The next time I came to Hollywood, it was an entirely different sort of place. The people were strange, and not the kind of strange I was used to.

The people had antlers.

I was on my knees, dragging myself through the dirt. The breaths came few and shallow, and I knew that something was very, very wrong inside me. What did they implant in my stomach? Aliens. I needed to get to a doctor.

I approached him, I asked him to help me, but he had a goat’s head, and could not speak. I asked him a second time and it was screaming. Screaming death-knells of a thousand road-killed venison; I felt foolish for not noticing my wrists were sliced across, and the blood was spraying against a wide nature-scene-painting.

I blinked twice, and I was the deer. And you were my real life mother, aiming at me with a rifle. Just before you killed me I told God to smite your people.

Oil that rained from the sky was me! For you have tainted the blood of 1,000 generations with an ember from a burned down home.