u/normancrane

“Ma, I told you not to call me at wor—

“I do remember it’s his birt—

“Yeah, I know they’re family, OK? I know they’re family and—” I lowered my voice, because it had gotten pretty loud, and dropped my head below the cubicle wall. “—I still don’t wanna go. Do you understand? I don’t like those people. I don’t have anything in common with—

“No, Ma. Don't cry. There’s no need to cr—

“I didn’t say you were pre—

“I—

“I—

“Listen to me, Ma. I’m a grown man. I make my own decisions. I decide where I go, when I go, and, no, it will not reflect badly on you if—”

So of course I went.

I showed up at my uncle’s house at seven, holding a bottle of wine, which I don’t drink, and a box of chocolates, which I don’t eat, plus a present I wrapped, badly, myself, and a smile that looked like it was pasted on with a glue stick, ready for my humiliation ritual. Because that’s why they invite me: so they can all bully up on me. It’s been that way ever since I was a kid.

The door opened.

“Nice of you to make it, Norm.”

“Yeah.”

I handed the wine over to my uncle’s wife, who’s the one who’ll drink it anyway, probably alone and on a weekday afternoon, and the chocolates to their grandson, who’s as fat as I am but never seems to have any problems with it at school. He has glasses. He stinks. He’s also got friends.

Go figure.

“Thanks, Uncle Norman,” he says, grabbing the chocolates.

“Don’t eat them all at once,” I say, (“you fat fuck,” I imagine adding because deep down I’m an asshole too.)

I mingle.

“How’s your wife?” somebody asks, knowing full well she left me three years ago.

“Fine.”

Somebody else: “How’s work—you making six digits yet?” (“No.”) “Because my Sandra just got a job at Autobox, and they start them at $88,000 per year plus benefits. Maybe she could put in a word.  Would you like that?” (“Thanks, but no…”)

“Look if it ain’t Norma! Sucked any cocks lately, fag?”

That’s my cousin Duffin.

I force a laugh.

“Hey,” another cousin yells, “Norman ain’t one of them. He’s married!”

“He was married,” says Duffin.

“What—Norm, you’re not married anymore?”

“No,” I say. “I got divorced.”

“Because you’re gay?”

“I’m not gay.

“Buf if you’re not gay, then why'd you get divorced?”

By now it feels like everyone’s gone quiet and the only people talking are the people talking about me. “We just—”

“She was fucking around, that’s why,” Duffin says and slaps me in the back so hard I stumble forward, and, before I know it, my face has detached itself from my head and I’m facelessly dripping blood on the carpet, bending down to pick up my face, but there are too many legs in the way, and when I finally straighten up again, I see that Duffin is holding my face like he’d hold raw pizza dough, and he's laughing, keeping my face away from me as I grab for it, and when I almost have it, he throws it to a woman, who catches it and throws it to somebody else, and if I had a face, it would be turning bright red right now, and, “Who’d his wife fuck?” a man asks.

“It’s a long list,” says Duffin.

“Please, just give me back my face,” I implore.

“Fine,” says Duffin, and he goes to get my face from where it’s fallen on the floor, but then, instead of walking back to me, he walks with it to a record player, spins the face into more-or-less a disc and puts my face-record on:

The sound of my own breathing, my sobbing, my own inner voice, with all my inner thoughts, fills the room…

Everybody starts laughing.

I press my hands against where my face used to be and feel the exposed vulnerability there instead. It feels like a raw oyster. It feels like a scale model of a self-inflicted gunshot wound expressed in pain and satin, with whatever pride I had prolapsed and hanging from the front like a limp, pink and oozing elephant’s trunk.

“Stop,” I say.

“Stop,” the record player plays, and Duffin turns up the volume, so that the sounds of me wailing, screaming and crying and beating my fists against the wall are so loud I can’t even hear myself think—except I can, because everyone can, and they won’t stop laughing and I can’t stop thinking, and sometimes I’m thinking about my aunt’s cleavage and sometimes about how I pissed on myself once in the office bathroom, and about how lonely I am, and how I always think about jumping off bridges when I walk past them, and they’re laughing. They’re laughing and they’re laughing. And laughing. They’re laughing when, with tears in my eyes, I rip my face off the record player, shove it in my pocket and, trailing a mix of blood, snot and tears like a snail trails mucus, I walk across the room and leave the house and slam the door and walk the seven kilometres home because I forgot where it was that I parked my fucking car.

I take three consecutive sick days.

When I show up to work on the fourth day, which is the day when God created the celestial bodies, I sit in my cubicle with my face taped to the front of my head.

The eye-holes don’t align with my eyes. I have trouble breathing. Plus the tape’s cheap and my face keeps slipping, so I have to constantly re-adjust it.

My co-worker Andy walks by, declaring with pep, “Sure looks like it’ll be a great day today! Doesn’t it, Norm?”

“A great day,” I say with a smile.

And I staple my face, to keep it from falling off.

“Ma, I told you not to call me at wor—

“I do remember it’s his birt—

“Yeah, I know they’re family, OK? I know they’re family and—” I lowered my voice, because it had gotten pretty loud, and dropped my head below the cubicle wall. “—I still don’t wanna go. Do you understand? I don’t like those people. I don’t have anything in common with—

“No, Ma. Don't cry. There’s no need to cr—

“I didn’t say you were pre—

“I—

“I—

“Listen to me, Ma. I’m a grown man. I make my own decisions. I decide where I go, when I go, and, no, it will not reflect badly on you if—”

So of course I went.

I showed up at my uncle’s house at seven, holding a bottle of wine, which I don’t drink, and a box of chocolates, which I don’t eat, plus a present I wrapped, badly, myself, and a smile that looked like it was pasted on with a glue stick, ready for my humiliation ritual. Because that’s why they invite me: so they can all bully up on me. It’s been that way ever since I was a kid.

The door opened.

“Nice of you to make it, Norm.”

“Yeah.”

I handed the wine over to my uncle’s wife, who’s the one who’ll drink it anyway, probably alone and on a weekday afternoon, and the chocolates to their grandson, who’s as fat as I am but never seems to have any problems with it at school. He has glasses. He stinks. He’s also got friends.

Go figure.

“Thanks, Uncle Norman,” he says, grabbing the chocolates.

“Don’t eat them all at once,” I say, (“you fat fuck,” I imagine adding because deep down I’m an asshole too.)

I mingle.

“How’s your wife?” somebody asks, knowing full well she left me three years ago.

“Fine.”

Somebody else: “How’s work—you making six digits yet?” (“No.”) “Because my Sandra just got a job at Autobox, and they start them at $88,000 per year plus benefits. Maybe she could put in a word.  Would you like that?” (“Thanks, but no…”)

“Look if it ain’t Norma! Sucked any cocks lately, fag?”

That’s my cousin Duffin.

I force a laugh.

“Hey,” another cousin yells, “Norman ain’t one of them. He’s married!”

“He was married,” says Duffin.

“What—Norm, you’re not married anymore?”

“No,” I say. “I got divorced.”

“Because you’re gay?”

“I’m not gay.

“Buf if you’re not gay, then why'd you get divorced?”

By now it feels like everyone’s gone quiet and the only people talking are the people talking about me. “We just—”

“She was fucking around, that’s why,” Duffin says and slaps me in the back so hard I stumble forward, and, before I know it, my face has detached itself from my head and I’m facelessly dripping blood on the carpet, bending down to pick up my face, but there are too many legs in the way, and when I finally straighten up again, I see that Duffin is holding my face like he’d hold raw pizza dough, and he's laughing, keeping my face away from me as I grab for it, and when I almost have it, he throws it to a woman, who catches it and throws it to somebody else, and if I had a face, it would be turning bright red right now, and, “Who’d his wife fuck?” a man asks.

“It’s a long list,” says Duffin.

“Please, just give me back my face,” I implore.

“Fine,” says Duffin, and he goes to get my face from where it’s fallen on the floor, but then, instead of walking back to me, he walks with it to a record player, spins the face into more-or-less a disc and puts my face-record on:

The sound of my own breathing, my sobbing, my own inner voice, with all my inner thoughts, fills the room…

Everybody starts laughing.

I press my hands against where my face used to be and feel the exposed vulnerability there instead. It feels like a raw oyster. It feels like a scale model of a self-inflicted gunshot wound expressed in pain and satin, with whatever pride I had prolapsed and hanging from the front like a limp, pink and oozing elephant’s trunk.

“Stop,” I say.

“Stop,” the record player plays, and Duffin turns up the volume, so that the sounds of me wailing, screaming and crying and beating my fists against the wall are so loud I can’t even hear myself think—except I can, because everyone can, and they won’t stop laughing and I can’t stop thinking, and sometimes I’m thinking about my aunt’s cleavage and sometimes about how I pissed on myself once in the office bathroom, and about how lonely I am, and how I always think about jumping off bridges when I walk past them, and they’re laughing. They’re laughing and they’re laughing. And laughing. They’re laughing when, with tears in my eyes, I rip my face off the record player, shove it in my pocket and, trailing a mix of blood, snot and tears like a snail trails mucus, I walk across the room and leave the house and slam the door and walk the seven kilometres home because I forgot where it was that I parked my fucking car.

I take three consecutive sick days.

When I show up to work on the fourth day, which is the day when God created the celestial bodies, I sit in my cubicle with my face taped to the front of my head.

The eye-holes don’t align with my eyes. I have trouble breathing. Plus the tape’s cheap and my face keeps slipping, so I have to constantly re-adjust it.

My co-worker Andy walks by, declaring with pep, “Sure looks like it’ll be a great day today! Doesn’t it, Norm?”

“A great day,” I say with a smile.

And I staple my face, to keep it from falling off.

“Ma, I told you not to call me at wor—

“I do remember it’s his birt—

“Yeah, I know they’re family, OK? I know they’re family and—” I lowered my voice, because it had gotten pretty loud, and dropped my head below the cubicle wall. “—I still don’t wanna go. Do you understand? I don’t like those people. I don’t have anything in common with—

“No, Ma. Don't cry. There’s no need to cr—

“I didn’t say you were pre—

“I—

“I—

“Listen to me, Ma. I’m a grown man. I make my own decisions. I decide where I go, when I go, and, no, it will not reflect badly on you if—”

So of course I went.

I showed up at my uncle’s house at seven, holding a bottle of wine, which I don’t drink, and a box of chocolates, which I don’t eat, plus a present I wrapped, badly, myself, and a smile that looked like it was pasted on with a glue stick, ready for my humiliation ritual. Because that’s why they invite me: so they can all bully up on me. It’s been that way ever since I was a kid.

The door opened.

“Nice of you to make it, Norm.”

“Yeah.”

I handed the wine over to my uncle’s wife, who’s the one who’ll drink it anyway, probably alone and on a weekday afternoon, and the chocolates to their grandson, who’s as fat as I am but never seems to have any problems with it at school. He has glasses. He stinks. He’s also got friends.

Go figure.

“Thanks, Uncle Norman,” he says, grabbing the chocolates.

“Don’t eat them all at once,” I say, (“you fat fuck,” I imagine adding because deep down I’m an asshole too.)

I mingle.

“How’s your wife?” somebody asks, knowing full well she left me three years ago.

“Fine.”

Somebody else: “How’s work—you making six digits yet?” (“No.”) “Because my Sandra just got a job at Autobox, and they start them at $88,000 per year plus benefits. Maybe she could put in a word.  Would you like that?” (“Thanks, but no…”)

“Look if it ain’t Norma! Sucked any cocks lately, fag?”

That’s my cousin Duffin.

I force a laugh.

“Hey,” another cousin yells, “Norman ain’t one of them. He’s married!”

“He was married,” says Duffin.

“What—Norm, you’re not married anymore?”

“No,” I say. “I got divorced.”

“Because you’re gay?”

“I’m not gay.

“Buf if you’re not gay, then why'd you get divorced?”

By now it feels like everyone’s gone quiet and the only people talking are the people talking about me. “We just—”

“She was fucking around, that’s why,” Duffin says and slaps me in the back so hard I stumble forward, and, before I know it, my face has detached itself from my head and I’m facelessly dripping blood on the carpet, bending down to pick up my face, but there are too many legs in the way, and when I finally straighten up again, I see that Duffin is holding my face like he’d hold raw pizza dough, and he's laughing, keeping my face away from me as I grab for it, and when I almost have it, he throws it to a woman, who catches it and throws it to somebody else, and if I had a face, it would be turning bright red right now, and, “Who’d his wife fuck?” a man asks.

