It’s not easy being 427 and-a-half pounds. It’s not easy living with serious psychosis. At first glance, though, it seems Bronto is doing a pretty darn good job at both.

The huge man looks about as happy and content as we’ve ever seen any Earthly soul look. Bingo (his beloved, two-horned Beanie Baby) is propped up on the fence while he and Huckleberry Hound play in the tiny backyard.

Mom and Dad spy on them from an upstairs window, looks of profound concern on their ancient faces, even though the fence surrounds the entire yard and there is little likelihood they will do much of anything that is "really bad." Howard and Harriet let "the boys" out every now and then for a short time when they’re not napping. (They seem to nap more and more, so the getting let out is harder and harder to come by.)

Watching the dog chase his tail, Bronto says, "Shiver me timbers. Exit, stage left even."

Bronto often quotes cartoon characters, with no regard for separating King Features from Hanna Barbara or any concern as to whether or not the phrases fit together. With a few hand claps, Huckleberry runs to his master and Bronto vigorously rubs his head.

"Good grief," he says. "It’s Huckleberry Hound. Where’s your pic-a-nic basket?" Bronto looks into those big puppy eyes, waiting for an answer.

As Huckleberry wags his little brown tail, fresh warm waves of love flood Bronto’s great big heart. Watching that tail flip back and forth like a metronome, Bronto says, "Ping, ping, ping--it’s Ricochet Rabbit!"

"Bronto?" Huckleberry says.

"What’s up, Doc?"

"I don’t think I can go on like this."

The big man looks puzzled as they walk to the fence. He snatches Bingo the bull from his perch and puts him in his jacket pocket.

Huckleberry’s mouth doesn’t move but his words, though a little fuzzy, can be heard well enough: "The constant cartoon watching, the stuffed bull who has to sleep with us all the time…the endless pizza eating…"

"Pizza pizza," Bronto chimes in.

"Yeah. Pizza pizza." Huckleberry shakes his head, paws at a hole that is partially dug under the fence. "This just isn’t working for me. You’re…well, a little strange, pal, if you must know."

"Well, thufferin’ thuccotash, HH," Bronto says, doing his best Sylvester speech impediment.

"Like that. You with the cartoon-talk. You’re makin’ me crazy."

"My Spider Sense is tingling…"

The dog coughs. "Cripes, you’re creepy. We’ve been together a year now. I’ve grown, but you’ve stayed the same. Maybe it’s the medication." A little more pawing at the dirt. "Help me out here, will ya, Lithium Boy?"

Kneeling down, Bronto helps dig. Mom and Dad aren’t watching anymore. Back to bed, more than likely.

"It’s not that I don’t still have feelings for you," HH goes on. "I do. We’ve been through a lot. I just need some space, I can’t breathe here. Mom and Dad, they’re looking’ pretty shaky lately. Not reliable caretakers, if ya get my drift, not over the long haul."

"Still time for a Scooby snack."

"No. No, I don’t think so."

There is enough space now, Bronto can tell with his good eye for such things, and he helps Huckleberry under the fence. The dog looks at his owner from the other side.

"Sorry, old boy," he says. "You’ve still got Bingo." He turns and walks off.

Bronto begins to replace the dirt with one hand while the other hand pets Bingo.

"Musta tawt he taw a poody tat," he says, watching HH vanish. A tear rolls down his fat cheek. He had loved the dog very much, but he will have to give all his love to Bingo now.

This is a bad place, a most horrible place. There isn’t a shred of happiness here. Even the laughter is bad. There are no cartoons. Bronto doesn’t know how long he and Huckleberry have been here but it is a very, very long time. (We know that it has been ten years that Bill "Bronto" Hunter has been in the institution, but he has no concept of the passing of time. He’s forty.) Here, every minute is forever.

Ever since the day Mom and Dad couldn’t wake up from their nap, they’ve been here, in this very bad place. At first the dog and the man talked, played hide and seek, tried to keep each other company. But there is a darkness and a cold that murders hope, there are places where hope can’t breathe.

That’s OK, Bronto doesn’t really want to breathe anyway.

There is nothing in the room but the stink of his waste. The big guy hugs Huckleberry to himself, the dog’s ribs feel like beans. No pizza pizza here.

"Popeye would eat spinach and bust outa this place," Huckleberry says, the first time he’s spoken in a very long time. "You’re no Popeye, I hate to say."

"Grrrrreat," Bronto whispers, but there is no life in his words.

Placing Bingo to his mouth, Bronto rips open his skin with his teeth and the beans spill out. Some of the beans are bigger. They look like "ass-purr-ins" but not the good, orange-flavored kind.

His fat fingers slowly, methodically sort out the big white beans from the others. The "people" in this place said they were "magic" beans but the magic wasn’t working for Bronto anymore so he gave them to his only friend, he put them in a little hole in his skin, one at a time over a long, long time

This is a place, Bronto knows, that can’t be "gotten through." It can only be gotten out of. We can see that clearly enough, a crazy person can see that.

He stuffs all the pills in his mouth, the taste doesn’t bother him.

He pees his pants.

"That’s all folks," Bronto says.

Bingo says nothing.