brad is a man i know, and in his stomach is an ant stomach, near a dairy queen. the brad ant is something else i am vaguely aware of, the something else with something else i know about, near a dairy queen that i also know about.
sundays, brad is a fire ant. one that eats people, people around the dairy queen.
brad is a fire ant on other days, too. he sweats out armpits from his chest.
sometimes, near the dairy queen letters on the highway, he makes faces like a murderer and practices eating people, and doesn’t eat people, and instead sweats armpits from his chest. he eats a road cone.
brad can read: ‘blizzard of the chocolate malt crunch blizzard.’
brad orders a burger sandwich as a large ant that eats people and sweats armpits from his chest and eats road cones and other road cones as well. brad is all of these things. brad is the road cones and the burger sandwich and will not be another thing. brad exists as road cones and burger sandwiches, and he is road cones and burger sandwiches, and he is nothing else.
brad dumps his road cones and burger sandwich in the toilet as a fire ant. something else. brad calls his grandma. brad makes a fort on his roof. brad cuts himself, because brad is a cutter. brad is the baddest cutter, and he cuts his little ant arms with a pin.
people make judgments about this, and things happen to brad. and brad eats other things, and that is all brad can really do. brad tries not to die too young, and eats something else. and when brad dies, other things eat his too young fire ant body.