The beginning of that Spring, the short bloated coward could only look forward to an upcoming play in the coming autumn, in a role so small it wasn't even in the script. He spent his days and nights terrified by time, drunk with worry, sleepy and stunned by the way it had all turned out. Chewing nicotine gum like a rabbit on meth, the swollen sack of shit napped or ruminated on the ruin of his life. Once, limping back from a trip to a stationary store, some sad lost nobody acknowledged the snuffling little blob from some long ago walk-on. The CMMDR realized his wasn't the only wreck of a life if losers like that recognized losers like himself. The weeks wasted away. The bald freak somehow endured. To this day no one knows why or how.