It was the smell of the yellow that reached him. Pollen, mushy, like rotten egg yolks.

And stuck to his shoes like so many years of sidewalk candy. Their wings were plucked off in the grooves of his heels, a million faceted eyeballs staring everywhere at once, the envy of all chameleons.

But they all had to die some time. So why not on a cable reality show, amidst the boots of a nuclear family? A million eyes watching the million eyes from miles away. Anything for ratings.