Memes and Zombies

by
Daulton Dickey.

In “The Selfish Gene,” Richard Dawkins gave us the theory of “memes,” a word with which most people who use the Internet are familiar. Briefly, Dawkins’s definition of a meme is a self-replicating concept, behavior, attitude, sense of fashion, piece of music, and so on. He argues that a meme is only analogous to genetic evolution, that memes themselves are evidence for an alternate form of evolution, coinciding with, but distinct from, genetic evolution—but occurring far more rapidly than the evolution of genes.

A meme’s success depends on fecundity, the rate at which copies multiply. Mutations and variations occur in memes, which hasten their evolution. Setting that aside, if we concentrate on the fecundity of memes, then we can reach an interesting conclusion.

Say you live in a culture in which concept A is dominant in the meme pool; its ability to replicate means it has “infected” a significant portion of the brains constituting that culture. Concept A then passes from person to person, many of whom adapt to the meme without either conscious awareness or analysis of the meme.

There probably exists a plethora of memes in the meme pool which we accept and propagate without conscious awareness of the logic, or lack thereof, inherent in the concept. To put it bluntly, if we were to analyze twitterheader (2)many of the concepts, i.e., the “ideas,” we hold, then we would realize that we hold them because we were exposed to them and propagated them without “thinking” about them or “understanding” them.

Memes are, in a sense, parasites. Or, as William S. Burroughs once said, “the word is a virus.” They spread from brain to brain, from person to person. If we accept that memes are parasites, if we accept that our concepts, our behaviors, our aesthetic principles and so are transmitted from person to person, some of whom don’t “understand” the various memes they’re propagating, then we can, in a sense, say humans are controlled by such memes, analogous to the way infections in horror movies generate zombies.

Therefore, we can say that, by embracing memes without understanding them, humans are, in a sense, zombies. A dominant meme in popular culture currently speculates about a hypothetical “zombie apocalypse.” We dedicate time to this meme without realizing that we are, in a sense, already zombies, each and every one of us.

An Excerpt From Another Novel No One Will Publish

by
Daulton Dickey.

The bedroom looks more or less as it did when Sarah’s mother had returned from the hospital, like something out of a 70s Style magazine: khaki colored carpet—shag carpet, mind you—vanilla walls, a beige ceiling. A dresser stands beside the closet door. A bed towers in the center of the room, one of those velvet numbers. It looks old and worn, the bed, like it’s been sitting beneath a pile of scrap metal for years.

As a child, Sarah loved to peel the sheets and blankets off and roll around on it. Complete with a velvet headboard, the bed attracted her; she loved how it felt, adored it, even.

It repulsed her after her mother died. And, as a teenager, it embarrassed her when, on a rare occasion, a friend, rarer still, showed up to the house and peered into the room. The headboard alone belonged in a museum, it was so old; and its color, purple, caught the eye. It never failed to elicit a comment, usually about her father, which further embarrassed her.

Sarah shoves her fist into the mattress. It creaks. She recoils and blurts something like a scream but not quite a scream. More like a yelp. Touching the mattress had raised gooseflesh on her arms, which she now pulls to her chest and massages.

Her mother’s absence lingers, but it’s vague. It reminds Sarah of the feeling she experiences when she leaves her house and forgets something—but not certain if she has, in fact, forgot something. And this evokes pretty much the same sensation, her mother’s absence. Why does she linger? But then does she linger?

After a while, the sensation dims. It dims. The shadows of years gone by darken the signature of her existence.

And but Sarah’s father … His absence is fucking oppressive. Like at any moment, Sarah expects him to call from downstairs or to make an appearance or to ask why she’s in his room. Like it doesn’t even feel like he’s out of town or on vacation or something. It feels like he’s there, right there, alive and well and in the house, maybe in the living room, maybe, or in the basement. And … but … she doesn’t have access to him. Like he’s there but she can’t pinpoint his location; like she knows he’s home but she can’t figure out in which room he’s doing whatever it is he does.

She opens the closet door—inside, it smells like dust—and fumbles for the twine dangling from the light fixture. She flails her arm and pinches her fingers. Then, still flailing her arm, she slaps the twine, catches and pulls it. Photons ping pong around the closet.

