Capitalism
Bo was looking for money. Elaborate money, in trunkfuls. He was dissociated from his own buttocks, that was his problem, and money could cure it. With money he could find a contact he had lost at twelve, when inflation was running wild and many of the banks feeling troubled, at least publicly. With money, his buttocks would be him, his buttocks would anchor to him with the strength they had always lacked, and he could anchor to them as well.
Jersey had money. Jersey came from a family of cat-savagers who, in their years and experiences, had amassed enough money to buy a house in many of the most pleasant vacation spots on the globe. Jersey himself was a cat-savager, and thought that Bo was especially beautiful, this morning, in the sunlight.
Despair for his buttocks! was especially plaguing Bo this morning, and to a cat-savager his archaic eyebrows and saddening mouth must have shone tremendously, this morning. Bo knew how to use a saddening mouth. In Bo, there was no question of how such things could lead to money.
Jersey and Bo went home, to Jersey's house, which became Bo's home for the next five years as his body filled out, his buttocks acquired tinges of immortality in Jersey's photos, and Jersey had the most thoroughgoing enjoyment of Bo's enlarging musculature, which was most tremendous, as it would happen, in the buttocks.
Many of Jersey's friends were impressed and would come over naked to enjoy the knowledge of their friend engaged with such an endeavoring creature as Bo. Bo would endeavor with these friends as with Jersey to remove everything--the past, the worries, the pretensions--not only because that made them feel better but because then Bo could have the comfort of a template and catalyst to bring his former life back to him, a life before anything, when he had longed for anchorage to his buttocks but also when his surroundings had given him cause for thought about himself and he had had the leisure to reject almost everything.
He could not reject Jersey nor, really, his cat-savaging past, nor any of Jersey's friends, their equipment, their connections, their ideas for him, nor any of their midnight habits which sometimes counteracted his now long and elaborate development of buttock-connectedness.
So finally Bo did what any earnest, progress-loving eighteen-year-old would do: he stuffed his bag with some tremendous designer shirts and put on some jeans and marched out into the warm August night, where however he was mowed down by the Apocalypse which, much as the Apocalypse is wont to do, savaged everything, uprooted everything else, and vaporized Bo in a single omnidirectional flash.
Jersey and four of his friends, in the basement, lived through the Apocalypse and enjoyed one or two more good times before the end of their luck sometime later that year in a cornfield accidentally entered for purposes of examining corn and recapturing memories of important events in the distant past.