He laughed all day long that summer. At everything I did. I got used to him. After all, he had been at my side for fifteen years. And then there was the Professor. He judged everything I did. He always offered blow-by-blow intellectual arguments of my actions. It was hard to concentrate sometimes. But I’d learned to get on with it.

         The doctor said that they would always be with me. They may not be always so prominent. They might blend into the background of the apple blossom trees. Or their words may mingle with the howling breeze through the willows.

         I lived in a guesthouse on the McAllister estate. I fixed things. I had always been able to fix things. It was my talent, even my love. Everyone has one true love. Next to Judi back when I was in college, my love was to fix things. I could have fixed her. She was broken. They are all broken - men and women. I wish I could fix them all. Like I do with the sticky lock or the rotting wooden gate. Many people suffer from rotten insides. Sometimes you can smell the sickly sweet smell of disillusionment and complacency.

         Now when this business began late last summer, I was the first one the authorities looked at. You see Alan McAllister was butchered to death in his bedroom. When I say butchered, I say insides and gooey sticky bloody messes on the floor and splashes on the window pain. Whoever it was came through the window. You never can be too careful. But they knew I was just out of the psyche ward and had been there a little over a year. They suspected that maybe I flipped my lid. Maybe that or maybe it was a diversion from the truth. Isn’t everything?

         This all happened in August. But the beginning of that summer was weird. A few weird things happened that didn’t add up and they began in early June. The heat was already stifling. Not like the cool October air. Not like the rustling wind through the trees. And the jack-o-lanterns and the costumes and the skulls and crossbones and all the souls and all the saints and all the mighty witchy brewing moon now.

         I remember a few hours after McAllister was killed, there was the whole bit. Mary McAllister shrieked. Goddamned she shrieked for what seemed like an hour. They called the police. Now who would want to do in old Alan? And using such an especially gruesome method. It appeared he was hacked with some dull fishing knife.

         They questioned me. The blue men and the Laughing Man sat beside and were cackling in chorus with the Professor’s professorial urbane finger pointing. I couldn’t get my head together that day. I had never been in prison. No problems with the law. I just fix things. That’s all.

         I felt the picture begin to come to me at the grocery store one day. And like it came to me in bits and pieces. The cans on the shelf like that Warhol painting. I chewed my fingernails because it was coming to me. When I was a boy, I was free. I was strong. I played baseball. I won a scholarship. Nothing wrong with this boy. The doctor said. I can remember throwing strikes and the roaring crowd of ten kids were enough for me to soar on wings of angels and fly up through heavens. Afterwards, we would meet at Gino’s for pizza. I remember gooey mozzarella and myriad burns on my mouth. Isn’t everything like a burn on your mouth?

         But long ago - I had dreams. I had ambition. When the medication takes hold, it is like everything is blue. Like blue screen. Like freezing cold. It is always about the times we choose to remember and those to forget.

         You see Alan McAllister was not a nice man. Well, that is an understatement. Perhaps he was a petty and cruel man. The wife and boy took the brunt of the venom. The boy had- what do you call them- braces on his legs. McAllister, whose health was weak as well, called the boy an imbecile and a weakling. I would often hear the boy crying and sobbing in his pillow from the window. It was audible as I set up the Christmas lights around the hedgerows around the house. And sometimes the wife sent sobbing downstairs, but I’ll tell you about that later. I felt that someone should do something to McAllister. But I didn’t know who.

         That is not to say I would do him in. God no! I’d rather hurt a fly then hurt another human and I don’t even know if I would hurt a fly. You see, what goes around comes around. Faith is rewarded. The meek are vindicated. Judgment does cometh and cometh right soon.

         My own father was a gentle man with a quiet disposition. He taught me values and respect. He taught me self-love. My father died of lung cancer because of the cigarettes he smoked. I unfortunately share the same addiction. My mother was also a sweet woman, who never said a bad word about anyone. Far from the maddening crowd, she was above anything petty.

         But I put them through hell, down hallways of the twisted and demented.  My neck was stiff with Haldol and my expression was dull and lifeless. I remember how my mother wept.

         A long time ago.

