Man wakes up goes downstairs and finds a baby in his living room. The baby wants fed, wants to engage the man in conversation. The baby wants the man to get a bigger apartment. The baby smokes cigars and reads People magazine. If the man confronts the baby and asks why it is there, he risks the prospect of scaring it off. The man is unsure whether he wants this or not. The man is lonely and would enjoy the company. Yet he has no idea who this baby is, what its motives are; if it has ill will in its heart. The man makes a sandwich and shares it with the baby. Together they watch a television program. Later they go on tour together promoting a line of low-carb high protein foods that can be scavenged from any local restaurant dumpster. They become rich and famous and buy a gaudy mansion in the Hollywood hills. They entertain celebrities and hold salons where the great intellectual issues of the day are debated, solved, and put to bed. It occurs to the man at a certain point that the baby does not have an origin myth, and he sets about on inventing one. The origin myth begins with a bang, and absence of time, the movement of armies over continents, the shedding of blood, the taking of oaths and swearing of revenge, at some point a talking chicken is introduced to narrate. The story ends with the baby in the living room, and explains nothing.