The house where the Mothers sat was falling apart: the roof was growing hair, the porch retreated a bit every day into the underground, the windows grew cataracts, and the paint wrinkled beneath the boiling sun.
Jimmy, our neighborhood’s elected Authorized Pizza Comptroller and Logistical Pie Monitor, sat in his Mobile Unit, counting the number of pies being delivered. It didn’t add up. According to the Human Brood Growth Committee, the number of spawn spilling from the Mothers’ chafed birth canals would not consume the amount of pepperoni that had been authorized by the Lord Mayor. Something was amiss. Some branch of the population was being fed without notarization stamps from Jimmy’s sigil stamp.
Something was growing strong on Jimmy’s pizzas, something protected from high in the Bureau. Jimmy, however, was not one to sit back and take it. He didn’t crawl from the backyard into the Mobile ‘Troller Unit when he was a lad, defeat the reigning Comptroller with a sharpened piece of sewer concrete, and teach himself to count just to become a pawn in a game of Fuckery.
So Jimmy revved the engine and let it loose. The side of the house split like a hot melon as he crashed headlong into it. Half-formed human spawn fell from the insulation, greasing his windshield. He could no longer see, but only hear them tearing at the tires and pounding on the windshield. He knew what he had to do.
With a calm unknown to all but heroes, Jimmy burrowed nose first into the gas tank and let the fumes take him to Valhalla. His soul sparked as it left his body and the blood of the Mothers’ brood rained for days on the neighborhood.