from the bathroom. She’s tied her hair in a chignon, applied heavy dabs of makeup and wears a clinging black dress that reveals ample thigh and cleavage. Morning sunlight trickles in from the hotel’s French windows, golden rays reflecting off her diamond necklace and earrings in bright prisms of light.

Jim pans his gaze toward her. His lips twist into a smile. She’s sparkling like an angel. She’s still got it, he thinks. How blessed he is, to have the love of this woman.

He knows he should appreciate her more, be more chivalrous. But he’s always had issues expressing emotions. Still, he loves her. He cherishes her. He knows she loves him. He knows she’s suffered and sacrificed, and he appreciates how she’s stood by him since back in his rookie year when his career prospects were uncertain. How she stood by his side, literally, in the hospitals, those times he went under the knife, his devoted wife helping him up in the middle of the night, assisting the hobbling giant to the toilet, holding his dick as he pissed, changing bedpans for him.

For better or worse, in sickness and in health…

This was why you’d marry, he thinks, to have a partner like her. And he’d been faithful to her, throughout their marriage. When the team was on the road, in faraway cities, in 5-star hotels, the Hilton, Ritz-Carlton, loads of other guys on the team would hit the nightclubs, the bars, go party and dance, bring back floozies to fuck.

They had intricate systems of sneaking out of the hotels, averting their militaristic coaches’ watch. They’d bribe lower-level coaching assistants, bellboys, set up mannequins in their beds, creep down hallways like burglars, rush down fire escapes and back stairways, run and duck and look over their heavy shoulders, as if they were escaping jail. These grown men, star athletes, wide receivers and quarterbacks, cowering and terrified of coach, risking steep fines and possible suspensions. And all for what? To nail a floozy? Jim didn’t understand it…

But Jim never cared, as long as their performance on the field didn’t suffer. And he understood the bro code. And he kept silent.

And he kept inside his hotel rooms, watching movies, Game of Thrones, nature documentaries, eating salt and vinegar potato chips, facetiming with his wife. He’d never been with any other lady since they’d become an item. It was now that he realized his faithfulness was paying its dividends…

They collect their bags. Jim pats his beautiful wife on her lower back, and they exit their suite. The moving/relocation service had finished unpacking the family’s things and setting up the house late last night, so the couple, along with their teenaged son, had stayed in a nearby hotel for the night.

Their teenaged son, Kyle, clicks open and closes the heavy oak door to his room. His head bowed to his phone, he wheels a suitcase with his other hand, then rides an elevator down to the lobby, where he’ll wait for his parents.

Kyle:

The last few years have been tough on Kyle. Losing the house he’d grown up in. Leaving his neighborhood. Relocating to a new city.

And now he’s moving into a house with a gruesome history. And he is not happy about it...

In today’s information age, with the internet, it’s impossible to hide much. Kyle has been researching his new house. He’s seen horrific photos of the crime. He’s been feeling anxious, wired, and most of all sick, knowing that he’ll be living in a house where an entire family was shot. He’ll be living in a house that was once a funeral home. A house that’s allegedly haunted.

It’s the sort of house he would have expected to read about in a tabloid, in a click-baity, SHOCKING article about the house being recently purchased by an eccentric recluse, or a ghoul like Marilyn Manson…

Kyle sits in the hotel’s dramatic lobby, with its walls made of black marble, and its furniture like something from an impressionist painting. 

His parents meet him in the lobby, and as always, his dad stands out in a crowd, towering above everyone. Kyle thinks about how his dad looks like such a freak. Or a sasquatch. His dad looking like a less hairy bigfoot, with his over-scaled features, his big hands, his barrel chest and lurching gait. His dad… with the body of a monster… has the face of a monster, too… with his square jaw, cleft chin, prominent nose and freakishly wide forehead.

Worst, most frightening of all, for sure, is his dad’s abnormally huge head. His dad’s head like a weird, warbly blimp. His dad’s head always unnerved Kyle to a degree, made him think of blimps, hot-air balloons. Kyle has long been tormented by an irrational fear of blimps, perhaps because they remind him of his dad’s head, or it could be from seeing footage of the Hindenburg disaster on TV, as a young child. Sometimes Kyle would lay eyes on his dad’s head and he’d picture the blimp crashing. He’d picture the flames in black and white and that “oh the humanity” soundbite.

At least his dad isn’t wearing a Panama hat. Thank God his dad isn’t wearing one of those Panama hats, Kyle ponders. To Kyle, there’s n