“It’s a long list,” says Duffin.

“Please, just give me back my face,” I implore.

“Fine,” says Duffin, and he goes to get my face from where it’s fallen on the floor, but then, instead of walking back to me, he walks with it to a record player, spins the face into more-or-less a disc and puts my face-record on:

The sound of my own breathing, my sobbing, my own inner voice, with all my inner thoughts, fills the room…

Everybody starts laughing.

I press my hands against where my face used to be and feel the exposed vulnerability there instead. It feels like a raw oyster. It feels like a scale model of a self-inflicted gunshot wound expressed in pain and satin, with whatever pride I had prolapsed and hanging from the front like a limp, pink and oozing elephant’s trunk.

“Stop,” I say.

“Stop,” the record player plays, and Duffin turns up the volume, so that the sounds of me wailing, screaming and crying and beating my fists against the wall are so loud I can’t even hear myself think—except I can, because everyone can, and they won’t stop laughing and I can’t stop thinking, and sometimes I’m thinking about my aunt’s cleavage and sometimes about how I pissed on myself once in the office bathroom, and about how lonely I am, and how I always think about jumping off bridges when I walk past them, and they’re laughing. They’re laughing and they’re laughing. And laughing. They’re laughing when, with tears in my eyes, I rip my face off the record player, shove it in my pocket and, trailing a mix of blood, snot and tears like a snail trails mucus, I walk across the room and leave the house and slam the door and walk the seven kilometres home because I forgot where it was that I parked my fucking car.

I take three consecutive sick days.

When I show up to work on the fourth day, which is the day when God created the celestial bodies, I sit in my cubicle with my face taped to the front of my head.

The eye-holes don’t align with my eyes. I have trouble breathing. Plus the tape’s cheap and my face keeps slipping, so I have to constantly re-adjust it.

My co-worker Andy walks by, declaring with pep, “Sure looks like it’ll be a great day today! Doesn’t it, Norm?”

“A great day,” I say with a smile.

And I staple my face, to keep it from falling off.

“Ma, I told you not to call me at wor—

“I do remember it’s his birt—

“Yeah, I know they’re family, OK? I know they’re family and—” I lowered my voice, because it had gotten pretty loud, and dropped my head below the cubicle wall. “—I still don’t wanna go. Do you understand? I don’t like those people. I don’t have anything in common with—

“No, Ma. Don't cry. There’s no need to cr—

“I didn’t say you were pre—

“I—

“I—

“Listen to me, Ma. I’m a grown man. I make my own decisions. I decide where I go, when I go, and, no, it will not reflect badly on you if—”

So of course I went.

I showed up at my uncle’s house at seven, holding a bottle of wine, which I don’t drink, and a box of chocolates, which I don’t eat, plus a present I wrapped, badly, myself, and a smile that looked like it was pasted on with a glue stick, ready for my humiliation ritual. Because that’s why they invite me: so they can all bully up on me. It’s been that way ever since I was a kid.

The door opened.

“Nice of you to make it, Norm.”

“Yeah.”

I handed the wine over to my uncle’s wife, who’s the one who’ll drink it anyway, probably alone and on a weekday afternoon, and the chocolates to their grandson, who’s as fat as I am but never seems to have any problems with it at school. He has glasses. He stinks. He’s also got friends.

Go figure.

“Thanks, Uncle Norman,” he says, grabbing the chocolates.

“Don’t eat them all at once,” I say, (“you fat fuck,” I imagine adding because deep down I’m an asshole too.)

I mingle.

“How’s your wife?” somebody asks, knowing full well she left me three years ago.

“Fine.”

Somebody else: “How’s work—you making six digits yet?” (“No.”) “Because my Sandra just got a job at Autobox, and they start them at $88,000 per year plus benefits. Maybe she could put in a word.  Would you like that?” (“Thanks, but no…”)

“Look if it ain’t Norma! Sucked any cocks lately, fag?”

That’s my cousin Duffin.

I force a laugh.

“Hey,” another cousin yells, “Norman ain’t one of them. He’s married!”

“He was married,” says Duffin.

“What—Norm, you’re not married anymore?”

“No,” I say. “I got divorced.”

“Because you’re gay?”

“I’m not gay.

“Buf if you’re not gay, then why'd you get divorced?”

By now it feels like everyone’s gone quiet and the only people talking are the people talking about me. “We just—”

“She was fucking around, that’s why,” Duffin says and slaps me in the back so hard I stumble forward, and, before I know it, my face has detached itself from my head and I’m facelessly dripping blood on the carpet, bending down to pick up my face, but there are too many legs in the way, and when I finally straighten up again, I see that Duffin is holding my face like he’d hold raw pizza dough, and he's laughing, keeping my face away from me as I grab for it, and when I almost have it, he throws it to a woman, who catches it and throws it to somebody else, and if I had a face, it would be turning bright red right now, and, “Who’d his wife fuck?” a man asks.

“It’s a long list,” says Duffin.

“Please, just give me back my face,” I implore.

“Fine,” says Duffin, and he goes to get my face from where it’s fallen on the floor, but then, instead of walking back to me, he walks with it to a record player, spins the face into more-or-less a disc and puts my face-record on:

The sound of my own breathing, my sobbing, my own inner voice, with all my inner thoughts, fills the room…

Everybody starts laughing.

I press my hands against where my face used to be and feel the exposed vulnerability there instead. It feels like a raw oyster. It feels like a scale model of a self-inflicted gunshot wound expressed in pain and satin, with whatever pride I had prolapsed and hanging from the front like a limp, pink and oozing elephant’s trunk.

“Stop,” I say.

“Stop,” the record player plays, and Duffin turns up the volume, so that the sounds of me wailing, screaming and crying and beating my fists against the wall are so loud I can’t even hear myself think—except I can, because everyone can, and they won’t stop laughing and I can’t stop thinking, and sometimes I’m thinking about my aunt’s cleavage and sometimes about how I pissed on myself once in the office bathroom, and about how lonely I am, and how I always think about jumping off bridges when I walk past them, and they’re laughing. They’re laughing and they’re laughing. And laughing. They’re laughing when, with tears in my eyes, I rip my face off the record player, shove it in my pocket and, trailing a mix of blood, snot and tears like a snail trails mucus, I walk across the room and leave the house and slam the door and walk the seven kilometres home because I forgot where it was that I parked my fucking car.

I take three consecutive sick days.

When I show up to work on the fourth day, which is the day when God created the celestial bodies, I sit in my cubicle with my face taped to the front of my head.

The eye-holes don’t align with my eyes. I have trouble breathing. Plus the tape’s cheap and my face keeps slipping, so I have to constantly re-adjust it.

My co-worker Andy walks by, declaring with pep, “Sure looks like it’ll be a great day today! Doesn’t it, Norm?”

“A great day,” I say with a smile.

And I staple my face, to keep it from falling off.

“Ma, I told you not to call me at wor—

“I do remember it’s his birt—

“Yeah, I know they’re family, OK? I know they’re family and—” I lowered my voice, because it had gotten pretty loud, and dropped my head below the cubicle wall. “—I still don’t wanna go. Do you understand? I don’t like those people. I don’t have anything in common with—

“No, Ma. Don't cry. There’s no need to cr—

“I didn’t say you were pre—

“I—

“I—

“Listen to me, Ma. I’m a grown man. I make my own decisions. I decide where I go, when I go, and, no, it will not reflect badly on you if—”

So of course I went.

I showed up at my uncle’s house at seven, holding a bottle of wine, which I don’t drink, and a box of chocolates, which I don’t eat, plus a present I wrapped, badly, myself, and a smile that looked like it was pasted on with a glue stick, ready for my humiliation ritual. Because that’s why they invite me: so they can all bully up on me. It’s been that way ever since I was a kid.

The door opened.

“Nice of you to make it, Norm.”

“Yeah.”

I handed the wine over to my uncle’s wife, who’s the one who’ll drink it anyway, probably alone and on a weekday afternoon, and the chocolates to their grandson, who’s as fat as I am but never seems to have any problems with it at school. He has glasses. He stinks. He’s also got friends.

Go figure.

“Thanks, Uncle Norman,” he says, grabbing the chocolates.

“Don’t eat them all at once,” I say, (“you fat fuck,” I imagine adding because deep down I’m an asshole too.)

I mingle.

“How’s your wife?” somebody asks, knowing full well she left me three years ago.

“Fine.”

Somebody else: “How’s work—you making six digits yet?” (“No.”) “Because my Sandra just got a job at Autobox, and they start them at $88,000 per year plus benefits. Maybe she could put in a word.  Would you like that?” (“Thanks, but no…”)

“Look if it ain’t Norma! Sucked any cocks lately, fag?”

That’s my cousin Duffin.

I force a laugh.

“Hey,” another cousin yells, “Norman ain’t one of them. He’s married!”

“He was married,” says Duffin.

“What—Norm, you’re not married anymore?”

“No,” I say. “I got divorced.”

“Because you’re gay?”

“I’m not gay.

“Buf if you’re not gay, then why'd you get divorced?”

By now it feels like everyone’s gone quiet and the only people talking are the people talking about me. “We just—”

“She was fucking around, that’s why,” Duffin says and slaps me in the back so hard I stumble forward, and, before I know it, my face has detached itself from my head and I’m facelessly dripping blood on the carpet, bending down to pick up my face, but there are too many legs in the way, and when I finally straighten up again, I see that Duffin is holding my face like he’d hold raw pizza dough, and he's laughing, keeping my face away from me as I grab for it, and when I almost have it, he throws it to a woman, who catches it and throws it to somebody else, and if I had a face, it would be turning bright red right now, and, “Who’d his wife fuck?” a man asks.

“It’s a long list,” says Duffin.

“Please, just give me back my face,” I implore.

“Fine,” says Duffin, and he goes to get my face from where it’s fallen on the floor, but then, instead of walking back to me, he walks with it to a record player, spins the face into more-or-less a disc and puts my face-record on:

The sound of my own breathing, my sobbing, my own inner voice, with all my inner thoughts, fills the room…

Everybody starts laughing.

I press my hands against where my face used to be and feel the exposed vulnerability there instead. It feels like a raw oyster. It feels like a scale model of a self-inflicted gunshot wound expressed in pain and satin, with whatever pride I had prolapsed and hanging from the front like a limp, pink and oozing elephant’s trunk.

“Stop,” I say.

“Stop,” the record player plays, and Duffin turns up the volume, so that the sounds of me wailing, screaming and crying and beating my fists against the wall are so loud I can’t even hear myself think—except I can, because everyone can, and they won’t stop laughing and I can’t stop thinking, and sometimes I’m thinking about my aunt’s cleavage and sometimes about how I pissed on myself once in the office bathroom, and about how lonely I am, and how I always think about jumping off bridges when I walk past them, and they’re laughing. They’re laughing and they’re laughing. And laughing. They’re laughing when, with tears in my eyes, I rip my face off the record player, shove it in my pocket and, trailing a mix of blood, snot and tears like a snail trails mucus, I walk across the room and leave the house and slam the door and walk the seven kilometres home because I forgot where it was that I parked my fucking car.

I take three consecutive sick days.

When I show up to work on the fourth day, which is the day when God created the celestial bodies, I sit in my cubicle with my face taped to the front of my head.

The eye-holes don’t align with my eyes. I have trouble breathing. Plus the tape’s cheap and my face keeps slipping, so I have to constantly re-adjust it.

My co-worker Andy walks by, declaring with pep, “Sure looks like it’ll be a great day today! Doesn’t it, Norm?”

“A great day,” I say with a smile.

And I staple my face, to keep it from falling off.

When I was a kid my parents had these big, elaborate parties at our house, hundreds of people, adults, all mingling, milling about. There was alcohol of course. Music and food and sophistication. I wouldn't be allowed to join. I'd have to stay in my room with my ear pressed against the door, trying to pick up bits and pieces of grown-up conversation. It wasn't even the sex and romance I was eager for but the chance to meet like-minded people, smart people, successful people, people like I imagined I would grow up to be. To know so many of them. To have friendships with them. To talk deeply long into the night…

Then I turned nineteen. Suddenly I was an adult too. I had finished high school and was in my first year of university, studying communications, when I was invited to my first real party. It was a mixer for students and faculty, an early-semester get-to-know-you, for fun, philosophy and personal connections.

