This was about seven years ago. Details are foggy, gritty at best. The GBMs were left on the doorstep of my camp trailer at the Little Egypt Downhome Passing Through Park. I thought it was a nice gesture on the part of some Mormon neighbors who had been lurking around. But these GBMs were not from the neighbors. I don't know where they were from. It was pretty late at night when I found them on the step, so I brought them inside and left them on the kitchen counter, still in their plastic bag, the bag fastened shut with a twistie tie. I went to bed. A sandstorm came up during the night. The wind howled outside and woke me up. I got up to close some windows. They were small, the GB Men were only about 8-9 inches tall, but there were probably 40 of them and only one of me. At first I tripped over them in the darkness. Maybe they hadn't meant any harm at first, but when I flattened one of the softer ones into the cheap linoleum floor, leaving my bare toe-prints embedded in what had been its head, well, the others got riled. They didn,t have weapons or teeth, so they resorted--most effectively-- to psychological torture. They slipped in and out of sight, and were always, always whispering in their strange, unintelligible voices, following me around, crawling up through the bedcovers from the foot of the bed and sliding alongside me dropping crumbs everywhere. Every once in awhile I catch one. I'm always trying to catch one, hoping to reduce their numbers but now I'm conviced that they reproduce rapidly, furtively and asexually. When I do catch one, I eat it immediately, tearing it into huge bites washing it down with whatever's at hand. They're always very fresh but something about the experiences of having their constant presence surrounding me well, it takes all the pleasure out of the fine texture and spicey flavor of them.

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