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to drive even at night. The tinting created a certain tunnel vision that kept him from wrecking like he had so many times before. It was a ridiculous phobia. Other than the vampire of legend, he was probably the only person on the planet who feared the crucifix. In fact, not only was it the crucifix, but any version of a cross could set him off. His home had long been modified, the crosspieces of the windows gone, shelves supported on the ends, not the middle…a hundred small things had been done to alleviate the need to see the symbol that was literally everywhere. No one had thought twice about telephone poles, however. Maxom saw each one as a technological crucifix, a complex net of sacrifice where he and Bernie died and died again, every fifty feet a new death going on forever. The first time he’d driven he’d made it all the way to the main road and turned towards work before he’d finally noticed them. The sight had sent him into immediate and violent convulsions. His breath had doubled and redoubled. His hand had grown numb. His heart had beat so fast, his chest ached with the pounding. He’d lost control of the truck and run off the road. When the police had finally found him two days later, his truck buried in the thick kudzu of a country ditch, he’d had to be admitted into Moccasin Bend Sanitorium for awhile.
    But now, if he concentrated on the road just in front of his truck, he could drive almost anywhere, the tint ridding him of his pesky peripheral vision. On this day, he was five minutes late to work, his best time this week. If he kept this up, they might promote him. Maxom smiled at the thought, knowing that was impossible. There was only one job for him at the chicken plant and the job was his only because no one else would take it. Limping past the night foreman, he pulled his card from the slot, slid it into the machine and time-stamped it. He glanced at the man behind the window and saw the distaste, the averted gaze, and the smirk.
    Fuck him .
    Within minutes Maxom had changed into his hard-rubber uniform. Devised to protect the wearer from hazardous waste, it always reminded him of a space suit. Piss yellow and a quarter of an inch thick, the suit had been especially designed for him and his job. He remembered when he’d been hired how the owner had told him that if it weren’t for the tax write-off for hiring a handicapped nigger , Maxom wouldn’t even have this job.
    One arm of the suit ended in a glove. The other ended at his elbow. He removed his arm prosthesis and placed it carefully on the top shelf of his locker. The pants of the jumpsuit ended just below the knees. Later, just before he lowered himself into the tank, he removed his leg prosthetics and placed them in a special metal box beside the tank. Zippers were at the bottom edges to protect his nubs from the splattering offal. He pulled the rubber hood over his head and donned the gas mask. Once in the tank, he connected the mask to a hose that provided him outside air.
    Ten minutes later, he attached himself to the mechanical stirrer and resumed his life’s work.
    People didn’t call him Maggot Man because of looks alone.
    The tank he was suspended above held six thousand gallons, but was usually only a third full. Even then, the muck was a hard thing to stir, even with the pneumatic rod. Some mornings he was so worn out that he was almost incapable of unhooking himself and going home. Knowing that no one would ever help him, however, he always seemed to make it.
    The mechanical stirrer and harness assembly held him ten feet above the offal, his legs, now free of the prosthetics, fit snugly into metal cups that were attached to the overhead bar. A sixteen-foot aluminum rod was attached to the connection of his elbow by a smaller bar. His body’s job was to direct the aluminum rod and keep it steady. This rod continued upwards fitting into a pneumatic motor that powered it through slow circular arcs. From the same overhead bar,