I wore my best clothes and arrived an hour after it had started. A man greeted me at the door. A woman stood behind him. I heard jazz.

“Glad you could make it,” said the man. “My name is George, and this is my wife, Wendy.”

“Hello. I'm Norman. I'm a—”

“Hi, I'm Wendy,” said Wendy. “It's nice to meet you, Norman.”

George held out his hand. “George.”

“Norman…”

We shook hands.

Wendy ushered me inside and shut the door behind me. We stood in the living room, smiling. “What's that playing?” I asked finally, meaning the music. But just then a second man walked into the room, saw George and Wendy and said, “Greetings. I'm Philip.” Then he said to me: “Greetings. I'm Philip.”

“I'm George, and this is my wife, Wendy,” said George, and Wendy smiled. “And who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Philip,” said Philip.

“I'm Norman,” I said.

“It's nice to meet you, Norman,” said George, Wendy and Philip, and Philip left, then Wendy left, and then I left too.

In the kitchen, into which I'd left, a dozen or so younger people were hanging out, drinking beer and introducing themselves. “Hey there, stranger. I'm Adam.”

“Howdy. Timothy.”

“Norman,” I said.

A woman said, “It's good to see you. I'm Tina,” but I wasn't sure she'd said it to me.

“Norman,” I said.

She didn't respond, but another woman did. “Hey, Norman. My name's Charlene. It's nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Charlene,” I said.

“Hi, Norman,” said Timothy.

Adam introduced himself to Tina, as Charlene said, “My name's Charlene. What's yours?” to Philip, who'd just walked in, saying, “Hello, everyone. I'm Philip.”

“Adam,” said Adam. “Timothy,” said Timothy. “I'm Charlene, and this is Tina,” said Charlene, pointing at Tina, who said, “I'm Tina. Hello, Philip.” “I'm Philip,” said Philip and I escaped from the kitchen to a dining room, where human voices buzzed and hummed saying their names and introducing themselves, to each other, to me, until I said, “Excuse me, but I really like the music that's playing. Can anybody tell me what it is?”

Everybody went silent.

They stared at me with their caged, unspeaking eyes.

I thought, perhaps, I had asked my question too quietly, so I repeated it louder: “I really like the music playing. What is it?”

“Darling,” said a woman. “I am Anna-Maria. Who are you?”

“Norman.”

“Iris.”

“Norman.”

“Daniel.” “Stew.” “Olive.”

“Norman.”

“Penelope.” “Dan.” “I'm Penelope too.” “Maximilian, but call me Max.” “Norman,” I said. “Marsha.” “Plastic. I know, I know—” “Bliss.” “Benjamin.” “Norman.” “Donaghue.” “Xavier.” “How about you?” “You?” “And you?”

The introductions pressed vice-like against my skull, compressing my brain.

They swarmed, buzzing, clouds of a round, around and around, my mind, before settling, twitch—scratch-scratch itch—ing upon its young, undulating, impressionably calm grey matter-of-fact surface, and, one by one, pricked, bit and stung until my thoughts and my self-consciousness were swollen, were numb…

I ran.

I ran past more of them, towards the front door—at which, having thrown it open, I fell, crestfallen, to the hardwood floor, because, instead of leading out, to the outside world, on the other side of the door was a mirrored twin of the very house I was already in, and within: a mirror-George, a mirror-Wendy, a’mirror-waving to me-or-a-mirror-me, mirror-introducing their mirror-selves: “Hi, I'm George.” “Hello, I'm Wendy.”

I shoved past, to the bathroom, and shut and locked the door.

I could hear them.

I wrapped a towel around my hand and shattered the window.

I climbed, wounding myself on jutting glass, and crawled painfully through to another bathroom—

Another house.

Another party.

“Hey there, buddy,” somebody says to me. It could be anybody. I'm bleeding, but they don't care. “It's me, Benjamin D.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” I scream.

There is no way out, you see.

Adulthood is a facade, a labyrinth, an endlessness of superficialities. The closest to an escape you'll find is another screamer, in another room, always out of reach, whom, even if you meet them, you'd have to let be, because they all calm down eventually. And smile. “Hello, I'm [...]. Aren't you glad you met me?”

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

When I was a kid my parents had these big, elaborate parties at our house, hundreds of people, adults, all mingling, milling about. There was alcohol of course. Music and food and sophistication. I wouldn't be allowed to join. I'd have to stay in my room with my ear pressed against the door, trying to pick up bits and pieces of grown-up conversation. It wasn't even the sex and romance I was eager for but the chance to meet like-minded people, smart people, successful people, people like I imagined I would grow up to be. To know so many of them. To have friendships with them. To talk deeply long into the night…

Then I turned nineteen. Suddenly I was an adult too. I had finished high school and was in my first year of university, studying communications, when I was invited to my first real party. It was a mixer for students and faculty, an early-semester get-to-know-you, for fun, philosophy and personal connections.

I wore my best clothes and arrived an hour after it had started. A man greeted me at the door. A woman stood behind him. I heard jazz.

“Glad you could make it,” said the man. “My name is George, and this is my wife, Wendy.”

“Hello. I'm Norman. I'm a—”

“Hi, I'm Wendy,” said Wendy. “It's nice to meet you, Norman.”

George held out his hand. “George.”

“Norman…”

We shook hands.

Wendy ushered me inside and shut the door behind me. We stood in the living room, smiling. “What's that playing?” I asked finally, meaning the music. But just then a second man walked into the room, saw George and Wendy and said, “Greetings. I'm Philip.” Then he said to me: “Greetings. I'm Philip.”

“I'm George, and this is my wife, Wendy,” said George, and Wendy smiled. “And who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Philip,” said Philip.

“I'm Norman,” I said.

“It's nice to meet you, Norman,” said George, Wendy and Philip, and Philip left, then Wendy left, and then I left too.

In the kitchen, into which I'd left, a dozen or so younger people were hanging out, drinking beer and introducing themselves. “Hey there, stranger. I'm Adam.”

“Howdy. Timothy.”

“Norman,” I said.

A woman said, “It's good to see you. I'm Tina,” but I wasn't sure she'd said it to me.

“Norman,” I said.

She didn't respond, but another woman did. “Hey, Norman. My name's Charlene. It's nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Charlene,” I said.

“Hi, Norman,” said Timothy.

Adam introduced himself to Tina, as Charlene said, “My name's Charlene. What's yours?” to Philip, who'd just walked in, saying, “Hello, everyone. I'm Philip.”

“Adam,” said Adam. “Timothy,” said Timothy. “I'm Charlene, and this is Tina,” said Charlene, pointing at Tina, who said, “I'm Tina. Hello, Philip.” “I'm Philip,” said Philip and I escaped from the kitchen to a dining room, where human voices buzzed and hummed saying their names and introducing themselves, to each other, to me, until I said, “Excuse me, but I really like the music that's playing. Can anybody tell me what it is?”

Everybody went silent.

They stared at me with their caged, unspeaking eyes.

I thought, perhaps, I had asked my question too quietly, so I repeated it louder: “I really like the music playing. What is it?”

“Darling,” said a woman. “I am Anna-Maria. Who are you?”

“Norman.”

“Iris.”

“Norman.”

“Daniel.” “Stew.” “Olive.”

“Norman.”

“Penelope.” “Dan.” “I'm Penelope too.” “Maximilian, but call me Max.” “Norman,” I said. “Marsha.” “Plastic. I know, I know—” “Bliss.” “Benjamin.” “Norman.” “Donaghue.” “Xavier.” “How about you?” “You?” “And you?”

The introductions pressed vice-like against my skull, compressing my brain.

They swarmed, buzzing, clouds of a round, around and around, my mind, before settling, twitch—scratch-scratch itch—ing upon its young, undulating, impressionably calm grey matter-of-fact surface, and, one by one, pricked, bit and stung until my thoughts and my self-consciousness were swollen, were numb…

I ran.

I ran past more of them, towards the front door—at which, having thrown it open, I fell, crestfallen, to the hardwood floor, because, instead of leading out, to the outside world, on the other side of the door was a mirrored twin of the very house I was already in, and within: a mirror-George, a mirror-Wendy, a’mirror-waving to me-or-a-mirror-me, mirror-introducing their mirror-selves: “Hi, I'm George.” “Hello, I'm Wendy.”

I shoved past, to the bathroom, and shut and locked the door.

I could hear them.

I wrapped a towel around my hand and shattered the window.

I climbed, wounding myself on jutting glass, and crawled painfully through to another bathroom—

Another house.

Another party.

“Hey there, buddy,” somebody says to me. It could be anybody. I'm bleeding, but they don't care. “It's me, Benjamin D.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” I scream.

There is no way out, you see.

Adulthood is a facade, a labyrinth, an endlessness of superficialities. The closest to an escape you'll find is another screamer, in another room, always out of reach, whom, even if you meet them, you'd have to let be, because they all calm down eventually. And smile. “Hello, I'm [...]. Aren't you glad you met me?”

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

When I was a kid my parents had these big, elaborate parties at our house, hundreds of people, adults, all mingling, milling about. There was alcohol of course. Music and food and sophistication. I wouldn't be allowed to join. I'd have to stay in my room with my ear pressed against the door, trying to pick up bits and pieces of grown-up conversation. It wasn't even the sex and romance I was eager for but the chance to meet like-minded people, smart people, successful people, people like I imagined I would grow up to be. To know so many of them. To have friendships with them. To talk deeply long into the night…

Then I turned nineteen. Suddenly I was an adult too. I had finished high school and was in my first year of university, studying communications, when I was invited to my first real party. It was a mixer for students and faculty, an early-semester get-to-know-you, for fun, philosophy and personal connections.

I wore my best clothes and arrived an hour after it had started. A man greeted me at the door. A woman stood behind him. I heard jazz.

“Glad you could make it,” said the man. “My name is George, and this is my wife, Wendy.”

“Hello. I'm Norman. I'm a—”

“Hi, I'm Wendy,” said Wendy. “It's nice to meet you, Norman.”

George held out his hand. “George.”

“Norman…”

We shook hands.

Wendy ushered me inside and shut the door behind me. We stood in the living room, smiling. “What's that playing?” I asked finally, meaning the music. But just then a second man walked into the room, saw George and Wendy and said, “Greetings. I'm Philip.” Then he said to me: “Greetings. I'm Philip.”

“I'm George, and this is my wife, Wendy,” said George, and Wendy smiled. “And who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Philip,” said Philip.

“I'm Norman,” I said.

“It's nice to meet you, Norman,” said George, Wendy and Philip, and Philip left, then Wendy left, and then I left too.

In the kitchen, into which I'd left, a dozen or so younger people were hanging out, drinking beer and introducing themselves. “Hey there, stranger. I'm Adam.”

“Howdy. Timothy.”

“Norman,” I said.

A woman said, “It's good to see you. I'm Tina,” but I wasn't sure she'd said it to me.

“Norman,” I said.

She didn't respond, but another woman did. “Hey, Norman. My name's Charlene. It's nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Charlene,” I said.

“Hi, Norman,” said Timothy.

Adam introduced himself to Tina, as Charlene said, “My name's Charlene. What's yours?” to Philip, who'd just walked in, saying, “Hello, everyone. I'm Philip.”

“Adam,” said Adam. “Timothy,” said Timothy. “I'm Charlene, and this is Tina,” said Charlene, pointing at Tina, who said, “I'm Tina. Hello, Philip.” “I'm Philip,” said Philip and I escaped from the kitchen to a dining room, where human voices buzzed and hummed saying their names and introducing themselves, to each other, to me, until I said, “Excuse me, but I really like the music that's playing. Can anybody tell me what it is?”

Everybody went silent.

They stared at me with their caged, unspeaking eyes.

I thought, perhaps, I had asked my question too quietly, so I repeated it louder: “I really like the music playing. What is it?”

“Darling,” said a woman. “I am Anna-Maria. Who are you?”

“Norman.”

“Iris.”

“Norman.”

“Daniel.” “Stew.” “Olive.”

“Norman.”

“Penelope.” “Dan.” “I'm Penelope too.” “Maximilian, but call me Max.” “Norman,” I said. “Marsha.” “Plastic. I know, I know—” “Bliss.” “Benjamin.” “Norman.” “Donaghue.” “Xavier.” “How about you?” “You?” “And you?”

