The fucker calls me one day on his cellphone and tells me he's standing around in the snow in Minnesota, and he says how years ago he had talked to that old fart, Dizzy Camino, the government bureaucrat and former Great Man, and it made him think of me. But he waited out the term, and now all those years are up and so he calls.
Well, I try to ask him personal things. "What are you doing in Minnesota?" for instance, and he says, "Living."
Already I'm nervous of him. (Why?) I find myself pacing back and forth as we talk.
Because he's crazy, is why. He was always crazy. But also a devouring hero. He wants you to be him, and somehow he manages to accomplish just that. Pretty soon he's got you stewing in a pot on the stove. He keeps taking the lid off and arguing with you as you cook. He argues with you until you are soup which he can then pour into a bowl and eat with a beautiful hand painted Russian spoon, which was given to him by the government bureaucrat on some occasion or other, I forget which, none of us observed anything, Christmas or birthdays or anything, funerals. Finally he has made you a part of him. He has assimilated you, your whole life, everything you think you are. Then he just gets up and leaves.
Ten years later he'll call you again, or send you a box full of hopeless movies. Maybe a card with one word on it, or just a thumbprint, a food stain. It always starts like this and before you know it you're looking out of his eyes. You feel his stupid god delivering unto you all five stigmata, or is it six? You think the way he does. You are certain that all it would take to change everything for the better is three little Phillips head screws cast upon the still waters.