The teller to the left leaned toward ol' Frizzy Hair and whispered, "He means the used cardboard boxes from the back. I'll go get them." Ziggy's nose upturned, he waited with baited breath and began to draw on the spirits and advisors of the astral plane within himself, that level of consciousness accessible by only the most adept and socially inept:
. . . And arrived on a tall mountaintop, to face that wizened, decrepit representative of his subconscious self, that bearded out representative of his submerged ego who only speaks in bland, occasionally-offensive platitudes like "Change we can believe in", "Send our window washers back to Kyrgyzstan when they came from!" and "Protect Social Security! Kill an old person with untraceable poison!"
This side of Ziggy's personality was not one he was proud of - it had been repressed for a reason - and yet in confronting it Ziggy began to sense something about himself, a hidden bigotry that could be channeled, perhaps, rather than become mere energy squandered. As usual, Ziggy's quest to make friends while discovering his inner self led him to dial an old friend from this astral plane, and so ensued an enthralling, largely imaginary, one-sided conversation which ended in the typical manner:
For while Ziggy's friends were eager to help him, their opinion of his intelligence was not to be overestimated, a characteristic which persisted into the astral plane. Ziggy's spirit journey abruptly ended, for the bank teller had arrived with Ziggy's precious, precious cardboard boxes and a cryptic message:
"Oh, it's you," she said, correcting herself. "Just the boxes, then."
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