This past Wednesday night, June 3-4, two days before the subsidized masses get their free money, the crazies were in to shop over night. While EBT recipients are usually rude, thieving criminal types, SSI recipients are split between the elderly, the fat, the insane, and the maliciously entitled. At my location most EBT [food stamps/welfare] and SSI recipients are white. The minority black population in the area is evenly split between working class and new-aristocrat parasite.

As I hit the walk the Lunger Hags were piling out of their minivan in four stages of deterioration. These four white bitches range from 30, to 45, to 60, to 75, four generations of rancid vagina. They are all chain smokers, hacking up lung gel by the spittoon full and either launching it or swallowing it as courtesy demands.

75 pound Granny has a walker and barely curses.

150 pound Mom lies prone on her shopping cart as she pushes it, cursing only at prices, and complimenting stock clerks on their muscular behinds.

250 pound Daughter has a powered scooter chair which she zooms around the store in, grumbling “Motherfucker,” at every hairpin turn.

200 pound Granddaughter stands outside chain smoking, coughing up lung gel as she scratches her groin and breaks wind in her tube top and hot pants.

Other than Granny haggling over some fixed prices their alien invasion is uneventful.

As I bought my midnight coffee a loud screaming laugh vibrated through the front end, and Bubba, towering six foot nine, looks down at me and rolls his eyes. “I hate people—I really do.”

In struts a 4 foot 10 inch woman of 25 years. I guess her weight at 140 pounds, trying to factor in the enormous bubbling breasts that seem Gs jammed into E-cups. She is drunk, wearing a low cut dress, her hair teased all the way back to the late 70s, and she notices me trying to figure out how big her fun bags are and wags them at me from side to side. Bubba almost pukes in his trash bin as she purrs, “Hey Baby,” and continues on by with her fat bearded teddy bear date following close behind in the handicapped cart, as if he is trying out for the bumper car invitational.

They then begin shopping, fighting over what they will eat for fatfast, he zooming after her in the cart while she scampers like three top-heavy bowls of gelatin in a wig, screaming like a guy in a hockey mask has just emerged with a knife from the bathroom her lover just entered.

Moments later I am on my knees rotating the Danimal yogurt drinks when he zooms up next to me—350 pounds counting the beard—and asks, “Sir, where is your bacon?”

I point down the aisle and he zooms off. Then a big haired shadow enters my vision, and I find myself kneeling beneath this loud drunk chick, whose breasts are at the level of my face. I said, “May I help you, miss?”

She makes two big eyes, purses her lips and purrs, “Hey Baby Boo, while you’re down there—”

I am then saved by the harshly boyish voice of her insignificant other, “Hey you fucking slut, get down here and pick out the bacon!”

I hear Mary behind me at the cake counter groaning in disgust as the top-heavy vixen does a flop-waddle-run down the aisle and engages in a tug of war over a pack of Silver Label bacon. Eventually she falls into his lap and he pilots them both down the aisle, the handicapped scooter whining in dismay. When they came back past me she had managed to unzip his pants and he shoved her off into the aisle unceremoniously, saying to me, “Sir, please keep this dirty bitch away from me,” then, as she regained her feet with a squeal of frustration he zooms off past the cake counter with her in slovenly pursuit.

Mary looked at me as I stood and boxed the out of dates, and said, “You’re a writer, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am, and I take requests.”

She then pointed with frustrated anger at the duo wrestling in the register lane as Bubba scanned their bacon. “Could you—”

“Yes, adventure or horror; both of them butchered as ill-fated coed troops in an Islamic hellhole, or—”

“Horror. She is a good screamer. Have her killed in some terrible way, him helpless to come to her aid.”

“Deal, I promise. They’ll show up in a Hemavore scene this month.”

This might seem like nothing, like fun, like humorous social commentary, not worthy of inclusion in a discussion of something as brutal as The Boned Zone.

Recall the animals that went crazy just before the great quake hit Cyprus in an antiquity.

Imagine the birds getting silent of a sudden as you sit noiselessly in the forest.

The point is, when the crazies are out in force, though most are merely entertaining to us, they provide cover for more dangerous crazies on the same mental health subsidy program, and also provide prey for focused predators. On this very morning another crazy came into the store and threatened my boss. That deserves its own treatment. Until then remember that crazies tend to cluster, as if according to some immutable law of insanity, at certain times and places. When you spot your first crazy, instead of getting angry, treat her as a warning bell and be on your lookout for the crazy to worry about.