Lena hadn’t thought about manatees in several years, but that did not stop her from dreaming about them that night in July.

The merganser is the kind of crested duck that will rip your heart out of your living body, and then phone your mother and let her know, in no uncertain terms, what she has done and why.

The anopheles mosquito begged and salaamed, moving its impossibly thin legs up behind its proboscis, thinking: I’ve got to get a better job there is no future in this.

Centipedes on the walls in the bug house softly phosphoresced, while Lena swayed outside in the moonlight, singing a song about changing the light bulbs to lull them into uneasy dreams.

Manatees blew bubbles in Lena’s ears and rubbed their rough rubbery lips on the side of her head rumbling deep vibrations from the very heart of their existence.

The merganser flew over the swamp calculating maximum carnage as she released the explosive device from her webbed claws.

“Goodnight, my beauties,” whispered Lena as she drifted into a dream about mosquitos and beer. She knew they would brew up something special for her soon.