means' through with the human brain is satisfied, creating a feeling of completeness. To Coma it just sounded like someone who might be able to see this world like she did. It drowns out the"Happy Birthday, Coma!" chants from outside her window.Her door is suddenly kicked in with half-assed drunken force and the President leans against theframe for support. He leers at Coma incoherently with a birthday cake in one hand. The candlesmake ugly shadows across his face. Coma tries to hide Adam's box and the music but her nightgown just comes open in the process."What's that playing? That's not my song..." He loses his frame of thought for a moment staring ather pale exposed belly and thighs. "Are you too big to love daddy, now? You're all grown up mylittle princesss...let me see."He stumbles toward her and with his free hand begins to grope her breasts. She resists, for whatseems like the first time, and rips open his silk shirt. What she sees beneath is more disgustingthan his pathetic molestation. His almost translucent skin is varicose and wrinkled. On hisshoulders and chest he wears prosthetic pads that are snapped onto his skin with tiny stainlesssteel fasteners to augment his youthful, healthy shape. The material his fake muscles are madeof looks wet and gelatinous like raw chicken meat.He is too drunk to be embarrassed, so he tears away the rest of his clothes stumbling toward her with some sort of elastic garter that holds his veiny erection upright. The cake with her facepainted on it, smears down his leg onto the floor."Daddy, loves you. You know that's why we have to do this."As he reaces for her arm, she pulls away and grabs a six inch tall marble statue of her father fromher desk. With all her strength and eighteen years of resentment she smashes his across theforehead with it, breaking the statue and splitting open a large horizontal gash above his brow. Hefalls, bleeding and covered in cake. The gaping wound seems to frown above his closed eyes.She drops the statue, even though she knows he's still alive.*In the hallway to Coma's bedroom Mrs. White walks slowly and decisively choking back her tearswith one manicured hand, carrying the black pistol in the other. When she pokes open the door with the barrel of the gun, she sees her husband sobbing pathetically. He is clutching Coma's tornnightgown and his atrophied torso is covered in his own drying brown blood. The white sheets of her bed have caught fire from the spilled candles and the bed has begun to burn behind him. Thebedroom draperies flutter from an open window.Coma is gone.It's quite obvious to Mrs. White what has happened as she enters the room. She grabs the gunwith both shaky hands and points it at her husband."Who's going to get it up for you now?" She shrieks, looking at his still hard phallus, pinched off with a strap like a tourniquet. It twitches grotesquely in time with the short burst of blood thatpulse from his head wound. "Don't come crawling to me. I married a goddamn star! Look at younow. You're just a shell. I wasted myself on you.""Go ahead and shoot me," he taunts her, still sobbing. "I want you to. Then where would you be?"His crying is now a disgusted laughter. "You'd be nothing. You're old and worn out. You're uglyand it makes me feel dead just being near you. So do it!"She is shaking more now and her strand of confidence is snapping. She starts crying weakly andhe laughs at her, wiping the blood and tears out of his eyes.