It’s one of those days when Grandpa Nutmeg is forced to carry Heathcliff around on his bald pate like a Remy Ratatouille who wants to pilot his fleshy mech to the couch so they can both watch Wheel of Fortune but can’t, either because there’s not enough hair on Grandpa Nutmeg’s head to steer him home, or because it’s a workday. The businessman hanging out at the bus stop with Grandpa Nutmeg does not own the cat on his head — he was just taking the bus to downtown Westfinster to get used to his new neighborhood, something his wife probably suggested to keep him out of the house as much as possible, when he saw this pension-age lunchpailer stroll up to the stop with a cat on his head. “Must be some kind of local custom,” he thought, picking up a stray from the ground to fit in with Grandpa Nutmeg. He has no idea how strange his world is about to become. He hasn’t even met the Garbage Ape or visited the Meat Museum. He’s just a guy on a “when in Rome” kick, unaware that Rome has been sacked and laid to waste decades ago, that only weird, fucked up fruit emerges from its salted earth. When a Ham Robot destroys his home he’ll beg the guys at the gum store to give him the kind that makes you fly and they’ll look with pity upon him, this fuckin’ guy with a cat on his head, and say that gum can’t do that, that he’s shackled to this place, no chance of escape.