I'm in a darkened apartment, and a pair of people are kneeling on the blue-gray 70's shag carpeting. They're showing me a gigantic corpse flower, encrusted with barnacles, that they've raised in their home for some reason. The blossom is nearly six feet tall and smells of rotting flesh. The air feels humid, and somewhere mariachi music is playing on a red plastic and yellow plaid speaker-cloth hifi sitting in the corner. The record sticks on infinite repeat. Someone brings a glass of water.