The introductions pressed vice-like against my skull, compressing my brain.

They swarmed, buzzing, clouds of a round, around and around, my mind, before settling, twitch—scratch-scratch itch—ing upon its young, undulating, impressionably calm grey matter-of-fact surface, and, one by one, pricked, bit and stung until my thoughts and my self-consciousness were swollen, were numb…

I ran.

I ran past more of them, towards the front door—at which, having thrown it open, I fell, crestfallen, to the hardwood floor, because, instead of leading out, to the outside world, on the other side of the door was a mirrored twin of the very house I was already in, and within: a mirror-George, a mirror-Wendy, a’mirror-waving to me-or-a-mirror-me, mirror-introducing their mirror-selves: “Hi, I'm George.” “Hello, I'm Wendy.”

I shoved past, to the bathroom, and shut and locked the door.

I could hear them.

I wrapped a towel around my hand and shattered the window.

I climbed, wounding myself on jutting glass, and crawled painfully through to another bathroom—

Another house.

Another party.

“Hey there, buddy,” somebody says to me. It could be anybody. I'm bleeding, but they don't care. “It's me, Benjamin D.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” I scream.

There is no way out, you see.

Adulthood is a facade, a labyrinth, an endlessness of superficialities. The closest to an escape you'll find is another screamer, in another room, always out of reach, whom, even if you meet them, you'd have to let be, because they all calm down eventually. And smile. “Hello, I'm [...]. Aren't you glad you met me?”

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

When I was a kid my parents had these big, elaborate parties at our house, hundreds of people, adults, all mingling, milling about. There was alcohol of course. Music and food and sophistication. I wouldn't be allowed to join. I'd have to stay in my room with my ear pressed against the door, trying to pick up bits and pieces of grown-up conversation. It wasn't even the sex and romance I was eager for but the chance to meet like-minded people, smart people, successful people, people like I imagined I would grow up to be. To know so many of them. To have friendships with them. To talk deeply long into the night…

Then I turned nineteen. Suddenly I was an adult too. I had finished high school and was in my first year of university, studying communications, when I was invited to my first real party. It was a mixer for students and faculty, an early-semester get-to-know-you, for fun, philosophy and personal connections.

I wore my best clothes and arrived an hour after it had started. A man greeted me at the door. A woman stood behind him. I heard jazz.

“Glad you could make it,” said the man. “My name is George, and this is my wife, Wendy.”

“Hello. I'm Norman. I'm a—”

“Hi, I'm Wendy,” said Wendy. “It's nice to meet you, Norman.”

George held out his hand. “George.”

“Norman…”

We shook hands.

Wendy ushered me inside and shut the door behind me. We stood in the living room, smiling. “What's that playing?” I asked finally, meaning the music. But just then a second man walked into the room, saw George and Wendy and said, “Greetings. I'm Philip.” Then he said to me: “Greetings. I'm Philip.”

“I'm George, and this is my wife, Wendy,” said George, and Wendy smiled. “And who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Philip,” said Philip.

“I'm Norman,” I said.

“It's nice to meet you, Norman,” said George, Wendy and Philip, and Philip left, then Wendy left, and then I left too.

In the kitchen, into which I'd left, a dozen or so younger people were hanging out, drinking beer and introducing themselves. “Hey there, stranger. I'm Adam.”

“Howdy. Timothy.”

“Norman,” I said.

A woman said, “It's good to see you. I'm Tina,” but I wasn't sure she'd said it to me.

“Norman,” I said.

She didn't respond, but another woman did. “Hey, Norman. My name's Charlene. It's nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Charlene,” I said.

“Hi, Norman,” said Timothy.

Adam introduced himself to Tina, as Charlene said, “My name's Charlene. What's yours?” to Philip, who'd just walked in, saying, “Hello, everyone. I'm Philip.”

“Adam,” said Adam. “Timothy,” said Timothy. “I'm Charlene, and this is Tina,” said Charlene, pointing at Tina, who said, “I'm Tina. Hello, Philip.” “I'm Philip,” said Philip and I escaped from the kitchen to a dining room, where human voices buzzed and hummed saying their names and introducing themselves, to each other, to me, until I said, “Excuse me, but I really like the music that's playing. Can anybody tell me what it is?”

Everybody went silent.

They stared at me with their caged, unspeaking eyes.

I thought, perhaps, I had asked my question too quietly, so I repeated it louder: “I really like the music playing. What is it?”

“Darling,” said a woman. “I am Anna-Maria. Who are you?”

“Norman.”

“Iris.”

“Norman.”

“Daniel.” “Stew.” “Olive.”

“Norman.”

“Penelope.” “Dan.” “I'm Penelope too.” “Maximilian, but call me Max.” “Norman,” I said. “Marsha.” “Plastic. I know, I know—” “Bliss.” “Benjamin.” “Norman.” “Donaghue.” “Xavier.” “How about you?” “You?” “And you?”

The introductions pressed vice-like against my skull, compressing my brain.

They swarmed, buzzing, clouds of a round, around and around, my mind, before settling, twitch—scratch-scratch itch—ing upon its young, undulating, impressionably calm grey matter-of-fact surface, and, one by one, pricked, bit and stung until my thoughts and my self-consciousness were swollen, were numb…

I ran.

I ran past more of them, towards the front door—at which, having thrown it open, I fell, crestfallen, to the hardwood floor, because, instead of leading out, to the outside world, on the other side of the door was a mirrored twin of the very house I was already in, and within: a mirror-George, a mirror-Wendy, a’mirror-waving to me-or-a-mirror-me, mirror-introducing their mirror-selves: “Hi, I'm George.” “Hello, I'm Wendy.”

I shoved past, to the bathroom, and shut and locked the door.

I could hear them.

I wrapped a towel around my hand and shattered the window.

I climbed, wounding myself on jutting glass, and crawled painfully through to another bathroom—

Another house.

Another party.

“Hey there, buddy,” somebody says to me. It could be anybody. I'm bleeding, but they don't care. “It's me, Benjamin D.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” I scream.

There is no way out, you see.

Adulthood is a facade, a labyrinth, an endlessness of superficialities. The closest to an escape you'll find is another screamer, in another room, always out of reach, whom, even if you meet them, you'd have to let be, because they all calm down eventually. And smile. “Hello, I'm [...]. Aren't you glad you met me?”

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

When I was a kid my parents had these big, elaborate parties at our house, hundreds of people, adults, all mingling, milling about. There was alcohol of course. Music and food and sophistication. I wouldn't be allowed to join. I'd have to stay in my room with my ear pressed against the door, trying to pick up bits and pieces of grown-up conversation. It wasn't even the sex and romance I was eager for but the chance to meet like-minded people, smart people, successful people, people like I imagined I would grow up to be. To know so many of them. To have friendships with them. To talk deeply long into the night…

Then I turned nineteen. Suddenly I was an adult too. I had finished high school and was in my first year of university, studying communications, when I was invited to my first real party. It was a mixer for students and faculty, an early-semester get-to-know-you, for fun, philosophy and personal connections.

I wore my best clothes and arrived an hour after it had started. A man greeted me at the door. A woman stood behind him. I heard jazz.

“Glad you could make it,” said the man. “My name is George, and this is my wife, Wendy.”

“Hello. I'm Norman. I'm a—”

“Hi, I'm Wendy,” said Wendy. “It's nice to meet you, Norman.”

George held out his hand. “George.”

“Norman…”

We shook hands.

Wendy ushered me inside and shut the door behind me. We stood in the living room, smiling. “What's that playing?” I asked finally, meaning the music. But just then a second man walked into the room, saw George and Wendy and said, “Greetings. I'm Philip.” Then he said to me: “Greetings. I'm Philip.”

“I'm George, and this is my wife, Wendy,” said George, and Wendy smiled. “And who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Philip,” said Philip.

“I'm Norman,” I said.

“It's nice to meet you, Norman,” said George, Wendy and Philip, and Philip left, then Wendy left, and then I left too.

In the kitchen, into which I'd left, a dozen or so younger people were hanging out, drinking beer and introducing themselves. “Hey there, stranger. I'm Adam.”

“Howdy. Timothy.”

“Norman,” I said.

A woman said, “It's good to see you. I'm Tina,” but I wasn't sure she'd said it to me.

“Norman,” I said.

She didn't respond, but another woman did. “Hey, Norman. My name's Charlene. It's nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Charlene,” I said.

“Hi, Norman,” said Timothy.

Adam introduced himself to Tina, as Charlene said, “My name's Charlene. What's yours?” to Philip, who'd just walked in, saying, “Hello, everyone. I'm Philip.”

“Adam,” said Adam. “Timothy,” said Timothy. “I'm Charlene, and this is Tina,” said Charlene, pointing at Tina, who said, “I'm Tina. Hello, Philip.” “I'm Philip,” said Philip and I escaped from the kitchen to a dining room, where human voices buzzed and hummed saying their names and introducing themselves, to each other, to me, until I said, “Excuse me, but I really like the music that's playing. Can anybody tell me what it is?”

Everybody went silent.

They stared at me with their caged, unspeaking eyes.

I thought, perhaps, I had asked my question too quietly, so I repeated it louder: “I really like the music playing. What is it?”

“Darling,” said a woman. “I am Anna-Maria. Who are you?”

“Norman.”

“Iris.”

“Norman.”

“Daniel.” “Stew.” “Olive.”

“Norman.”

“Penelope.” “Dan.” “I'm Penelope too.” “Maximilian, but call me Max.” “Norman,” I said. “Marsha.” “Plastic. I know, I know—” “Bliss.” “Benjamin.” “Norman.” “Donaghue.” “Xavier.” “How about you?” “You?” “And you?”

The introductions pressed vice-like against my skull, compressing my brain.

They swarmed, buzzing, clouds of a round, around and around, my mind, before settling, twitch—scratch-scratch itch—ing upon its young, undulating, impressionably calm grey matter-of-fact surface, and, one by one, pricked, bit and stung until my thoughts and my self-consciousness were swollen, were numb…

I ran.

I ran past more of them, towards the front door—at which, having thrown it open, I fell, crestfallen, to the hardwood floor, because, instead of leading out, to the outside world, on the other side of the door was a mirrored twin of the very house I was already in, and within: a mirror-George, a mirror-Wendy, a’mirror-waving to me-or-a-mirror-me, mirror-introducing their mirror-selves: “Hi, I'm George.” “Hello, I'm Wendy.”

I shoved past, to the bathroom, and shut and locked the door.

I could hear them.

I wrapped a towel around my hand and shattered the window.

I climbed, wounding myself on jutting glass, and crawled painfully through to another bathroom—

Another house.

Another party.

“Hey there, buddy,” somebody says to me. It could be anybody. I'm bleeding, but they don't care. “It's me, Benjamin D.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” I scream.

There is no way out, you see.

Adulthood is a facade, a labyrinth, an endlessness of superficialities. The closest to an escape you'll find is another screamer, in another room, always out of reach, whom, even if you meet them, you'd have to let be, because they all calm down eventually. And smile. “Hello, I'm [...]. Aren't you glad you met me?”

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

When I was a kid my parents had these big, elaborate parties at our house, hundreds of people, adults, all mingling, milling about. There was alcohol of course. Music and food and sophistication. I wouldn't be allowed to join. I'd have to stay in my room with my ear pressed against the door, trying to pick up bits and pieces of grown-up conversation. It wasn't even the sex and romance I was eager for but the chance to meet like-minded people, smart people, successful people, people like I imagined I would grow up to be. To know so many of them. To have friendships with them. To talk deeply long into the night…

Then I turned nineteen. Suddenly I was an adult too. I had finished high school and was in my first year of university, studying communications, when I was invited to my first real party. It was a mixer for students and faculty, an early-semester get-to-know-you, for fun, philosophy and personal connections.

I wore my best clothes and arrived an hour after it had started. A man greeted me at the door. A woman stood behind him. I heard jazz.

“Glad you could make it,” said the man. “My name is George, and this is my wife, Wendy.”

“Hello. I'm Norman. I'm a—”

“Hi, I'm Wendy,” said Wendy. “It's nice to meet you, Norman.”

George held out his hand. “George.”

“Norman…”

We shook hands.

