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I
hear
a
silly
prattle
reminds
me
of
somebody
familiar
,
and
I
roll
enough
to
get
a
look
down
the
other
way
.
It
's
the
hairless
Public
Relation
with
the
bloated
face
,
that
the
patients
are
always
arguing
about
why
it
's
bloated
.
"
I
'll
say
he
does
,
"
they
'll
argue
.
"
Me
,
I
'll
say
he
does
n't
;
you
ever
hear
of
a
guy
really
who
wore
one
?
"
"
Yeh
,
but
you
ever
hear
of
a
guy
like
him
before
?
"
The
first
patient
shrugs
and
nods
,
"
Interesting
point
.
"
Now
he
's
stripped
except
for
a
long
undershirt
with
fancy
monograms
sewed
red
on
front
and
back
.
And
I
see
once
and
for
all
(
the
undershirt
rides
up
his
back
some
as
he
comes
walking
past
,
giving
me
a
peek
)
that
he
definitely
does
wear
one
,
laced
so
tight
it
might
blow
up
any
second
.
And
dangling
from
the
stays
he
's
got
half
a
dozen
withered
objects
,
tied
by
the
hair
like
scalps
.
He
's
carrying
a
little
flask
of
something
that
he
sips
from
to
keep
his
throat
open
for
talking
,
and
a
camphor
hanky
he
puts
in
front
of
his
nose
from
time
to
time
to
stop
out
the
stink
.
There
's
a
clutch
of
schoolteachers
and
college
girls
and
the
like
hurrying
after
him
.
They
wear
blue
aprons
and
their
hair
in
pin
curls
.
They
are
listening
to
him
give
a
brief
lecture
on
the
tour
.
He
thinks
of
something
funny
and
has
to
stop
his
lecture
long
enough
for
a
swig
from
the
flask
to
stop
the
giggling
.
During
the
pause
one
of
his
pupils
stargazes
around
and
sees
the
gutted
Chronic
dangling
by
his
heel
.
She
gasps
and
jumps
back
.
The
Public
Relation
turns
and
catches
sight
of
the
corpse
and
rushes
to
take
one
of
those
limp
hands
and
give
it
a
spin
.
The
student
shrinks
forward
for
a
cautious
look
,
face
in
a
trance
.
"
You
see
?
You
see
?
"
He
squeals
and
rolls
his
eyes
and
spews
stuff
from
his
flask
he
's
laughing
so
hard
.
He
's
laughing
till
i
think
he
'll
explode
.
When
he
finally
drowns
the
laughing
he
starts
back
along
the
row
of
machines
and
goes
into
his
lecture
again
.
He
stops
suddenly
and
slaps
his
forehead
--
"
Oh
,
scatterbrained
me
!
"
--
and
comes
running
back
to
the
hanging
Chronic
to
rip
off
another
trophy
and
tie
it
to
his
girdle
.
Right
and
left
there
are
other
things
happening
just
as
bad
--
crazy
,
horrible
things
too
goofy
and
outlandish
to
cry
about
and
too
much
true
to
laugh
about
--
but
the
fog
is
getting
thick
enough
I
do
n't
have
to
watch
.
And
somebody
's
tugging
at
my
arm
.
I
know
already
what
will
happen
:
somebody
'll
drag
me
out
of
the
fog
and
we
'll
be
back
on
the
ward
and
there
wo
n't
be
a
sign
of
what
went
on
tonight
and
if
I
was
fool
enough
to
try
and
tell
anybody
about
it
they
'd
say
,
Idiot
,
you
just
had
a
nightmare
;
things
as
crazy
as
a
big
machine
room
down
in
the
bowels
of
a
dam
where
people
get
cut
up
by
robot
workers
do
n't
exist
.
But
if
they
do
n't
exist
,
how
can
a
man
see
them
?
It
's
Mr.
Turkle
that
pulls
me
out
of
the
fog
by
the
arm
,
shaking
me
and
grinning
.
He
says
,
"
You
havin
'
a
bad
dream
,
Mistuh
Bromden
.
"
He
's
the
aide
works
the
long
lonely
shift
from
11
to
7
,
an
old
Negro
man
with
a
big
sleepy
grin
on
the
end
of
a
long
wobbly
neck
.
He
smells
like
he
's
had
a
little
to
drink
.
"
Back
to
sleep
now
,
Mistuh
Bromden
.
"
