He ran his wheelbarrow down the center of the freeway.
It was night. Someone screamed, the barrow swerved, a body landed in it, and then the black-hooded, scythe-in-hand, fist-raised figure holding the handles laughed and disappeared, and then again was there and everywhere, on a million highways at once.
“What the hell? It was what today?”
“Average, so madly average. I hate average!”
“Were on track. I’d say 50 to 60 million again this year. Heart disease is stable. Cancer is good, a real producer.”
“But we put out this week! I expected more! Ah, we need something new, like tobacco. Love tobacco! So freakin’ effective.”
“Stop whining and get back out there! The guppies are winning!”
“Grass is winning!”
“Seeds are winning!”
“You better quit! I can’t take this from you!”
“Butterfly eggs — beating the crap out of you!”
“Stop it! Stop it!”
“One step ahead of the grim reaper … ever the exultant sower!”
And then all hell broke loose as the empty, dark hooded, machete wielding figures went at each other, in haste, frothing and sweating and cursing. And while they fought, seeds sprang from the soil and burst into flower, creatures from eggs sprang forth, flying and singing and praising, and babies — blushing, skin as soft as fluff — took their first triumphant breathes in a warm, watered, food-filled, life-washed world.