Clothes hang from wall to wall. Men’s clothes. Some old, some new, some she’s never seen. She slides her fingers across the sleeve of an old jacket. Goosebumps. The clothes retain his smell, his signature. Tears threaten to assault her. She clears her throat and closes her eyes and pops her neck, slaying the tears before they usurp her.

It’s almost funny. Every suit, every shirt, every pair of paints—everything seems plucked out of the 1970s and 80s, like her father was maybe some secret sitcom star and had saved his wardrobe. As a teenager, of course, she didn’t find it funny, even though his style wasn’t as outdated.

Among blues and whites, and even a pink, among velvet and cardigan, a black suit sticks out. Does it look good? Seams are frayed and, at some twitterheader (2)points, gray dulls black, turning it more or less silver. So no: it doesn’t look good. But then so what? Does it matter what he looks like when he’s buried?

But even in death people tend to appear the way others expect them to appear.

—It’s such bullshit, she says.

More faded clothes. More frayed seams. Did the man own a decent suit? Continue reading

The Opening of a Novel No One Will Publish

by
Daulton Dickey.

1.

You don’t know when it started. Years ago. A decade or so, maybe. You remember waking one morning and staying in bed, unable to get out of bed, unable to move, really, or to think—barely able to think: your thoughts transformed into flowers blooming and wilting in the meaty soil of your brain. And so you stayed in bed and watched television, and when you look back on it later you remember lying in bed for hours, pretty much dead, or at least empty, until Jamaica got home, and yet when you think about it later you try and fail to recall a single thought. You can’t remember thinking anything. The image seared into your brain is one of a machine on standby, a machine designed to interact with other machines. But you’d fallen into disrepair, somehow slipped into a sort of malfunctioning state, and so you lounged, supine, and you watched television, and you didn’t think, and you only got up to use the bathroom.

A machine, a malfunctioning machine—an apt description.

Then you remember Jamaica slinking into the apartment, complaining about work. She switched gears somewhere along the way, somehow segued from work to the restaurant on Sandia Peak, somehow explained how she’d like to eat there again before the trip to Indiana. You noted the switched topics, and it took a second to realize she had switched topics. Reconstructing it proved impossible, so you, abandoning the effort, focused on listening again.

Then you remember jokes. At your expense. About how you were so fucking inert you probably couldn’t peel yourself from the mattress.

—I wish I could stay in bed all day, she’d said. —Especially today. I had a hell of a time getting out of bed this morning.

You remember the mechanisms firing and misfiring: Jamaica spoke and you responded, usually in monosyllables.

—Transporting the sculptures will be fun.

—Yeah.

—I’m nervous … that’s the only thing I’m really nervous about. The bust, the Romanesque one, took longer than like anything else I think I’ve ever worked on. It curdles my stomach, thinking about moving that, about god forbid losing it.

—It should be fine.

—Do you think we should use a crate?

—Maybe.

—I think maybe we should use a crate. It won’t hurt, I think.

And so on.

And you remember waking one night: the room was dark yet hazy; your eyeballs felt liquefied; your insides felt mangled and fried. A dream had pulled you, more like jolted you, from sleep, but you couldn’t—then or later—remember the dream. You do, however, remember feeling nauseated. You remember sweating.

A long forgotten association, or a long ignored switch, clicked in your brain. Like a once-fuzzy picture pulled into focus, things made sense. Your situation made sense. For some reason, waking up that night jarred your brain and you realized you were malfunctioning again. You were being you again. And so you crawled out of bed and grabbed some paper and a pen. You hunched over the kitchen table, chain-smoked, and wrote. You scribbled furiously—page after page after page. You remember filling those pages. You remember writing a sort of horror story, or the soliloquies of a madman: a single paragraph, articulating neuroses and depression, written in the second person, a dissociative technique you’d picked up from a shrink.

Empty and bleak, hollow and faded, wilted and dying—these are the feelings you remember when you recall that night. Of those feelings, none more than emptiness call to you. You were so empty you couldn’t vomit. You tried and failed. Managed to squeeze out maybe an ounce of liquid—and you remember somehow connecting your lack of bile to your emptiness.

And you remember that feeling, that new and unexpected feeling, like dread manifesting itself as cells and replacing the hemoglobin blasting through your veins. Dread or terror, even, or sadness or melancholy, maybe—or all four.

