The shopping center parking lot bustled and sweltered as a wave of humid gulfstream air pushed up into the Chesapeake Basin like an invisible, smothering hand.

Like an urban land rover, the massive black “minivan” occupied one parking space, its passenger the other.

The driver—tall, dark and seemingly just off of work in white t-shirt and blue jeans—sauntered to the pizzeria.

Before the open side door stood a giantess, seemingly carved with a dull stylus by a drunken child from chocolate gelatin and then wrapped in strips of black satin by a blind man.

Sprouting from black sandals, her massive, shapeless legs touched at the knee and remained contiguous as the pained eye of the observer scrolled ever upward, expecting a curve of hip but perceiving instead a massive expansion of lumpy, satin-wrapped famine insurance having mutated in an age of plenty.

Above the crossed bands of black satin spilled her storied, gelatinous folds, the hanging gardens of this latter day Babylon, maintained by an Imperial tax on the less grossly malformed oxen of The State.

Above the draped folds of a rancid nation’s dubious maternal icon, hangs a head of trophy hair that never sprouted from such a monstrosity as this. The silky locks of some Lilliputian hair whore from half a world away fail to hide the humorless scowl rippling the blubbery folds of the tri-shaded face. Creased in black, brown and beige, with frog-lipped brows sagging over small, pig’s eyes that glare angrily about, the face was a masterpiece of anger projection. Then the overturned bucket of a head turned again, its optical apertures peering into the open van, to the object of their wrath—

Within the van is a disciplinary device, a seat strapped to the padded cattle bench, within which is strapped a brown, round-faced doll of a child, dressed in white, possessing curly hair utterly alien to the trophy hair of its mother. Possibly male, possibly female, possessed of a pre-gender innocence, the child looks outward beyond the beast that bore it, into a hurried, uncaring world, knowing better at perhaps 18 months, than to utter another cry of confinement. For she who towered and hulked before the door blocked out the light, flexing her great blubbery paws menacingly, daring the recently arrived prisoner of this planet of the feral apes to cry for release again.

The observer thought, as he passed the place of conveyant confinement, "Please, Dad bring this bitch her pizza before she goes to work on the prisoner."