“…running out of gas on the FDR Drive after a show at the Garden only to have a car pull up behind me with the four strangers who helped me push my car out of the middle of the road who turned out to have been the four people who were sitting behind me at the concert and it was all just one big happy coincidence…the 36 hours I spent wearing a hubcap on my head in Hampton Roads Virginia after putting 6 drops of Binaca in my mouth before my buddy grabbed it out of my hands because it wasn’t Binaca, it was liquid LSD…”
“Yeah, I think I’ve heard enough. Frankly, I’m sorry I asked.”
“So what did you and my Mom talk about while I was getting jello?”
“She told me about Colton Chauncey, and your time with the Kaibiles in Guatemala.”
“She told me the whole story, Frank. Which is why, when we get back to Miami, I can’t be an imaginary voice in your head any more. I don’t want to be responsible for getting you into trouble. Well, not any more trouble than I already have. Did you really eat so many mushrooms you forgot who you were and tried to figure it out by reading your mail? Or did you just make that up?”
“But Bob, you and me, we go to open houses and eat cheese cubes. That other voice in my head, we killed shit. And that was 21 years ago, 1993. This is completely different.”
“Is it? Is it really? Here. Your Mom gave me this.”
“Holy shit. My book.”
“I’ve only skimmed it, but the parts I’ve read are very disturbing. Especially towards the end. Read page 395.”
“This is it, as close as I’ve been to having an out of body moment of complete, utter hopelessness and despair. You think this is fiction, but it’s not, this is really happening. The fucking heat, the guns, my ankles, these horrible Neo-Nazi Klansman, those grenades, all the dynamite. And having to kill that goat with my bare hands. Colt is the Anti-Christ. This is Hell. It wasn’t me who answered that ad in Soldier of Fortune, it was this God damn character I created. Colt. Fucking Colt.
Keep it together. I must keep it together. Colt and Chauncey. I’m not important, nobody cares about me, this story is about Colt and Chauncey. When is Colt going to realize hunting isn’t that much fun when he’s the one being hunted? When is Chauncey going to kill Colt? Because that’s what you’re waiting for, right? You’re only reading this because you want to see how Chauncey kills Colt, right? Fuck you, evil reader.
I must climb back behind the fourth wall. Keep it together, man. Make it funny. Got to be funny. Find the humor.”
“See? That’s fucked up, dude. You’re killing goats and talking about whacking some imaginary dude named Colt. Who you blame for getting you involved with mercenaries or something. Your head is a fucked up place, Frank. And from the sounds of it, not a particularly safe place to be an imaginary voice. Like me.”