And you remember sitting there, you remember chain-smoking, you remember reading and re-reading what you’d written. They were garbage, those words. They were insane, those pages. Truly the soliloquies of an insane or, at the very least, a disturbed person. Or both. But you read it again, you remember reading it again, and you marveled at it. The prose implied insanity. The Sense of the words implied haunted emotions and states. Reading it froze your lungs, stopped your breath.

And you remember jumping up and throwing a chair across the room. Then you shattered an ashtray, a bowl, a plate. You tossed a lamp to the floor but it didn’t break, and that set off something, caused synapses to misfire, and so you slid to the floor and cried. You cried—a memory you’d love to erase but somehow preserve. Tears wet your face; they slipped into your mouth and burned your tongue. It actually felt as though they burned your tongue.

And you remember feeling empty and dead, like a somnambulist drifting down a darkened corridor with no terminus. Then you remember the light screaming overhead, audibly screaming, and you remember Jamaica rushing into the room, sleepy-eyed. She sounded hoarse. She spoke softly, then she yelled. —What’s wrong? what’s wrong? And you remember how she sat beside you and rubbed your back, how she pleaded with you to calm down, to talk to her just talk to her oh god talk to her. But you couldn’t talk to her because you were crying. You couldn’t stop crying because you were struggling to resist the urge to break things.

Anything.

Everything.

You cried as you struggled to overcome the desire, this desire creeping and strolling inside you, to run outside and assault someone, to hang yourself or slice open your veins. And you remember Jamaica crying—probably because you were crying; and you remember feeling empty.

Empty and in pain.

2.

I sat in a recliner and turned on the television. A cockroach scurried across the bed and up the wall. Outside, someone shouted. A sign flashed; it turned my curtain pink, then black. Pink. Black. Vacant. Blank. Vacant.

On the news the anchors seemed to delight in death and destruction. Commercials, crime and corruption, more commercials, poverty and ignorance—components of reality I didn’t want to confront. So I flipped through the channels and found a cartoon. It was rude, crude, offensive. Dumb enough to shut down my brain. Hopefully.

Kids cursed. A cartoon turd talked. It was funny but I didn’t laugh.

I ruined three sheets of rolling paper trying to roll a joint. The first joint was lopsided. The cherry kept falling off joints two and three. Number four was firm but the center bulged, reminding me of a snake after lunch. I wasn’t in the mood for perfection, so I smoked it while I watched a turd perform a song and dance. Then I reclined in the chair and chased my head as it swam.

Then … But then … The pot soothed my brain, shut it down, and I stared at the television and laughed. I laughed. Like a maniac. Salvador Dali crept into my skull, for some reason, but I couldn’t visualize or latch onto his face, so I grafted his mustache and hair onto a memory of my father—and envisioned him in the womb. Dali claimed to remember life in the womb. He even dedicated a chapter to it in his early autobiography. I’d long dismissed those claims, but now … now they made sense. Why not? Strange things happen. And if his hippocampus had prematurely developed, then weren’t memories of the womb at least possible?

But then anything was possible.

I’d heard it before, that phrase—“anything is possible”—but I’d dismissed it as cliché, devoid of meaning. But now, with marijuana tweaking my neurophysiology, the concept of “possibility,” the notion of twitterheader (2)it differed, I now saw, by degrees—or it at least served as a sort of working definition.

Language was the secret to possibility. If we could distinguish facts and things in the world, then we could at least gauge the—sometimes if only hypothetical—conditions necessary for a concept to slip from the epistemically possible to the ontologically plausible.

In language, an elephant could propel itself into space with enough force to slingshot off the orbits of nearby planets and reach Mars. Such an event was a possibility. But in reality it wasn’t probable. Physics limited elephants. It stuck them to a swath of land on a sphere spinning in the fabric of space.

The language we used to describe such events created a sort of virtual reality, albeit a model relegated to the closed system we called human culture, one in which such an event was at least conceivable—and if, staying in this system, it was conceivable, then it was possible. But just because something was possible didn’t mean it was probable.

Reality separated possibility from probability. Many things were possible; fewer, probable.

Getting up in the morning and going to work was a possibility. But it wasn’t probable. If my current reality sustained itself until morning, then I’d probably call off and lie in bed and maybe get stoned and maybe watch television. Dragging myself to my old house or to the theater, where I volunteered, was a possibility, but, again, not a probability. Getting stoned and maybe drunk and letting loose, getting into a fight or two or picking up a woman and maybe fucking her, getting my brain to shut down, to maybe permanently shut down—these events were possible.

