HE left the meeting shaking his head sadly, and occasionally shaking his sad Hedley. His presentation on why he was sane had been sternly rejected by the board, who had answered everyone that he continued toneed help. He knew they were right; he needed help but it wasn't goping to come from the good doctors.

That night he waited, awake until just before sunrise, and in the quiet hours when others were dreaming of an unreachable state of normality, he slipped down the back stairwell to the massive laundry bins and buried himself under a week's worth of filthy, urine and feces stained sheets waiting for expeditious pick up and transport to the laundry service plant on the other side of town.

He felt the cart jolt and start to move; he held his breath and prayed silently to the great ConfettiMonster.

An hour later, he felt the cart being pushed off in a long line of identical carts and rolled into the giant recieving bay at the Glad Hand Fungu WHite Man Laundry building. Then it was still. He dared a brief peek from under his stinking disguise and saw the staff of the laundry flocking into the break room for breakfast. Seizing themoment, he wrapped himself inthe cleanest sheet he could see and rolled out onto the floor behind the cart. Three bounds and he was on the loading bay where the empty laundry truck was parked, keys still in the ignition.

In minutes he had backed the unwieldy truck into a large semicircle and was speeding down Fourteenth Avenue, a free man at last.