A metal box on wheels. And inside... "The bioplasmic entity. An anomalous mutant," proclaimed the old man, "A massive syndrome I've effected through years of radio-chemical bombardment." He frowned at the box, placing his fingers gently against the steel. "A few grams of inert carbon, amalgamated with heavy elements... It's kept me alive in here," he nodded reverently, "Symbiotically." I watched my girlfriend kissing the lesbian. Damn. She had promised she wouldn't. The old man contemplated his steel tomb, one of two eternities. But we still had time -- if no one panicked -- to walk out as if nothing was happening. (Unless she kissed a few seconds too long or her lesbian friend decided to make a commotion.) I heard a sloshing sound from within the metal container. "A bad sign," as the old man resigned himself to living his final days with an anomalous mutant, "But you... You must go now. While you have a chance." Finally, they parted, and the lesbian watched as my girlfriend turned away, never to look back. (Maybe she couldn't.) "We need to marry," she reminded, "Quickly." So, as we walked to the nearest church (against an increasingly cold wind), I suggested that we write our own vows. "I know we don't have much time..." She frowned, "No. That would be too personal." And the preacher regarded my girlfriend with an uneasy glare. "Your wife-to-be has known another woman," he observed. "I love her," confessed my girlfriend. The preacher nodded, "She's still inside..." (forlorn) "...and will never leave." (Maybe she can't.) The symbiosis is too powerful. As the old man realized, so shall her fate.