They were probable.

Hopefully.

###

‘Dan.’

‘Hey. I’ve been worried about you. Everything all right?’

‘I don’t feel right. I’m going to take a couple days off.’

‘It must be serious.’

‘You know how it goes.’

‘I do. I didn’t think you did. Is it the flu or … ? I mean you don’t sound stuffy or anything.’

‘It’s everything.’

‘Must be serious if you’re calling off.’

‘I think it is.’

‘Anything I can do for you?’

‘A few days off? Paid?’

‘That shouldn’t be a problem. How many you need?’

‘Let’s start with three. If it’s worse, I’ll let you know, maybe take a couple more. But if it’s better, I’ll just show up.’

‘Get better soon. The Rand contract’s up for renewal. We need you.’

That all you care about?

‘I’ll try.’

Prick.

###

The couple in the next room fought. For three days. Music blared. They screamed and shouted. The music stopped and they slammed doors. They threw fists or feet or knickknacks—who knew what?—at the walls. All day and all night. Sometimes they’d smack the wall behind my bed and the thump would wake me.

I’d shout and punch the wall.

They’d shout back.

Or ignore me.

Now, a thump, a shout, a scream pulled me from sleep. I shouted at them. Another thump, then the music roared. Someone had dialed it to eleven. At least.

Then … more shouting, more screams, more thumps. I tried to drown out the noise by pulling the blanket to my neck and studying the ceiling, and I tried to listen to their argument, but the walls amputated their words, stripped the content but left the tone: angry and malignant, vicious enough to force me out of bed, to abandon any hope of sleep.

I went to the bathroom and picked up a cockroach and squeezed it between my fingers. I took a shower after I flushed its carcass. The couple’s voices jumped up, through the roar of water flowing from the showerhead, up as water slapped the wall, up, and tore into my skull.

They yelled.

They shouted.

They screamed.

The woman had a voice like a siren strung out on endorphins, or amphetamine. She screeched when she screamed and she screamed for several minutes. The man had a gruff voice, but not as loud as his rival’s, and, responding to her calls, he filled the gaps between her rants. Not a second passed in silence.

Not one fucking second.

I finished the shower and dried off and studied my reflection in the mirror. Purple, black, and yellow splotches had transformed my face and torso into a Monet—or possibly a Van Gogh, or maybe even a Francis Bacon. The scabs on my forehead and cheek were crusty. Their edges broke. Clear but slightly bloody fluid drained from the wound.

Although I hadn’t shaved in four days, my stubble could pass for a full beard, which somehow added to the overall impression of a Francis Bacon painting. I rubbed my beard and opened my mouth, Potemkin-style, to gauge the resemblance.

Fuck.

I was a sentient Bacon painting.

Still nude, still opening and closing my jaw, I torched the end of a joint and paced the room. My cock twitched and hung semi-erect. I considered masturbating, but screeches and screams and thumps blasting from the next room knocked those urges out of me. So I paced. I smoked the joint and paced the room. And my mind emptied. It jettisoned all thoughts from my skull, transforming them into wilting flowers.

I finished the joint and lit a cigarette. Thoughts dissipated. I sat on the floor in the lotus position. My breath escaped in gasps. Occasionally, it’d pop. The room dimmed, dimmed, but without going black, without disappearing. The resistance, the quantum battle between ass and floor, threatened to push me away, threatened to fire me into the air. I wanted to move from the floor to the air. I wanted to float. And … But … Then more screeches, more screams, more thump-thump-thumps filled the room, and so I jumped to my feet and put on my pants—but not my underwear.

I opened the door cursing and leaned into the furnace-like haze of mid-afternoon.

A man pounded on the neighboring door.

‘Open it,’ he said. Then, shouting: ‘Open the fucking door or I swear to god I’m going to leave your ass here.’

A response from inside: possibly ‘Good’ or ‘Go.’

The kicked the doorframe.

‘Goddamn it, woman, open the goddamn door.’

He rubbed the back of his head, muttered something about a cunt, or her cunt. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and said something else. But I couldn’t make it out. Called her a whore, maybe? After a beat, he lifted his head and opened his eyes.

He glared at me.

The impulse to back into my room fluttered into my skull.

‘The fuck’re you looking at?’ he said.

His eyes dimmed. His eyebrows lowered.

‘I’m about to come over there, wipe that look off your face.’

