"Fuck life," you mutter as you roll over back onto the detritus of this ridiculous small town pet shop. You grab a brochure from a Fat Annie's Funny Farm, crumple it up, and engage it further into your pillow as you drift down deeper into your wrestling bender hang-over. Nothing can disturb you now. Your consciousness drifts on the wings of a cockroach and soars off to heaven. Pip-Pep is there, your grand-daddy, your kindergarten girlfriend, and even the Ultimate Warrior! Oh my! This is an exciting and perfect dream. You sink ever deeper into the depths of your dirty sub-conscious, as the mass of roaches sink even deeper into your mouth and crawl down your esophagus into your belly, and downwards, ever downwards through your intestines. In an inhuman squeal they alert each other that all individuals are in place as they all, as one, burst their wings out of the sorry excuse for skin that is wrapped around your wrestler's frame. They beat as one as they propel you into the sky. Your eyes open, but their lids are all that you now control. Every other aspect of your body has been hijacked by the little Cocks. You are now an animated insectual puppet, with no free will, only the ability to watch, or not watch, what they force upon what is essentially your corpse. You fly first through the doorway of the pet shop and assault the livid remains that are the sanity of the teenaged clerk manning the counter. Apparently the swarm enjoyed their captivity, and/or eventual dumping none too plenty. Your poorly propelled arms flop sadly towards his catatonic body. Tiny wings flapping madly all up and down your arms. The illness that is your puppet-ted form is more than the sane human mind can bare.
Once the clerk has been satisfactorily slapped with slow floppy arms, you fly off. Apparently the swarm of puppeteers are right pleased with their new war-ship as they all screech with glee. The thousands of tiny wing pricks in your skin all bleed tiny blood streams out, causing a precious rain of red to drip down beneath you. You are quite the sight for sorry eyes! Desperate to keep you from completely rotting, they pilot you down into another dumpster and start using your own hands to force feed you the rotting filth from out back of the grocery store. That moldy slop is good enough for them: what do they know about feeding a human puppet? Your stomach wants to wretch, but the roaches have no idea that muscular contraction is needed. Without evacuating the poison from your stomach you won't have long to live. But cheer up! The incredulous cell phone footage of your amazing flight of bloody fancy will be spread far and wide till the end of digitized time! Dude! You went TOTES VIRAL!