This is the point where I was going to tell you about the horrible job I got rehabilitating dirty old pillows collected out of dorms during summer break when I was about twenty-one, and didn't have any job experience and not a lot of self-confidence. And I was going to tell you how it was awful and strange working in the basement laundry room of a dorm, washing pillow covers that students had been drooling (and God-knows-what-else-ing) on all year, and I ended up with a severe case of bronchitis due to all the particulates that came out of ancient feather pillows and matted, stained "cotton" fiber pillows and partially broken-down into orange powder foam pillows and the doctor I went to see wouldn't believe I had bronchitis, but kept insisting that I was just having an asthma attack while I wheezed and whuffled in his examining room. But I won't. Instead, I'll just say that that was a job that could have killed me. Well, only in combination with the terrible medical care I was receiving from my HMO, but I think you see my point. Having a crappy job at twenty or twenty-one ain't the end of the world and can often be quite the motivation to go out and get something better.

Cut to the alley. Gary is taking out the trash -- or going out to have sex with Spike, I'm really not sure. There's a rumbling behind the trashcan. Gary calls out, "Is someone there?" Uh oh. It's monster-cam. I sense that things will not go well for Gary. He seems to recognize whomever he sees and is genuinely unafraid until, for some reason, he starts screaming. His little hat flies off and hits the pavement while the camera follows. Hey, at least you can't hear the background music over the screaming. I'll have to try a few ritual sacrifices next time the score really gets on my nerves.