I hadn’t known I was giving him a “look.”

‘You best go inside before you get hurt,’ he said.

I spit on the ground without breaking eye contact—a Bukowski move.

‘Fucking dumb goddamn retard,’ he said. Then he plowed his fist into the door. ‘I got the keys, you dumb bitch. And my wallet. You think I won’t leave your ass here?’

I went inside and closed the door. The room smelled like an ashtray and sweaty feet. I slunk into bed and tried to jerk off, but the rhythm of the screaming and the door-pounding threw my timing, and I couldn’t finish.

 

3.

And then eventually the room becomes malleable. It becomes more than a single thing, more than four walls, a roof, and a floor. You are inside it, hidden safely from the world, but it becomes part of you. You internalize it somehow, and it becomes more than a physical object; it becomes an integral part of your subjective experience, and when you graft something onto your subjective experience, you cannot detach from it—or you can detach from it but the risk of punishment may exceed the reward; and so you develop a symbiotic relationship with it, and you develop something like agoraphobia but not quite agoraphobia because you can leave but you don’t want to, or when you do leave you don’t go far; you stay within a short distance of the hotel, and you don’t stay away for extended periods. This thing, this place, this experience deepens, and you feel comfortable here, and you feel more comfortable lying on the bed or sitting on the floor or in the recliner than in your head. Your conscious and non-conscious states are locked in a duel, in a Clausewitzian struggle for disarmament, and each casts shadows, dims the other, tries to pin the other under cover of darkness, and too many things—indescribable, ambiguous, mysterious things—lurk in those shadows, and so you try to avoid them altogether; and so you get stoned and lie in bed or recline and watch television, and you shower and jerk off and get stoned, and you deprive yourself of sleep; you’re wary of those shadows; not certain of their contents, you stay awake, and you force your eyes open, and you only sleep when your body and mind shut down, when you more or less pass out … passing out decreases the likelihood of dreams or thoughts, decreases the likelihood of spending too much—or any—time in your head, in or near those shadows. And so you sleep. You sleep. Then you get stoned and stare at the television, refining and revising your thoughts until they’re transparent, until they’re thin and empty, until you see them for what they are: language games.

4.

My phone nagged me. It wouldn’t shut up. It hummed and chimed. All day and all night. A message here, a call there. People eager to discover my location. To diagnose my condition.

I listened to voice mail and glossed over messages.

But I didn’t reply to them.

 

Copyright © 2015 Daulton Dickey. All rights reserved.

The Hills of Zoar

by Daulton Dickey.

Jane Doe sits in a chair beside a window in a dimly lit room. A book in her lap is open to a chapter filled with blank pages. She turns the page and scans the textures. Her eyes bounce right to left, right to left, as if reading Hebrew. The textures, fine, almost imperceptible, are arrayed in scattershot patterns. Pulp dropped and compressed into pages. Random. But the textures say something. They mean something. Of that, she is certain.

The window to her right overlooks a brick wall. Someone at some point long ago, probably long before Jane was pushed into this world, had tagged the wall with paint. A cock with eyes and a mustache sitting on top of a scrotum. Above the cock, in perfect calligraphy, reads, “Beware, ye who enter here.”

Every now and then, Jane peels her eyes from the book and glances at the graffiti on the wall. She wonders what it means. She wonders if—exempting the eyes and mustache—it is a more or less realistic depiction of a cock. Or a scrotum. Then she wonders if “cock” is even a word people actually use to describe it, or if it’s a euphemism developed and propagated by middle- and upper-class novelists feigning street credentials.

Back to the book: those textures mean something. They spell out a message, a secret story. Why else had the authors included this chapter in the book? It’s some sort of ingenious new printing method: the textures of the page spell out some Voynich Manuscript-style esoterica.

Someone knocks on the door and Jane sets aside the book. She remains seated and stares at the door, stares at the crack beneath the door, as if she can discern the person from the shadow that he or she casts and spills into the crack.

Then there it is again, the knock. This time louder, more forceful.

Jane tip-toes across the room, never allowing the balls of her feet to touch the ground, trying to be as light, and as quiet, as possible.

She stops near the door and slows her breathing as she listens for sounds, for some sort of familiar cough or …

The doorknob shakes and jiggles. The door trembles. Feet scuffle, making sounds like tap dancers tearing up a stage—those gritty yet metallic staccato plops.