Wendy ushered me inside and shut the door behind me. We stood in the living room, smiling. “What's that playing?” I asked finally, meaning the music. But just then a second man walked into the room, saw George and Wendy and said, “Greetings. I'm Philip.” Then he said to me: “Greetings. I'm Philip.”

“I'm George, and this is my wife, Wendy,” said George, and Wendy smiled. “And who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Philip,” said Philip.

“I'm Norman,” I said.

“It's nice to meet you, Norman,” said George, Wendy and Philip, and Philip left, then Wendy left, and then I left too.

In the kitchen, into which I'd left, a dozen or so younger people were hanging out, drinking beer and introducing themselves. “Hey there, stranger. I'm Adam.”

“Howdy. Timothy.”

“Norman,” I said.

A woman said, “It's good to see you. I'm Tina,” but I wasn't sure she'd said it to me.

“Norman,” I said.

She didn't respond, but another woman did. “Hey, Norman. My name's Charlene. It's nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Charlene,” I said.

“Hi, Norman,” said Timothy.

Adam introduced himself to Tina, as Charlene said, “My name's Charlene. What's yours?” to Philip, who'd just walked in, saying, “Hello, everyone. I'm Philip.”

“Adam,” said Adam. “Timothy,” said Timothy. “I'm Charlene, and this is Tina,” said Charlene, pointing at Tina, who said, “I'm Tina. Hello, Philip.” “I'm Philip,” said Philip and I escaped from the kitchen to a dining room, where human voices buzzed and hummed saying their names and introducing themselves, to each other, to me, until I said, “Excuse me, but I really like the music that's playing. Can anybody tell me what it is?”

Everybody went silent.

They stared at me with their caged, unspeaking eyes.

I thought, perhaps, I had asked my question too quietly, so I repeated it louder: “I really like the music playing. What is it?”

“Darling,” said a woman. “I am Anna-Maria. Who are you?”

“Norman.”

“Iris.”

“Norman.”

“Daniel.” “Stew.” “Olive.”

“Norman.”

“Penelope.” “Dan.” “I'm Penelope too.” “Maximilian, but call me Max.” “Norman,” I said. “Marsha.” “Plastic. I know, I know—” “Bliss.” “Benjamin.” “Norman.” “Donaghue.” “Xavier.” “How about you?” “You?” “And you?”

The introductions pressed vice-like against my skull, compressing my brain.

They swarmed, buzzing, clouds of a round, around and around, my mind, before settling, twitch—scratch-scratch itch—ing upon its young, undulating, impressionably calm grey matter-of-fact surface, and, one by one, pricked, bit and stung until my thoughts and my self-consciousness were swollen, were numb…

I ran.

I ran past more of them, towards the front door—at which, having thrown it open, I fell, crestfallen, to the hardwood floor, because, instead of leading out, to the outside world, on the other side of the door was a mirrored twin of the very house I was already in, and within: a mirror-George, a mirror-Wendy, a’mirror-waving to me-or-a-mirror-me, mirror-introducing their mirror-selves: “Hi, I'm George.” “Hello, I'm Wendy.”

I shoved past, to the bathroom, and shut and locked the door.

I could hear them.

I wrapped a towel around my hand and shattered the window.

I climbed, wounding myself on jutting glass, and crawled painfully through to another bathroom—

Another house.

Another party.

“Hey there, buddy,” somebody says to me. It could be anybody. I'm bleeding, but they don't care. “It's me, Benjamin D.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” I scream.

There is no way out, you see.

Adulthood is a facade, a labyrinth, an endlessness of superficialities. The closest to an escape you'll find is another screamer, in another room, always out of reach, whom, even if you meet them, you'd have to let be, because they all calm down eventually. And smile. “Hello, I'm [...]. Aren't you glad you met me?”

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Hello, I'm Norman.

Aren't you glad you met me?

Friday,

in Bergainville, Texas,

at Dan's Diner (“Home of the All U Can Eat Peterpancakes”), a few hours before the Bergainville Troubadours are set to take on the neighbouring Texarcouga Wildcats in a playoff game.

Bergainville quarterback Ty Lawson, dressed in a burgundy-white Troubadour leather bomber, is seated in a booth with his steady girlfriend, cheer captain Ramona Miles, decked out in full cheer gear, and a couple of laid back friends,

when Rick Rooster, owner of local establishment Cock-a-doodle Tires, walks in, asks Ty, “You boys gonna win by more than ten?” and Ty answers that of course they will, that they'll beat the fur off those darn wildcats, that they'll beat it off them all the way to the state championship!

“That's what I wanna hear!” says Rick Rooster, and he orders a round of chocolate sundaes for everyone in the booth.

When he's gone, one of Ty's friends asks, “You think that fat fuck ever played football when he was in high school?”

“I bet he was a real nerd,” says Ramona.

“I heard he got caught once fucking a tire in his dad's garage,” says another friend.

They all laugh.

They drink their sundaes,

oblivious to the locals watching them with nostalgia-tinted envy through the freshly scrubbed Dan's Diner street-facing windows, from outside the diner,

and even more oblivious to the two intergalacticians, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬, watching them from outside reality, i.e. from without the universe, through a temporarily intruded upon fifth dimension. For the same reason people sometimes take an interest in ant colonies, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ have taken an interest in Texas high school football.

“I propose a wager,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯.

“Stakes?” psys ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬.

“

 ⟪𖦹⚯☾⟫^⟦10^10^10^999999⟧ ⋇ ∑⟁∞ ☿✶⌬ / ⊘𖤐⚘
 = ꙰꙰꙰ERROR: MAGNITUDE EXCEEDS REALITY

,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯, betting on a victory by the Texarcouga Wildcats. ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ accepts, and the two intergalacticians prepare asteroid chips for number crunching.

After a nervy performance by the Bergainville marching band, at 7:10 p.m. the football game begins, and almost immediately the Troubadours take the lead on a kick-off return touchdown.

They follow up with a conversion, a field goal and another touchdown on a fifty-five yard pass by Ty Lawson.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

At half-time, after multiple sacks of Texarcouga's increasingly isolated quarterback, “Suga” Ray Smiles, Bergainville leads by sixteen points.

As one expects, The Texarcouga dressing room is a mix of funeral and rage,

but it's in the fifth dimension that the wrath is truly unprecedented. ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ is psyrating, smashing particles, cursing the cosmic laws (and in-laws, who usually get the brunt of it) to the extent that ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ is imploring ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ to calm down, but ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ will not calm down, and in a moment of absolutely unhinged physical violation, he takes the spacetime which contains the football game, i.e. contains the football stadium and every-thing and -one in it, crumples it into a ball as if it were a sheet of paper, and throws the crumpled spacetime beyond its reality:

into another, where it travels, rather coldly and for a very long time, along a vector leading it to finally crash into a planet called █▚▞▙▛ (“Home of the All It Can Eat U”)

and as the crumpled spacetime slowly uncrumples, and the two rival football teams, cheer squads, the Bergainville marching band and everyone who had been watching the game from the stands regains a sense of presence and ego-sensory perception, they realize, the ones who survive that first, existential shock, that, oh fuck, they are not in Texas anymore.

And that's before the ░▒▓█▓▒░ , phasebeings local to █▚▞▙▛, arrive and kill—in truly gradient fashion—about half the survivors. I can only begin to describe what a stably corporeal creature like a human feels when it is systematically and bodily de-phased by a hungry temporalien…

However, due to a historical event too long and unintelligible to recount, the ░▒▓█▓▒░ also misinterpret the football players, in their helmets, uniforms and shoulder pads, as enemy soldiers, and, having sufficiently feasted, they retreat.

On the very edge of sanity, and near the very edge of existence itself, Ty Lawson rallies the others with a rousing speech (“...we were up by sixteen at half-time—and we're still up by sixteen! What we need now is to control the fucking ball and protect that lead like our lives depend on it!”) and the humans get to work.

They unfold and fortify what remains of their football stadium into a fortress.

They began to scout the surrounding land.

When the next wave of ░▒▓█▓▒░ arrives, they fake a punt return and beat the phasebeings into near-0% opacity using steel beams.

But when Ty weds Ramona and they declare themselves QB and Homecoming Queen, a revolt breaks out, led by Ray Smiles and his Texarcouga offensive line.

The suppression of this revolt, and the subsequent torture and execution of Ray Smiles, becomes the founding event of the Troubadourian colonization of the planet █▚▞▙▛ ,

where, the Troubadours soon discover, time does not flow as it did on Earth, meaning they do not age as they would have in their past reality.

Here, under perpetually-Friday night starlight, they are forever young.

On the advice of their chief advisor, Rick Rooster, and under the auspices of his first five-year plan—which, given the nature of time, becomes the only five-year plan—Ty and Ramona declare their fortress-stadium their capital and name it Alphaville.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

(“Go-go, go Troubadours, go Troubadours! Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

Friday,

in Bergainville, Texas,

at Dan's Diner (“Home of the All U Can Eat Peterpancakes”), a few hours before the Bergainville Troubadours are set to take on the neighbouring Texarcouga Wildcats in a playoff game.

Bergainville quarterback Ty Lawson, dressed in a burgundy-white Troubadour leather bomber, is seated in a booth with his steady girlfriend, cheer captain Ramona Miles, decked out in full cheer gear, and a couple of laid back friends,

when Rick Rooster, owner of local establishment Cock-a-doodle Tires, walks in, asks Ty, “You boys gonna win by more than ten?” and Ty answers that of course they will, that they'll beat the fur off those darn wildcats, that they'll beat it off them all the way to the state championship!

“That's what I wanna hear!” says Rick Rooster, and he orders a round of chocolate sundaes for everyone in the booth.

When he's gone, one of Ty's friends asks, “You think that fat fuck ever played football when he was in high school?”

“I bet he was a real nerd,” says Ramona.

“I heard he got caught once fucking a tire in his dad's garage,” says another friend.

They all laugh.

They drink their sundaes,

oblivious to the locals watching them with nostalgia-tinted envy through the freshly scrubbed Dan's Diner street-facing windows, from outside the diner,

and even more oblivious to the two intergalacticians, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬, watching them from outside reality, i.e. from without the universe, through a temporarily intruded upon fifth dimension. For the same reason people sometimes take an interest in ant colonies, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ have taken an interest in Texas high school football.

“I propose a wager,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯.

“Stakes?” psys ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬.

“

 ⟪𖦹⚯☾⟫^⟦10^10^10^999999⟧ ⋇ ∑⟁∞ ☿✶⌬ / ⊘𖤐⚘
 = ꙰꙰꙰ERROR: MAGNITUDE EXCEEDS REALITY

,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯, betting on a victory by the Texarcouga Wildcats. ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ accepts, and the two intergalacticians prepare asteroid chips for number crunching.

After a nervy performance by the Bergainville marching band, at 7:10 p.m. the football game begins, and almost immediately the Troubadours take the lead on a kick-off return touchdown.

They follow up with a conversion, a field goal and another touchdown on a fifty-five yard pass by Ty Lawson.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

At half-time, after multiple sacks of Texarcouga's increasingly isolated quarterback, “Suga” Ray Smiles, Bergainville leads by sixteen points.

As one expects, The Texarcouga dressing room is a mix of funeral and rage,

but it's in the fifth dimension that the wrath is truly unprecedented. ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ is psyrating, smashing particles, cursing the cosmic laws (and in-laws, who usually get the brunt of it) to the extent that ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ is imploring ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ to calm down, but ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ will not calm down, and in a moment of absolutely unhinged physical violation, he takes the spacetime which contains the football game, i.e. contains the football stadium and every-thing and -one in it, crumples it into a ball as if it were a sheet of paper, and throws the crumpled spacetime beyond its reality:

into another, where it travels, rather coldly and for a very long time, along a vector leading it to finally crash into a planet called █▚▞▙▛ (“Home of the All It Can Eat U”)

and as the crumpled spacetime slowly uncrumples, and the two rival football teams, cheer squads, the Bergainville marching band and everyone who had been watching the game from the stands regains a sense of presence and ego-sensory perception, they realize, the ones who survive that first, existential shock, that, oh fuck, they are not in Texas anymore.

And that's before the ░▒▓█▓▒░ , phasebeings local to █▚▞▙▛, arrive and kill—in truly gradient fashion—about half the survivors. I can only begin to describe what a stably corporeal creature like a human feels when it is systematically and bodily de-phased by a hungry temporalien…

However, due to a historical event too long and unintelligible to recount, the ░▒▓█▓▒░ also misinterpret the football players, in their helmets, uniforms and shoulder pads, as enemy soldiers, and, having sufficiently feasted, they retreat.

