The end of the line.

The door whipped open and John was there, taking a leak, urinating desperately amidst civil unrest. He looked up at the open door, the snarling dogs, Cuerva Martinez and his band, the trumpet player with one eye, gold teeth, the ocelot clawing, tipping forward through the window, and the deputy with his cigar and his mouth, spouting all manner of curious words.

--Door knob, safety pin, green card, ink pen--

John looked down, tugging the zipper, trying to hurry. But so much tea had been drank, and there was so much more to go.

The last hot dog

Biff looked at the hot dog laying on the ground. It had a bee on it. "Hey," he said to his mom, "that a bee on that hot dog?"

"What?" she asked, turning to look. Chocolate dripped from her mouth as she stared at the weiner. "Bee? Nah, that's a hot dog. Ain't no bees."

"But you said--"

"Don't you mind what I said, boy," she interrupted.

Biff tried not to, but she had said so many things it seemed he was bound to mind one of them at some point.

Ginger and Tommy, peace at last, Lord.

"I'm hungry," Tommy said, cluthing his stomach, which suddenly felt hollow and distant. This prompted a sharp pain. "Argh!" he cried. "My tummy feels like staples!"

"That's stupid." Said Ginger. But then she caught herself, as Tommy stomach erupted like a tiny volcano, and hundreds of ants sprayed out. "Ohmygosh."

Tommy stared at his swollen, distended stomach. It looked like a balloon, except it had an opening, and was full of ants. I had a balloon like that, he thought. One year at the fair. "Remember?" he asked Ginger. "That time at the fair? I shouldn't have eaten so many hot dogs."

"I remember," Ginger said. But she couldn't. She couldn't ever remember going to the fair with this stupid kid, and besides that, the ants were stinging her, and she was thirsty. "Hey,"she said. "I'm gong home. This is really stupid."

She was right; it was. And Tommy gurgled as the ants carried him away, over the hill and into some unfathomable tunnel.