When I woke, it was dinner time.
And the dinner was cash.
Stacks of dollars. Coins the size of plates. Forks sticking out of shredded bills.
A pig in a pinstripe suit sat at the table.
He chewed thoughtfully.
Occasionally he grunted, or corrected his tie, or scribbled something obscene on a notepad.
I was strapped to a chair.
The chair was sinking.
The room was a room but also a city.
A city of mouths.
Buildings made of molars.
Sidewalks paved with gums.
I tried to move. The chair disagreed. It had ideas of its own.
The pig noticed me.
He smiled. His smile was wider than my face.
"Eat," he said.
His voice was a sack of rotting potatoes being stomped.
"I'm not hungry," I said.
Wrong answer.
The chair's legs grew longer, lifting me higher, higher, until my head scraped a ceiling I hadn't seen before.
And then I fell.
Straight through the floor.
Straight into—