On the very edge of sanity, and near the very edge of existence itself, Ty Lawson rallies the others with a rousing speech (“...we were up by sixteen at half-time—and we're still up by sixteen! What we need now is to control the fucking ball and protect that lead like our lives depend on it!”) and the humans get to work.

They unfold and fortify what remains of their football stadium into a fortress.

They began to scout the surrounding land.

When the next wave of ░▒▓█▓▒░ arrives, they fake a punt return and beat the phasebeings into near-0% opacity using steel beams.

But when Ty weds Ramona and they declare themselves QB and Homecoming Queen, a revolt breaks out, led by Ray Smiles and his Texarcouga offensive line.

The suppression of this revolt, and the subsequent torture and execution of Ray Smiles, becomes the founding event of the Troubadourian colonization of the planet █▚▞▙▛ ,

where, the Troubadours soon discover, time does not flow as it did on Earth, meaning they do not age as they would have in their past reality.

Here, under perpetually-Friday night starlight, they are forever young.

On the advice of their chief advisor, Rick Rooster, and under the auspices of his first five-year plan—which, given the nature of time, becomes the only five-year plan—Ty and Ramona declare their fortress-stadium their capital and name it Alphaville.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

(“Go-go, go Troubadours, go Troubadours! Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

Friday,

in Bergainville, Texas,

at Dan's Diner (“Home of the All U Can Eat Peterpancakes”), a few hours before the Bergainville Troubadours are set to take on the neighbouring Texarcouga Wildcats in a playoff game.

Bergainville quarterback Ty Lawson, dressed in a burgundy-white Troubadour leather bomber, is seated in a booth with his steady girlfriend, cheer captain Ramona Miles, decked out in full cheer gear, and a couple of laid back friends,

when Rick Rooster, owner of local establishment Cock-a-doodle Tires, walks in, asks Ty, “You boys gonna win by more than ten?” and Ty answers that of course they will, that they'll beat the fur off those darn wildcats, that they'll beat it off them all the way to the state championship!

“That's what I wanna hear!” says Rick Rooster, and he orders a round of chocolate sundaes for everyone in the booth.

When he's gone, one of Ty's friends asks, “You think that fat fuck ever played football when he was in high school?”

“I bet he was a real nerd,” says Ramona.

“I heard he got caught once fucking a tire in his dad's garage,” says another friend.

They all laugh.

They drink their sundaes,

oblivious to the locals watching them with nostalgia-tinted envy through the freshly scrubbed Dan's Diner street-facing windows, from outside the diner,

and even more oblivious to the two intergalacticians, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬, watching them from outside reality, i.e. from without the universe, through a temporarily intruded upon fifth dimension. For the same reason people sometimes take an interest in ant colonies, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ have taken an interest in Texas high school football.

“I propose a wager,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯.

“Stakes?” psys ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬.

“

 ⟪𖦹⚯☾⟫^⟦10^10^10^999999⟧ ⋇ ∑⟁∞ ☿✶⌬ / ⊘𖤐⚘
 = ꙰꙰꙰ERROR: MAGNITUDE EXCEEDS REALITY

,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯, betting on a victory by the Texarcouga Wildcats. ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ accepts, and the two intergalacticians prepare asteroid chips for number crunching.

After a nervy performance by the Bergainville marching band, at 7:10 p.m. the football game begins, and almost immediately the Troubadours take the lead on a kick-off return touchdown.

They follow up with a conversion, a field goal and another touchdown on a fifty-five yard pass by Ty Lawson.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

At half-time, after multiple sacks of Texarcouga's increasingly isolated quarterback, “Suga” Ray Smiles, Bergainville leads by sixteen points.

As one expects, The Texarcouga dressing room is a mix of funeral and rage,

but it's in the fifth dimension that the wrath is truly unprecedented. ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ is psyrating, smashing particles, cursing the cosmic laws (and in-laws, who usually get the brunt of it) to the extent that ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ is imploring ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ to calm down, but ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ will not calm down, and in a moment of absolutely unhinged physical violation, he takes the spacetime which contains the football game, i.e. contains the football stadium and every-thing and -one in it, crumples it into a ball as if it were a sheet of paper, and throws the crumpled spacetime beyond its reality:

into another, where it travels, rather coldly and for a very long time, along a vector leading it to finally crash into a planet called █▚▞▙▛ (“Home of the All It Can Eat U”)

and as the crumpled spacetime slowly uncrumples, and the two rival football teams, cheer squads, the Bergainville marching band and everyone who had been watching the game from the stands regains a sense of presence and ego-sensory perception, they realize, the ones who survive that first, existential shock, that, oh fuck, they are not in Texas anymore.

And that's before the ░▒▓█▓▒░ , phasebeings local to █▚▞▙▛, arrive and kill—in truly gradient fashion—about half the survivors. I can only begin to describe what a stably corporeal creature like a human feels when it is systematically and bodily de-phased by a hungry temporalien…

However, due to a historical event too long and unintelligible to recount, the ░▒▓█▓▒░ also misinterpret the football players, in their helmets, uniforms and shoulder pads, as enemy soldiers, and, having sufficiently feasted, they retreat.

On the very edge of sanity, and near the very edge of existence itself, Ty Lawson rallies the others with a rousing speech (“...we were up by sixteen at half-time—and we're still up by sixteen! What we need now is to control the fucking ball and protect that lead like our lives depend on it!”) and the humans get to work.

They unfold and fortify what remains of their football stadium into a fortress.

They began to scout the surrounding land.

When the next wave of ░▒▓█▓▒░ arrives, they fake a punt return and beat the phasebeings into near-0% opacity using steel beams.

But when Ty weds Ramona and they declare themselves QB and Homecoming Queen, a revolt breaks out, led by Ray Smiles and his Texarcouga offensive line.

The suppression of this revolt, and the subsequent torture and execution of Ray Smiles, becomes the founding event of the Troubadourian colonization of the planet █▚▞▙▛ ,

where, the Troubadours soon discover, time does not flow as it did on Earth, meaning they do not age as they would have in their past reality.

Here, under perpetually-Friday night starlight, they are forever young.

On the advice of their chief advisor, Rick Rooster, and under the auspices of his first five-year plan—which, given the nature of time, becomes the only five-year plan—Ty and Ramona declare their fortress-stadium their capital and name it Alphaville.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

(“Go-go, go Troubadours, go Troubadours! Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

Friday,

in Bergainville, Texas,

at Dan's Diner (“Home of the All U Can Eat Peterpancakes”), a few hours before the Bergainville Troubadours are set to take on the neighbouring Texarcouga Wildcats in a playoff game.

Bergainville quarterback Ty Lawson, dressed in a burgundy-white Troubadour leather bomber, is seated in a booth with his steady girlfriend, cheer captain Ramona Miles, decked out in full cheer gear, and a couple of laid back friends,

when Rick Rooster, owner of local establishment Cock-a-doodle Tires, walks in, asks Ty, “You boys gonna win by more than ten?” and Ty answers that of course they will, that they'll beat the fur off those darn wildcats, that they'll beat it off them all the way to the state championship!

“That's what I wanna hear!” says Rick Rooster, and he orders a round of chocolate sundaes for everyone in the booth.

When he's gone, one of Ty's friends asks, “You think that fat fuck ever played football when he was in high school?”

“I bet he was a real nerd,” says Ramona.

“I heard he got caught once fucking a tire in his dad's garage,” says another friend.

They all laugh.

They drink their sundaes,

oblivious to the locals watching them with nostalgia-tinted envy through the freshly scrubbed Dan's Diner street-facing windows, from outside the diner,

and even more oblivious to the two intergalacticians, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬, watching them from outside reality, i.e. from without the universe, through a temporarily intruded upon fifth dimension. For the same reason people sometimes take an interest in ant colonies, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ have taken an interest in Texas high school football.

“I propose a wager,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯.

“Stakes?” psys ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬.

“

 ⟪𖦹⚯☾⟫^⟦10^10^10^999999⟧ ⋇ ∑⟁∞ ☿✶⌬ / ⊘𖤐⚘
 = ꙰꙰꙰ERROR: MAGNITUDE EXCEEDS REALITY

,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯, betting on a victory by the Texarcouga Wildcats. ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ accepts, and the two intergalacticians prepare asteroid chips for number crunching.

After a nervy performance by the Bergainville marching band, at 7:10 p.m. the football game begins, and almost immediately the Troubadours take the lead on a kick-off return touchdown.

They follow up with a conversion, a field goal and another touchdown on a fifty-five yard pass by Ty Lawson.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

At half-time, after multiple sacks of Texarcouga's increasingly isolated quarterback, “Suga” Ray Smiles, Bergainville leads by sixteen points.

As one expects, The Texarcouga dressing room is a mix of funeral and rage,

but it's in the fifth dimension that the wrath is truly unprecedented. ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ is psyrating, smashing particles, cursing the cosmic laws (and in-laws, who usually get the brunt of it) to the extent that ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ is imploring ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ to calm down, but ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ will not calm down, and in a moment of absolutely unhinged physical violation, he takes the spacetime which contains the football game, i.e. contains the football stadium and every-thing and -one in it, crumples it into a ball as if it were a sheet of paper, and throws the crumpled spacetime beyond its reality:

into another, where it travels, rather coldly and for a very long time, along a vector leading it to finally crash into a planet called █▚▞▙▛ (“Home of the All It Can Eat U”)

and as the crumpled spacetime slowly uncrumples, and the two rival football teams, cheer squads, the Bergainville marching band and everyone who had been watching the game from the stands regains a sense of presence and ego-sensory perception, they realize, the ones who survive that first, existential shock, that, oh fuck, they are not in Texas anymore.

And that's before the ░▒▓█▓▒░ , phasebeings local to █▚▞▙▛, arrive and kill—in truly gradient fashion—about half the survivors. I can only begin to describe what a stably corporeal creature like a human feels when it is systematically and bodily de-phased by a hungry temporalien…

However, due to a historical event too long and unintelligible to recount, the ░▒▓█▓▒░ also misinterpret the football players, in their helmets, uniforms and shoulder pads, as enemy soldiers, and, having sufficiently feasted, they retreat.

On the very edge of sanity, and near the very edge of existence itself, Ty Lawson rallies the others with a rousing speech (“...we were up by sixteen at half-time—and we're still up by sixteen! What we need now is to control the fucking ball and protect that lead like our lives depend on it!”) and the humans get to work.

They unfold and fortify what remains of their football stadium into a fortress.

They began to scout the surrounding land.

When the next wave of ░▒▓█▓▒░ arrives, they fake a punt return and beat the phasebeings into near-0% opacity using steel beams.

But when Ty weds Ramona and they declare themselves QB and Homecoming Queen, a revolt breaks out, led by Ray Smiles and his Texarcouga offensive line.

The suppression of this revolt, and the subsequent torture and execution of Ray Smiles, becomes the founding event of the Troubadourian colonization of the planet █▚▞▙▛ ,

where, the Troubadours soon discover, time does not flow as it did on Earth, meaning they do not age as they would have in their past reality.

Here, under perpetually-Friday night starlight, they are forever young.

On the advice of their chief advisor, Rick Rooster, and under the auspices of his first five-year plan—which, given the nature of time, becomes the only five-year plan—Ty and Ramona declare their fortress-stadium their capital and name it Alphaville.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

(“Go-go, go Troubadours, go Troubadours! Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

Friday,

in Bergainville, Texas,

at Dan's Diner (“Home of the All U Can Eat Peterpancakes”), a few hours before the Bergainville Troubadours are set to take on the neighbouring Texarcouga Wildcats in a playoff game.

Bergainville quarterback Ty Lawson, dressed in a burgundy-white Troubadour leather bomber, is seated in a booth with his steady girlfriend, cheer captain Ramona Miles, decked out in full cheer gear, and a couple of laid back friends,

when Rick Rooster, owner of local establishment Cock-a-doodle Tires, walks in, asks Ty, “You boys gonna win by more than ten?” and Ty answers that of course they will, that they'll beat the fur off those darn wildcats, that they'll beat it off them all the way to the state championship!

“That's what I wanna hear!” says Rick Rooster, and he orders a round of chocolate sundaes for everyone in the booth.

