The long awaited conclusion to Chapter One of the seminal work by Ira Idlebaum, Forlorn

The Ensign woke with a start. He looked at the clock: 3 AM. The vapors from his dream still swirled round his mind, strange images. Laura Esterman in a burka knitting a loaf of veal while Don Buchwald sang Nowhere Man to a wax figure of Dan Zisky, who cradled in his arms Wolfie, alive and well. The cat wore a sweater somehow knitted from roles Jamie Sheridan had turned down. Crazy stuff. I need a cold glass of oat milk, thought the Ensign, getting up and going out to his trough.
The feeding tub, set up behind the garage, was just about brimming with oat detritus – hulls, kernels, groats – and a spongy, mossy aroma wafted up to the Ensign’s face as he leaned in to scoop up some of the mix to bring in to the kitchen where he could mix it in with some water and greedily quaff it. But something - his sleepiness, maybe the confused place the dreams had left him, or just an errant step - caused him to slip, and topple into the trough, where the gelatinous oat gunk immediately ensnared him like quick sand. He struggled, but the oat glue held. Immobility. But not entirely unpleasant. The perfume of the oats was sweet to the little Zionist, and he felt himself relax. In a minute or two, he was fast asleep, dreaming that he gave birth to David Straithern through his ass.



Nobody witnessed the metamorphosis. It took place in the early morning hours while everyone slept. The Ensign himself was unaware of the transformation. But it happened, and it was frightful.
The Cmdr, a sweaty ball of sloth and anger, shuffled into the kitchen around 8 AM. No coffee had been brewed; usually the descendant of Moses had already put on enough caffeine to fry Falluja, but the pot sat empty. Odd, thought the man who was so fat that he had to get baptized at sea world. The Ensign was usually in the house by now, bent over his laptop, trying out a new widget or downloading statistics on Belle Fleck’s scrotum.
Then he heard a flaking noise, a dry rustling coming up the steps of the back porch. The door opened – and in walked - the
Quaker Oats Man! A white colonial wig, a plain dark waistcoat over a linen shirt, jabots, knickers, and the black felt Tricorn hat with gold trim. It was the Quaker Oats Man, but at the same time, underneath the Colonial garb, clearly perceptible, was the Ensign. The small beard peeked through, the resentful eyes shone.
“I bring you good news, my friend,” said the strange combination of advertisement icon and needy actor, “I bring you news of good health. Indeed, I bring you oats, in all their glory!”