"Do people die from chicken pops, Uncle Jason?" the tiny, little Logan asks.
"Oh, sure. People die from it all the time! My own twin brother fell victim to chicken pox when we were just little kids...about your age, as a matter of fact. Of course, it was called Devil's Eyes back then 'cause people thought that the Devil could see through the spots."
"Really? Because Jimmy McDermott is gonna get to stay home for two weeks 'cause he got 'em."
"Didja like 'im?"
"No! He's always passing notes to Smelly Shelly telling her that I like her even when I DON'T!"
Uncle Jason shrugs noncommittally. "Well, I wouldn't worry about him any more. Even if he does survive the cranial urine shots, his chances of living through the insideoutomy are slim."
Logan goes wide-eyed. "Inside Out Of Me?"
"Insideoutomy. Y'see, when Devil's Eyes reaches an advanced state of festering, the skin can no longer survive. So what the doctors do, to keep you from breaking open and spilling all over the floor, is to take out your insides and put them in a garbage bag, brains, eyeballs, and all. Of course, the bones might puncture the bag, so they leave those behind."
Logan stands perfectly still, staring off into space with a mask of horror on his pallid face as the idea of an insideoutomy churns his brain and stomach.
"Don't worry, though. It's not so bad in there. My brother lived in the bag for two whole years. His last meal was an egg."