It’s times like this Jane wishes she had a peephole. Times like this, she’d be able to scan the outside world through a fish-eye lens and discern or identify whomever dared to harass her.

‘Mist Poe.’ The door muffles the voice, but the voice—nasally and low—obviously belongs to a man. ‘Mist Poe: cracker jack the sack around back. Arms and alms shout farewell.’

‘Crooked, crazy liar,’ she says, in what amounts to little more than a whisper.

‘The obvious doesn’t slow the noon.’

‘I’m comfortable here.’

‘Rape sore hills. Rape sore hills.’

‘No. No, you can’t make me.’

She shakes her head and backs away from the door, still refusing to marry the balls of her feet to the floor.

‘Rape sore hills.’ The man’s voice inflects, transmits authority.

‘No. I’m comfortable …’

The doorknob twists again. Jiggles again. The door trembles and the man speaks again: ‘Rape sore hills, mist Poe.’

Jane Doe spins and rushes to the chair. She drops into it and pulls the book to her lap. She flips the pages, studies them. Not a word in sight. Not a letter or even a speck of ink in sight.

Flipping the pages focuses her attention, and the man’s voice recedes and vanishes.

And she forgets about the man and the door altogether.

Phosphorescent lights bleed white. The room is so well lit that she’d be hard-pressed to find so much as a single shadow. After scrutinizing the book, Jane again sets it aside. She leaves the room to get a drink of water, and when she returns she notices a mural shimmering on the wall opposite the chair. A woman on a horse points to a vaguely Ancient Near Eastern city in flames. Cherubim hover over the woman and drape a cape–conspicuously shaped and textured like a vagina–over her.

The woman on the horse looks familiar, but Jane can’t place her. That likeness. She’s seen it somewhere.

She taps her cheeks with her fingertips and drags them down her chin and neck, stops them on her collar bone. She taps it. She taps it. It sounds hollow, hollow.

That mural, it … Is it new? She vaguely remembers a door. Somewhere. She vaguely remembers the door and somehow, for some reason, associates it with fear.

But then … She dismisses the thought. Her house is an impenetrable cube. No need for a door, she’d told the construction crew before they set out to build the cube around her. No need even for a window, she’d said. I can make both if I want to, she’d said, but I don’t really foresee a situation in which I’d want either a door or a window.

Then she remembers the construction crew. It hadn’t occurred to her then, but it occurs to her now: they weren’t wearing top hats or denim shirts or pants. They weren’t wearing belts or carrying tools. They were dressed in scrubs and white lab coats. And they were depositing and rearranging textures onto paper attached to clipboards while she spoke. And the foreman had a laughable combover. When he spoke, he sort of sung and spit out words and sentences in a nasally and low voice.

But then … But so who can trust memories, anyway? Jane Doe knows as well as anyone that memories can’t be trusted. Trust your memories and you might as well take a blade to the veins in your forearms.

Someone had told her that. But who? And is it even correct, and is it even verbatim—isn’t it more like, “trusting your memories is why you took a blade to your forearms”?

But then … But so who can trust memories, anyway?

She backs up and falls into the chair and pulls the book onto her lap. She flips through it, searches for patterns in the textures of the pulp compressed into, and forming, the paper. She searches. But she hasn’t yet discerned a pattern.

All patterns are discernible. She knows that. Chance isn’t responsible for anything. It’s not even an ontological concern. It’s only a product of the brain, that piece of untrustworthy meat lodged in everyone’s skulls. Of that, she’s certain.

Dislodging thoughts from the meat in her skull, Jane Doe sits in a chair beside a framed painting in a dimly lit room. A book in her lap is open to a chapter composed of photographs of aborted fetuses. She turns the page and scans the photographs. Her eyes bounce up and down, up and down, as if she’s reading Kenji and Kanji.

The framed painting to her right depicts a pregnant woman. She’s naked, the woman, and she appears no taller than a four year old child. Her stomach is bloated and corpse colored—green and purple, black and red. And she’s sitting on a man’s lap. The man is adult-sized. He’s wearing a suit and a tie, and a mustache obscures his upper lip. Motion lines, meant to depict movement, surround his leg, creating, or trying to create, the impression that the man is bouncing the pregnant, child-sized woman on his knee. On a banner above the man, in perfect calligraphy, reads, “Beware, the hills of Zoar.”