Coming out of his tiny bungalow he flopped down into a filthy lawn chair.  Stuff from the towering redwoods fluttered down and was cojoined with a multitude of bird and mouse droppings.

The skin of his exposed forearm struck to the plastic arm rest as he scratched his stubbled chin.  Starring into the darkness long into the night was a favored past time for this beaten soul.  He longed for companionship with the female persuation, but alas, no luck for this quite genius, this man who had so many great plans....if only they would listen.

His last job was at the chicken processing plant, just up the road.  He tried to explain to his bosses that instead of just executing chickens in a cold, clinical style the meat would taste better if we reached an understanding with them before they died. 

After all chickens are creatures of this earth too and they deserved respect.  He offered to sit with the chickens in quite, reflective meditation and after awhile the chickens were part of the food chain and their destiny was to give us sustenance.  Their spirits would harmoniously leave their bodies and therefore the meat would be tastier and sales would sky rocket.

His severance was coming to an end and....the more he thought the more his head hurt.  The crickets... their infernal chirping started to reverberate like bbs in a coffee can.  Louder and louder he could hardly stand it.  His head felt like it was in a vise grip.

Convulsing with dry heaves he collapsed.  "Mommy," he wheezed. 

The rank fetid smell of death seized his nostrils.  He would have fainted had he not recoginized this odor.