One.

To give him a name would give him too much color. To call him a man would give him too much definition. To look him in the eye would give him too much credit. Yet here is a story about a man with eyes and a name. He walks, he talks, he drives and rides. He abuses his senses and he takes them for granted. He stubs his toe on his way out the door and on the same day he flirts with a woman that is way out of his league. He grabs his keys, he scratches his balls, he hits his head on the roof of his vehicle as he plops into the fresh leather seat of his brand new ride. He sits in traffic and stares at the suburban wasteland around him, exemplified by the Wal-Mart on his right. He sits in traffic and stares at the red light in front of him as his blood pressure rises. In traffic, he sits and he sits and he sits.

Lost in a synthetic world and longing desperately for something organic to sip from there flies a rather lost mosquito. Thoughtless, nameless, and completely driven by instinct, this mosqito is becoming weak from a lack of nutrients. From cloth, to metal, to plastic, it flies hopelessly and wearily. In the conditioned air there wafts the unmistakable scent of a synthesized man, all chemically musty, chemically leathery, and chemically smokey. It is the scent of this man's cologne trapped and circulating within his vehicles inside air. Too weak to maintain its search, the mosqito drifts downward towards the man's sandaled feet. Each passing inch downward is an inch toward the mosqitos tomb. Fantastically, this nameless mosqito lands on the smooth exposed skin at the top of the foot of this equally nameless man.

Frame by frame, as the future unfolds into the present, a tiny dot of blood slides out of the man and into the mosqito. In the same series of frames, a vehicle driven by another man careens out of control. This man is so god damn sick of the god damn traffic that, "Goddammit," he just can't take it any more. He tumbles across the median. Through his violently shaky vision he sees that he's barreling toward the spitting image of his own vehicle. He understands that terrible things happen when one cinderblock on wheels collides with another cinderblock on wheels. The mosqito is full. The matching vehicles feel nothing, see nothing. The eyes of the men inside the vehicles widen. The mosqito disengages. Adrenaline bursts from the well-fed bellies of the two men. A tremendous jolt, felt silently, collides with the sudden realization of how loud it is when cinderblocks tear into each other. Frame by frame, all the comotion comes to a stop.

The mosqito, feeling fine now, flutters happily into the rapidly refreshing air.