When he's gone, one of Ty's friends asks, “You think that fat fuck ever played football when he was in high school?”

“I bet he was a real nerd,” says Ramona.

“I heard he got caught once fucking a tire in his dad's garage,” says another friend.

They all laugh.

They drink their sundaes,

oblivious to the locals watching them with nostalgia-tinted envy through the freshly scrubbed Dan's Diner street-facing windows, from outside the diner,

and even more oblivious to the two intergalacticians, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬, watching them from outside reality, i.e. from without the universe, through a temporarily intruded upon fifth dimension. For the same reason people sometimes take an interest in ant colonies, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ have taken an interest in Texas high school football.

“I propose a wager,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯.

“Stakes?” psys ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬.

“

 ⟪𖦹⚯☾⟫^⟦10^10^10^999999⟧ ⋇ ∑⟁∞ ☿✶⌬ / ⊘𖤐⚘
 = ꙰꙰꙰ERROR: MAGNITUDE EXCEEDS REALITY

,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯, betting on a victory by the Texarcouga Wildcats. ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ accepts, and the two intergalacticians prepare asteroid chips for number crunching.

After a nervy performance by the Bergainville marching band, at 7:10 p.m. the football game begins, and almost immediately the Troubadours take the lead on a kick-off return touchdown.

They follow up with a conversion, a field goal and another touchdown on a fifty-five yard pass by Ty Lawson.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

At half-time, after multiple sacks of Texarcouga's increasingly isolated quarterback, “Suga” Ray Smiles, Bergainville leads by sixteen points.

As one expects, The Texarcouga dressing room is a mix of funeral and rage,

but it's in the fifth dimension that the wrath is truly unprecedented. ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ is psyrating, smashing particles, cursing the cosmic laws (and in-laws, who usually get the brunt of it) to the extent that ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ is imploring ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ to calm down, but ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ will not calm down, and in a moment of absolutely unhinged physical violation, he takes the spacetime which contains the football game, i.e. contains the football stadium and every-thing and -one in it, crumples it into a ball as if it were a sheet of paper, and throws the crumpled spacetime beyond its reality:

into another, where it travels, rather coldly and for a very long time, along a vector leading it to finally crash into a planet called █▚▞▙▛ (“Home of the All It Can Eat U”)

and as the crumpled spacetime slowly uncrumples, and the two rival football teams, cheer squads, the Bergainville marching band and everyone who had been watching the game from the stands regains a sense of presence and ego-sensory perception, they realize, the ones who survive that first, existential shock, that, oh fuck, they are not in Texas anymore.

And that's before the ░▒▓█▓▒░ , phasebeings local to █▚▞▙▛, arrive and kill—in truly gradient fashion—about half the survivors. I can only begin to describe what a stably corporeal creature like a human feels when it is systematically and bodily de-phased by a hungry temporalien…

However, due to a historical event too long and unintelligible to recount, the ░▒▓█▓▒░ also misinterpret the football players, in their helmets, uniforms and shoulder pads, as enemy soldiers, and, having sufficiently feasted, they retreat.

On the very edge of sanity, and near the very edge of existence itself, Ty Lawson rallies the others with a rousing speech (“...we were up by sixteen at half-time—and we're still up by sixteen! What we need now is to control the fucking ball and protect that lead like our lives depend on it!”) and the humans get to work.

They unfold and fortify what remains of their football stadium into a fortress.

They began to scout the surrounding land.

When the next wave of ░▒▓█▓▒░ arrives, they fake a punt return and beat the phasebeings into near-0% opacity using steel beams.

But when Ty weds Ramona and they declare themselves QB and Homecoming Queen, a revolt breaks out, led by Ray Smiles and his Texarcouga offensive line.

The suppression of this revolt, and the subsequent torture and execution of Ray Smiles, becomes the founding event of the Troubadourian colonization of the planet █▚▞▙▛ ,

where, the Troubadours soon discover, time does not flow as it did on Earth, meaning they do not age as they would have in their past reality.

Here, under perpetually-Friday night starlight, they are forever young.

On the advice of their chief advisor, Rick Rooster, and under the auspices of his first five-year plan—which, given the nature of time, becomes the only five-year plan—Ty and Ramona declare their fortress-stadium their capital and name it Alphaville.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

(“Go-go, go Troubadours, go Troubadours! Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

Friday,

in Bergainville, Texas,

at Dan's Diner (“Home of the All U Can Eat Peterpancakes”), a few hours before the Bergainville Troubadours are set to take on the neighbouring Texarcouga Wildcats in a playoff game.

Bergainville quarterback Ty Lawson, dressed in a burgundy-white Troubadour leather bomber, is seated in a booth with his steady girlfriend, cheer captain Ramona Miles, decked out in full cheer gear, and a couple of laid back friends,

when Rick Rooster, owner of local establishment Cock-a-doodle Tires, walks in, asks Ty, “You boys gonna win by more than ten?” and Ty answers that of course they will, that they'll beat the fur off those darn wildcats, that they'll beat it off them all the way to the state championship!

“That's what I wanna hear!” says Rick Rooster, and he orders a round of chocolate sundaes for everyone in the booth.

When he's gone, one of Ty's friends asks, “You think that fat fuck ever played football when he was in high school?”

“I bet he was a real nerd,” says Ramona.

“I heard he got caught once fucking a tire in his dad's garage,” says another friend.

They all laugh.

They drink their sundaes,

oblivious to the locals watching them with nostalgia-tinted envy through the freshly scrubbed Dan's Diner street-facing windows, from outside the diner,

and even more oblivious to the two intergalacticians, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬, watching them from outside reality, i.e. from without the universe, through a temporarily intruded upon fifth dimension. For the same reason people sometimes take an interest in ant colonies, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ have taken an interest in Texas high school football.

“I propose a wager,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯.

“Stakes?” psys ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬.

“

 ⟪𖦹⚯☾⟫^⟦10^10^10^999999⟧ ⋇ ∑⟁∞ ☿✶⌬ / ⊘𖤐⚘
 = ꙰꙰꙰ERROR: MAGNITUDE EXCEEDS REALITY

,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯, betting on a victory by the Texarcouga Wildcats. ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ accepts, and the two intergalacticians prepare asteroid chips for number crunching.

After a nervy performance by the Bergainville marching band, at 7:10 p.m. the football game begins, and almost immediately the Troubadours take the lead on a kick-off return touchdown.

They follow up with a conversion, a field goal and another touchdown on a fifty-five yard pass by Ty Lawson.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

At half-time, after multiple sacks of Texarcouga's increasingly isolated quarterback, “Suga” Ray Smiles, Bergainville leads by sixteen points.

As one expects, The Texarcouga dressing room is a mix of funeral and rage,

but it's in the fifth dimension that the wrath is truly unprecedented. ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ is psyrating, smashing particles, cursing the cosmic laws (and in-laws, who usually get the brunt of it) to the extent that ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ is imploring ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ to calm down, but ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ will not calm down, and in a moment of absolutely unhinged physical violation, he takes the spacetime which contains the football game, i.e. contains the football stadium and every-thing and -one in it, crumples it into a ball as if it were a sheet of paper, and throws the crumpled spacetime beyond its reality:

into another, where it travels, rather coldly and for a very long time, along a vector leading it to finally crash into a planet called █▚▞▙▛ (“Home of the All It Can Eat U”)

and as the crumpled spacetime slowly uncrumples, and the two rival football teams, cheer squads, the Bergainville marching band and everyone who had been watching the game from the stands regains a sense of presence and ego-sensory perception, they realize, the ones who survive that first, existential shock, that, oh fuck, they are not in Texas anymore.

And that's before the ░▒▓█▓▒░ , phasebeings local to █▚▞▙▛, arrive and kill—in truly gradient fashion—about half the survivors. I can only begin to describe what a stably corporeal creature like a human feels when it is systematically and bodily de-phased by a hungry temporalien…

However, due to a historical event too long and unintelligible to recount, the ░▒▓█▓▒░ also misinterpret the football players, in their helmets, uniforms and shoulder pads, as enemy soldiers, and, having sufficiently feasted, they retreat.

On the very edge of sanity, and near the very edge of existence itself, Ty Lawson rallies the others with a rousing speech (“...we were up by sixteen at half-time—and we're still up by sixteen! What we need now is to control the fucking ball and protect that lead like our lives depend on it!”) and the humans get to work.

They unfold and fortify what remains of their football stadium into a fortress.

They began to scout the surrounding land.

When the next wave of ░▒▓█▓▒░ arrives, they fake a punt return and beat the phasebeings into near-0% opacity using steel beams.

But when Ty weds Ramona and they declare themselves QB and Homecoming Queen, a revolt breaks out, led by Ray Smiles and his Texarcouga offensive line.

The suppression of this revolt, and the subsequent torture and execution of Ray Smiles, becomes the founding event of the Troubadourian colonization of the planet █▚▞▙▛ ,

where, the Troubadours soon discover, time does not flow as it did on Earth, meaning they do not age as they would have in their past reality.

Here, under perpetually-Friday night starlight, they are forever young.

On the advice of their chief advisor, Rick Rooster, and under the auspices of his first five-year plan—which, given the nature of time, becomes the only five-year plan—Ty and Ramona declare their fortress-stadium their capital and name it Alphaville.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

(“Go-go, go Troubadours, go Troubadours! Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

Friday,

in Bergainville, Texas,

at Dan's Diner (“Home of the All U Can Eat Peterpancakes”), a few hours before the Bergainville Troubadours are set to take on the neighbouring Texarcouga Wildcats in a playoff game.

Bergainville quarterback Ty Lawson, dressed in a burgundy-white Troubadour leather bomber, is seated in a booth with his steady girlfriend, cheer captain Ramona Miles, decked out in full cheer gear, and a couple of laid back friends,

when Rick Rooster, owner of local establishment Cock-a-doodle Tires, walks in, asks Ty, “You boys gonna win by more than ten?” and Ty answers that of course they will, that they'll beat the fur off those darn wildcats, that they'll beat it off them all the way to the state championship!

“That's what I wanna hear!” says Rick Rooster, and he orders a round of chocolate sundaes for everyone in the booth.

When he's gone, one of Ty's friends asks, “You think that fat fuck ever played football when he was in high school?”

“I bet he was a real nerd,” says Ramona.

“I heard he got caught once fucking a tire in his dad's garage,” says another friend.

They all laugh.

They drink their sundaes,

oblivious to the locals watching them with nostalgia-tinted envy through the freshly scrubbed Dan's Diner street-facing windows, from outside the diner,

and even more oblivious to the two intergalacticians, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬, watching them from outside reality, i.e. from without the universe, through a temporarily intruded upon fifth dimension. For the same reason people sometimes take an interest in ant colonies, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ have taken an interest in Texas high school football.

“I propose a wager,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯.

“Stakes?” psys ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬.

“

 ⟪𖦹⚯☾⟫^⟦10^10^10^999999⟧ ⋇ ∑⟁∞ ☿✶⌬ / ⊘𖤐⚘
 = ꙰꙰꙰ERROR: MAGNITUDE EXCEEDS REALITY

,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯, betting on a victory by the Texarcouga Wildcats. ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ accepts, and the two intergalacticians prepare asteroid chips for number crunching.

After a nervy performance by the Bergainville marching band, at 7:10 p.m. the football game begins, and almost immediately the Troubadours take the lead on a kick-off return touchdown.

They follow up with a conversion, a field goal and another touchdown on a fifty-five yard pass by Ty Lawson.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

At half-time, after multiple sacks of Texarcouga's increasingly isolated quarterback, “Suga” Ray Smiles, Bergainville leads by sixteen points.

As one expects, The Texarcouga dressing room is a mix of funeral and rage,

but it's in the fifth dimension that the wrath is truly unprecedented. ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ is psyrating, smashing particles, cursing the cosmic laws (and in-laws, who usually get the brunt of it) to the extent that ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ is imploring ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ to calm down, but ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ will not calm down, and in a moment of absolutely unhinged physical violation, he takes the spacetime which contains the football game, i.e. contains the football stadium and every-thing and -one in it, crumples it into a ball as if it were a sheet of paper, and throws the crumpled spacetime beyond its reality:

into another, where it travels, rather coldly and for a very long time, along a vector leading it to finally crash into a planet called █▚▞▙▛ (“Home of the All It Can Eat U”)

and as the crumpled spacetime slowly uncrumples, and the two rival football teams, cheer squads, the Bergainville marching band and everyone who had been watching the game from the stands regains a sense of presence and ego-sensory perception, they realize, the ones who survive that first, existential shock, that, oh fuck, they are not in Texas anymore.

