Giant Michael stopped jumping and started pulling faces at the mirror. He was tired. He did some ‘bodybuilder’ poses. The mirror was pushed out of the wall in front of him; it had been a door all along. A man stepped through, wearing the same clothes as the man who’d given the Giant his food-card - a green and brown checked shirt, brown corduroy trousers, light brown shoes.
“My name is Denver”, said the man.
“DENVER” said the Giant, “DENVER THE LAST DICKHEAD. DENVER”.
“I understand you don’t know what you’re doing here”. Denver closed the door. He took a pencil and black notepad out of his back pocket. He drew on it and put it away.
“You’ve been in a coma. You fell. No you’re awake, and just as you were before. Are you hungry?” Denver asked.
“COOKING” said the Giant. “COOKING MICHAEL”.
“That’s okay I can bring you something” Denver turned towards the door.
“COOKING” repeated the Giant, this time emphasising the word by slapping his penis.
Denver got the message.