Jack remembered the good old days on his grandpa's farm, sprawled out all over the countryside of Mineral Town.

He remembered playing with the chickens, he remembered riding inside the sheep, he remembered laughing and clapping when his grandpa shot a cow. Not because the cow was sick or anything. His grandpa was just an asshole. And a racist. Jack remembered laughing and clapping when his grandpa also chased the only black person in town off of his farm, screaming things. That wasn't cool.

He remembered putting his whole fist inside of a girl whose name he never did get. He didn't remember what she looked like. She was just a gaping butt to his memory. They never actually even spoke to each other. It just happened and she walked away without a thanks afterward, and he got high as fuck. Bitch.

Now his grandpa was dead because one of his cows shot him, and Jack was going back to take over the farm. The cow had shot all of the other animals before turning the gun on itself, so he had to start over from nothing.

But maybe he'd find HER.

The GIRL. Butt Fist, he called her. She haunted his dreams. He'd find his Cinderella.

The day he left, he ate his breakfast, shit his mother goodbye and put her in the closet, and wore his father's skin as a suit because his father wasn't using it, since Jack ripped it off to wear as a suit. Whatever, it was there. His laundry was dirty.

Jack settled down into the plane that would take him to land on Mineral Town. He smiled and fell asleep happily as the engine roared to life, the giant contraption soaring through the sky. He slept through the complimentary wine, but the pilot didn't. Jack dreamed pleasant dreams of Butt Fist and finding the perfect glass butthole that fit his fist like a slipper, and didn't awaken as the plane plummeted into the mountainside and exploded, killing everyone on board.