And that's before the ░▒▓█▓▒░ , phasebeings local to █▚▞▙▛, arrive and kill—in truly gradient fashion—about half the survivors. I can only begin to describe what a stably corporeal creature like a human feels when it is systematically and bodily de-phased by a hungry temporalien…

However, due to a historical event too long and unintelligible to recount, the ░▒▓█▓▒░ also misinterpret the football players, in their helmets, uniforms and shoulder pads, as enemy soldiers, and, having sufficiently feasted, they retreat.

On the very edge of sanity, and near the very edge of existence itself, Ty Lawson rallies the others with a rousing speech (“...we were up by sixteen at half-time—and we're still up by sixteen! What we need now is to control the fucking ball and protect that lead like our lives depend on it!”) and the humans get to work.

They unfold and fortify what remains of their football stadium into a fortress.

They begin to scout the surrounding land.

When the next wave of ░▒▓█▓▒░ arrives, they fake a punt return and beat the phasebeings into near-0% opacity using steel beams.

But when Ty weds Ramona and they declare themselves QB and Homecoming Queen, a revolt breaks out, led by Ray Smiles and his Texarcouga offensive line.

The suppression of this revolt, and the subsequent torture and execution of Ray Smiles, becomes the founding event of the Troubadourian colonization of the planet █▚▞▙▛ ,

where, the Troubadours soon discover, time does not flow as it did on Earth, meaning they do not age as they would have in their past reality.

Here, under perpetually-Friday night starlight, they are forever young.

On the advice of their chief advisor, Rick Rooster, and under the auspices of his first five-year plan—which, given the nature of time, becomes the only five-year plan—Ty and Ramona declare their fortress-stadium their capital and name it Alphaville.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

(“Go-go, go Troubadours, go Troubadours! Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

Friday,

in Bergainville, Texas,

at Dan's Diner (“Home of the All U Can Eat Peterpancakes”), a few hours before the Bergainville Troubadours are set to take on the neighbouring Texarcouga Wildcats in a playoff game.

Bergainville quarterback Ty Lawson, dressed in a burgundy-white Troubadour leather bomber, is seated in a booth with his steady girlfriend, cheer captain Ramona Miles, decked out in full cheer gear, and a couple of laid back friends,

when Rick Rooster, owner of local establishment Cock-a-doodle Tires, walks in, asks Ty, “You boys gonna win by more than ten?” and Ty answers that of course they will, that they'll beat the fur off those darn wildcats, that they'll beat it off them all the way to the state championship!

“That's what I wanna hear!” says Rick Rooster, and he orders a round of chocolate sundaes for everyone in the booth.

When he's gone, one of Ty's friends asks, “You think that fat fuck ever played football when he was in high school?”

“I bet he was a real nerd,” says Ramona.

“I heard he got caught once fucking a tire in his dad's garage,” says another friend.

They all laugh.

They drink their sundaes,

oblivious to the locals watching them with nostalgia-tinted envy through the freshly scrubbed Dan's Diner street-facing windows, from outside the diner,

and even more oblivious to the two intergalacticians, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬, watching them from outside reality, i.e. from without the universe, through a temporarily intruded upon fifth dimension. For the same reason people sometimes take an interest in ant colonies, ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ and ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ have taken an interest in Texas high school football.

“I propose a wager,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯.

“Stakes?” psys ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬.

“

 ⟪𖦹⚯☾⟫^⟦10^10^10^999999⟧ ⋇ ∑⟁∞ ☿✶⌬ / ⊘𖤐⚘
 = ꙰꙰꙰ERROR: MAGNITUDE EXCEEDS REALITY

,” psys ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯, betting on a victory by the Texarcouga Wildcats. ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ accepts, and the two intergalacticians prepare asteroid chips for number crunching.

After a nervy performance by the Bergainville marching band, at 7:10 p.m. the football game begins, and almost immediately the Troubadours take the lead on a kick-off return touchdown.

They follow up with a conversion, a field goal and another touchdown on a fifty-five yard pass by Ty Lawson.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

At half-time, after multiple sacks of Texarcouga's increasingly isolated quarterback, “Suga” Ray Smiles, Bergainville leads by sixteen points.

As one expects, The Texarcouga dressing room is a mix of funeral and rage,

but it's in the fifth dimension that the wrath is truly unprecedented. ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ is psyrating, smashing particles, cursing the cosmic laws (and in-laws, who usually get the brunt of it) to the extent that ⌇✧𖤐⟁☬ is imploring ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ to calm down, but ✺⟟𖣔☿⚯ will not calm down, and in a moment of absolutely unhinged physical violation, he takes the spacetime which contains the football game, i.e. contains the football stadium and every-thing and -one in it, crumples it into a ball as if it were a sheet of paper, and throws the crumpled spacetime beyond its reality:

into another, where it travels, rather coldly and for a very long time, along a vector leading it to finally crash into a planet called █▚▞▙▛ (“Home of the All It Can Eat U”)

and as the crumpled spacetime slowly uncrumples, and the two rival football teams, cheer squads, the Bergainville marching band and everyone who had been watching the game from the stands regains a sense of presence and ego-sensory perception, they realize, the ones who survive that first, existential shock, that, oh fuck, they are not in Texas anymore.

And that's before the ░▒▓█▓▒░ , phasebeings local to █▚▞▙▛, arrive and kill—in truly gradient fashion—about half the survivors. I can only begin to describe what a stably corporeal creature like a human feels when it is systematically and bodily de-phased by a hungry temporalien…

However, due to a historical event too long and unintelligible to recount, the ░▒▓█▓▒░ also misinterpret the football players, in their helmets, uniforms and shoulder pads, as enemy soldiers, and, having sufficiently feasted, they retreat.

On the very edge of sanity, and near the very edge of existence itself, Ty Lawson rallies the others with a rousing speech (“...we were up by sixteen at half-time—and we're still up by sixteen! What we need now is to control the fucking ball and protect that lead like our lives depend on it!”) and the humans get to work.

They unfold and fortify what remains of their football stadium into a fortress.

They began to scout the surrounding land.

When the next wave of ░▒▓█▓▒░ arrives, they fake a punt return and beat the phasebeings into near-0% opacity using steel beams.

But when Ty weds Ramona and they declare themselves QB and Homecoming Queen, a revolt breaks out, led by Ray Smiles and his Texarcouga offensive line.

The suppression of this revolt, and the subsequent torture and execution of Ray Smiles, becomes the founding event of the Troubadourian colonization of the planet █▚▞▙▛ ,

where, the Troubadours soon discover, time does not flow as it did on Earth, meaning they do not age as they would have in their past reality.

Here, under perpetually-Friday night starlight, they are forever young.

On the advice of their chief advisor, Rick Rooster, and under the auspices of his first five-year plan—which, given the nature of time, becomes the only five-year plan—Ty and Ramona declare their fortress-stadium their capital and name it Alphaville.

(“Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

(“Go-go, go Troubadours, go Troubadours! Goo-o-o-o! Troubadours!”)

It was a bleak, windy weekday morning in November, somewhere on the old, east coast of the United States of America, and the university campus was greyly empty. The weather forecast had called for freezing rain, but nothing had, as yet, been precipitated.

The office was cold.

Four men were seated there: three with grey hair, sweaters and bespoke Savile Row blazers, and one much younger, in his final year of high school.

The air was a mix of handmade ox-blood leather boots, gold and the U.S. mint after it had printed its final series of thousand-dollar bills.

The grey-haired men had names like Eberhardt, Tomkens and Winchester-Barnes, and savagely noble faces straight out of a 19th-century oil painting; but, for the sake of simplicity, let us imagine they all had one face, the same face, and same single name: Algernon.

The younger man’s name was Winston Suture.

He had applied for fall enrollment.

He had written a peculiar but powerful essay about why he should be considered, and the Algernons had invited him to an interview.

“I must preface myself by saying that we do not often receive such confessions from prospective students,” said one of the Algernons. “Many of our graduates do, indeed, go on to perform criminal acts, but usually these are of a financial, or corporate, kind. Yet here you are, so young and already confessing to a much more brutal and shocking crime: murder. And not once but twice.” He paused. “We are, understandably, intrigued.”

“However,” said another Algernon, “we are also a storied and liberal institution, with a fine history, and thus cannot afford to sully our reputation. I therefore ask: the boy you profess to having killed—what race?”

“The fifteen-hundred, sir,” said Winston.

“Ah, middle distance. I ran the five-thousand myself,” said Algernon.

“What motive?” asked another.

“Because he was a better runner than me, sir.”

“It does—this sport killing—evince a particular kind of iron will to succeed at all costs,” mused the third Algernon.

“It primes a young man,” said Algernon.

“Galvinizes him,” said Algernon.

“Forges him,” said Algernon.

“The killing blow itself becomes a kind of moral crucible.”

“A weaker man would have, at that final, precipitous, moment, stepped back.”

“—shown mercy.”

“I did show mercy, sir. By then, I’d already paralyzed him. He could barely talk or form a coherent thought, really. He was convulsing.”

“So you had already done enough to better him as a sportsman.”

“Yes, sir.”

Algernon took off and cleaned his glasses. “And yet, you killed him still.”

“I did.”

“That demonstrates character. Virtue, of the ancient kind.”

“A principled firmness,” said Algernon.

“Thank you, sir.”

The second Algernon smiled. “Tell me, Mr. Suture. What would happen if I picked up this telephone, here, and dialed the number for the police: if I said, ‘Officer, I have beside me a young man who has just confessed to murder…’?”

“They would deny it, sir.”

“Deny it?”

“The whole thing. The murders, the investigations. They would deny the victims ever existed. My father, you see, plays bridge with the Chief of Police. As I indicated in my essay—on page three, paragraph two, I believe—the families of both victims have been duly compensated and have signed non-disclosure agreements. They have agreed never to talk about the murders, which didn’t happen, of their children, who never existed.”

“Murders, which you swear to us, did occur,” said Algernon.

“Most definitely,” said Winston.

“I must say, it is the fact that you have managed to cover up the killings that is most impressive to me. More impressive than the murders themselves. Anyone may become a killer. You become one by the fact of killing, which any ape can do. Yet to have managed the aftermath so well, planned the post-mortem stratagems so meticulously, and executed them so single-mindedly, without emotional encumbrance. It is almost Homeric.”

“Dantean.”

“...de Cervantesian.”

“Although the murders themselves,” interjected Algernon, “are impressive, too. Creative, varied. Ironically modernist, if one may say so.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now tell us about the girl, Mr. Suture. Why did you kill her? Clearly, she was not an athletic rival of yours.”

“She was just a woman,” said Winston. “A dumb fucking bitch.”

The Algernons went silent.

The silence lasted for a long time while the wind outside rattled the wooden shutters of the tall office windows. Then the Algernons smiled, chuckled. “Who hasn’t strangled a woman during his lifetime?” said one of the Algernons. “Or hit one.” “When she deserved it.” “Don’t they all deserve it… sometimes?” “When they withhold,” said Algernon. “Historically, they have learned to take it,” said another. “Biologically—” “We speak, of course, solely of the game of blackjack,” said Algernon, as the first drops of rain tapped loudly against the window glass.

“Perhaps I just went too far,” said Winston.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” said Algernon. “I, myself, have made the same mistake—of going too far—in a game of blackjack.”

When the interview was finished, Winston crossed the university campus, walked along a street for a while, then got into a car, a battered Toyota, in which his father was waiting.

“Was one of them the one?” his father asked.

His breath smelled of cheap coffee. Winston looked at the photograph he held.

“Yeah.”

His father fought back tears, balled the photograph up and kissed the medallion hanging around his neck. It contained a gem made of the ashes of his wife. She had died of cancer caused by an unreported leak by a leading biochemical corporation. The insurance company had denied coverage. The media had rejected the story. The police had refused to investigate. The state judge had dismissed the civil case.

All involved alumni.

“Did they actually buy your bullshit?” asked Winston's father.

“I think so,” said Winston.

That May, two heavily armed men walked into a commencement on campus and opened fire, killing everyone in attendance.

Then they walked out.

They were never found. They were never identified. Their motive remains entirely unknown.