I tell Dr. Marcy: I have this dream sometimes. It’s a
recurring dream. Mothra’s eaten all the world’s sheep, and everyone’s forced to
wear polar fleece.
We make sacrifices of old wool coats to appease him. Once a
day, we pile our threadbare castoffs on our lawns, creating huge mounds of old pea
coats and Christmas sweaters and argyle socks that whip up and swirl away as
hurricane gales blast glass out of skyscrapers and tumble cars.
And Mothra comes. With antennas tall as skyscrapers,
fluttering wings that black out the sky, he veils the sun and flips noon over,
plunging the world into temporary midnight.
He descends, and the world flees before him.
“I would like to try hypnotherapy on you,” Dr. Marcy says.
“There are still some pent-up anger issues that we can’t quite seem to get at.”
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