The basement incinerator was ablaze. The flames ate the box first. The cellophane window shriveled before it liquefied. What was left of the Amanita didn’t put up much of a fight. First it had been so cold and dark in the refrigerator, then dark and dusty under the bed. It rather enjoyed the heat and light. It was wizened, dried out, damaged; best to return to its most primal form, its molecular structure, to allow itself to be reduced to a fine dusting of ash, to give it all up to the air.
Out on the horizon the wind rested. It had been a good night. The rain left the city smelling fresh, pristine. Dawn broke, flashing its predictable display. What a show-off. The wind glanced to the east and spotted a curl of smoke rising over Manhattan. Might be good for a little fun.
It gathered itself together and streamed over the city. It swirled around the chimney puffing on the West Side. The wind sniffed the mouth-watering odor.
“Yum. Mushrooms.”
The particles of Amanita ash started to spread out—every man for himself—but the wind was too fast. Gleefully, it sucked them up. The gastrointestinal disturbance was immediate. It began as a slightly queasy sensation and quickly billowed into a full-blown stomachache. The wind roared with discomfort, regurgitated what it had already consumed, and blew it and the rest of the toxic ash away. The microburst rattled windows and overturned trashcans. Finally, regretting its unfortunate breakfast, the wind died down to an innocuous breeze, and, catlike, crept quietly up West 67th Street.