He lay on his air-bed in the bedroom of his otherwise unfurnished apartment, watching his fan oscillate from left to right. The light on the top of the fan was dim, shining just brightly enough to provide some distraction in the form of an orange splodge that paced slowly on the ceiling like it were attached to some giant, slow-moving metronome.

The only other illumination in the room came from a giant rotating bucket fixed atop the roof of the chicken restaurant next door, although describing the place as a restaurant served no real purpose other than to make the chickens feel a little better about their final fate. One might presume, or at least pretend, that a chicken would feel a little better about itself knowing it would end up being served somewhere that at least sounds like it serves actual food, as opposed to the sort of place that sells cement-like mashed potatoes coated in flavorless gravy, and macaroni cheese with texture that suggested it had been made in a Chinese plastics factory.