It's like something out of a cheesy movie–I'm surprised that there's no popcorn at the scene. In staggers the man, swinging open creaky barn doors that are slick with bitterly cold rain from the outside. The wind howls, enraged at his entrance, and from inside the building, a small man pivots, abnormally large eyes widening behind tortoise-shell glasses at the sight that greets him.

The figure is soaked. Through and through. Throwing back his dripping hood, he reveals madly bulging eyes and a look that could kill.

The two evaluate each other for a moment, silently considering this abrupt change in destiny, before the stranger makes a move.

He lunges forward, and rapidly seen to the small man is a scalpel glittering, tightly clenched and rimmed with what appears to be blood.

Small man, or–as we will call him for the sake of livening things up–Glasses, suddenly realizes what's going on.

And he cowers.

The stranger continues his erratic pace, moving closer and closer to Glasses, who has slowly stepped backwards only to find himself bumping into a Gurney.

The body–yes, the body, a body–on the Gurney jerks, and the identification on the toe swings to and fro slightly. For a moment the stranger turns his insane gaze from the small man to the movement, and a look of interest crosses his face.

But as fast as it came, it's gone. The stranger turns his attention back to the more important–and whimpering–thing and raises the scalpel.

It is here, indeed, in that movement, and the entire choreography of the scene itself, that the audience is reminded of a cheesy slasher flick.

But you know what? That doesn't matter.

There are more important and valuable things at stake.

For one:

"WHERE is he?"

Glasses is surprised by this. His attacker is not a mentally ill mute with urge to maim and kill. This attacker can actually speak. Glasses' face flickers in confusion and shock.

The stranger appears to notice this, and pulls closer, now pinning Glasses to the edge of the Gurney and menacingly prodding the razor-sharp scalpel into the short man's neck. He tries his question again–more specific this time–and this time the audience notices his voice is hoarse and low:

"WHERE is the dead guy?"

Glasses has been too busy trying to avoid the scalpel that gently is trying to ease its way into his skin to at first notice this question. But as it occurs to him, in this awkward, weird and bizarre stand-off, he seems to lose his cowering stance momentarily. Quick and for no more than ten seconds, it becomes something of a diplomatic confusion, a misunderstanding. Glasses moves his wide eyes from the medical instrument at his neck to his attacker's face and asks, loudly and with a voice somewhat resembling a squeak:

"Which one?"


Alright....I can already tell you're confused. I can already tell you're getting ready to put this story down, shake yourself out a couple of times, and walk away, muttering, "Weird."

Hey. I've been there, too.

In fact, I've been there quite frequently over the duration of the past few weeks. And every single time I've wished it was a book–some stupid book I could throw down on the ground, stomp on a couple of times, maybe ignite with a torch–but more and more I'm accepting that this is real. It's not a fantasy or nightmare.

Don't pinch me.

I know I'm here.

...And I know that my wife is going to kill me.

So...For both our sakes, so we can both figure this out step by step, let's start at the beginning. Let me allow (try) to make an explanation for my behavior.

It started two–okay, two weeks and three days–ago.

Let's begin...