         A long time ago, McAllister was once a strapping man. He had blue eyes and black hair. It was replaced with gray. And his strong back had atrophied into flab like the rest of his body. His voice was gruff and thick and could be intimidating. He had had a deep resentment against god because of his illness and his cuckolding wife.

         Sometimes I’d feel bad for McAllister, but then I often feel bad for myself. Things weren’t bad mostly. I’d fix. I’d eat. I am partial to Foi Gras, which I was fortunate enough to get a taste of from the kid. He would save me his portion and bring it over to me. The kid was nice. A little misdirected is all. If I had a kid like that I’d shoot it straight. I’d tell him to be thankful for the things he has and to accept the things he didn’t.

         But that goddamned body of Alan, found that way. And then those cops -sizing me up. Grilling me for hours. I was about to go insane.

         The McAllister estate was twelve acres. It had full-court basketball, racket-ball, tenni s-right on the water. There were Ferraris and Porsche and Mercedes. And they would throw these lavish parties. You see Mrs. McAllister was twenty years younger than her husband. You know how it goes. The rich and powerful. And the young and incorrigible. I don’t even have to write the script. You know how it goes.

         At the parties, there were some strange people - middle-aged hipsters with a lot of money. They were always in the bathroom. Nose candy. The Missus had a taste for it, the white powder rushing to the head. The blood raging in the veins The deafening high as she roamed around from person to person laying on a line of wit. And the other person laughed because they are on the same level. And I carried buckets of ice and one mammoth ice sculpture of a swan. And they’ were passing comments. And the laughing man was cackling and the professor just said, “mm, hmm.” And puffed his pipe.  My hands were cold and red and sore. I felt like a dummy.

         Sometimes, I’d sit out on the outer steps at the party and I’d sip a cocktail. I liked Zombies with a lot of rum, like the ones you get from the Chinese restaurant. If they had the umbrella and if they had the fruit. The missus didn’t mind if I had a drink. Just as long as I’d stay out of the guests’ way. Okay by me, I’ve seen everything. Don’t think I didn’t. The volleyball in the swimming pool jumped up into the air and down into blue abysmal splashing waters of chlorinated ignorance and superficiality. I could hardly stand it, but that day wore on. Wore on like some tattered piece of cloth sewn into the fabric of my existence.

         I had seen her with men. She had men at the house. She had affairs I’m sure, but I was never sure enough. She is attractive. A Kim Kardashian kinda socialite. I know what you are thinking this all sounds standard. Cuckolded old millionaire.  But there was more. There was the Cellar. Occasionally the old codger would order her down in the basement cellar. She pleaded. But no, McAllister insisted. He insisted and he insisted. She would do it. Because if she didn’t he might write her out of the will. Leave her with nothing. So she did it. Even though horrified. What made her so afraid?

         What was in the cellar? The Laughing Man laughed heartily when I asked about that. The professor would say it was none of my business. - to mind my own business. Just as long as the kid was okay I guess. He’s the only one that I cared about in this whole godforsaken acreage.

         McAllister’s little palace was a place seething with deceit. The walls were coffins. The coffee tables were mausoleums. The trophies were lifeless cadavers. Before McAllister owned this place, it was owned by a wealthy star of the 1970’s who hit his head on shower wall and bled to death in a sea of booze and Head and Shoulders and blood. The soapy concoction flowing down the drain. Before that he was out yachting and a young starlet went overboard and was never recovered.

         Anyway that’s what people would say, people and the Professor. Why do you dwell on this stuff, he’d ask me. And the Laughing Man laughed. I’d cover my ears with the pillow. The words and gestures and the judgments and the eyes and the laughter would burrow into my temples. My head racing.

         It was medication time. Big, fat horse pills. I’d choke them down with crackers and milk. Then I heard the crickets. Crickets had a purpose. Did I? Dare I disturb the universe? I felt them and began to nod.

         I slept. Sleep provides alleviation from suffering.  I dreamt of cactus. I dreamt of ten-gallon hats -the old west, the dust and manure. The heat. Then comes our Laughing Guy on horseback. He was following me. The Professor was a gunslinger. I was quick on the draw and I shot them both dead.   I woke up in a cold sweat.