"This guy's a perve. Let me waste him," said Frank.

     "No, don't! Please, Frank, let's not have any trouble."

     We heard an animal sound -- rather like a bleat -- and then Dickhoff returned, leading a goat on a leash! I almost jumped off the sofa. "This is the present the aliens gave me to make up for my boys leaving me. Her name is Yona. She's my true love now." He got on his knees behind the goat, which stood obediently still in the middle of the room, and pulled down his thong. Oh Christ, I thought, he's not going to... Dickhoff nestled right into the goat's butt and put his cock into her effortlessly. (I couldn't tell which hole, and I didn't want to know.) "THIS IS THE SECRET OF IMMORTALITY GIVEN TO ME BY THE ALIENS! THIS IS THE GREATEST PSYCHO-MOTOR BRAIN RELIEF SQUEEGEE SQUISH ORGONE FUCK FUCK FUCK! AHHHNGH!..."

     I don't even know if I was breathing at that point. I wanted to run but was transfixed. Even Frank seemed too shocked to move, his mouth hanging open in incredulity.

     Yona stood there with complete passivity, not even making a sound, as Dickhoff rammed his cock into her, babbling profanities and gibberish. He looked at us quickly and snapped, "You boys can have a whack at 'er if you want! It's the greatest!"

     I swallowed and tried to find my voice. "No, thank you," I replied faintly.

     "Crad, let me kill this guy," whispered Frank.

     "No, we're leaving any second."

     Dickhoff howled and bucked his pelvis against Yona and evidently had an orgasm worthy of a Zeron. He flopped on the floor, moaning and rolling about.

     I stood up. "We'll be going now, sir. Thank you for the tea."

     As I was leading Frank to the door, Dickhoff called out after us, "Come back again soon, boys! We'll have some fun!"

     Outside, with the door closed behind us, Frank said, "That guy's the biggest fucking perve I ever met! Let me go back and kill him! It'll be easy!" He was reaching for his boot.

     "No, no, Frank!" I said, desperate to deter him. I started leading him away from the house, even though I knew he didn't like any physical contact beyond a handshake. I managed to get him a short distance away from the house before letting go of his arm. I could tell he was agitated. "Now, listen, Frank, you see, think about it. You can't just go and off the guy in some totally banal way. It's not worthy of you. You're world-class. And besides, I don't want to be with you. A psycho can't have witnesses, not even friends, right?"

     "Yeah," he said tentatively.

     "Right. Now, you see, a true psycho of your calibre... uh, the point is, uh, you have to think of something original, you know, think it over for a long time, like a work of art, you know? It's got to have imagination. It can't be ordinary, you know what I mean?" I was desperately pushing my best button over and over.

     "I guess."

     "You're not some ordinary thug who's going to waste someone. That's beneath you."

     "You think so?"

     "I'm sure of it. Now let's go back to your neighborhood, okay?"

     We headed to the subway. By the time we got there, he was agreeing with me that there was no point in dispatching Dickhoff unless it was in a way worthy of a truly superior psycho. Yes, he would think about it long and hard and not act until he had everything perfect in his mind. I congratulated myself, figuring I had prevented a murder and kept Frank out of the worst possible trouble. Time would pass, and he'd forget about it.

     He was smiling as we boarded the train. "I have to hand it to you. You really understand, man!... You... really... understand!... You are one cool dude!"

     Riding back, I felt too drained to make conversation, but Frank chattered away happily. He was talking about his favorite guns, comparing their effects, how they felt in the hand, what sorts of people used them, different types of bullets, also knives, clubs, booby traps, and how to make bombs and other lethal weapons at home. I just let him talk and nodded to show I was interested. During a brief pause, I managed to say to him, "Can I ask you a personal question?"

     "What?"

     "What color are your eyes?" He hadn't taken his shades off once since I'd met him, so I didn't know.

     "The good one's brown. I'm mostly blind in the other one. It's sorta cloudy." I knew from his magazine that he had been blinded by his parents, who had forced soap into his eyes while "washing" him.

     When we returned to his neighborhood, he insisted we part at the corner where we'd met. I asked him if he needed any money for food, but he said he was fine. We shook hands. "I really like you, man," he said, "and I don't like too many people other than psychos. You're a real cool dude."

     "I'm glad we met. It's been one of the greatest experiences of my life."

     We agreed to keep writing.

     I returned to the subway and went back to my relatives' place in Queens. I had missed dinner, but they kept it waiting for me. When they asked how my visit with my friend went, I said it was interesting and that we had gone to visit someone else and passed a pleasant time. That was nice, they said.

     Four weeks later in Toronto, my phone rang. It was Frank.

     "Hey, Crad, you were so right! I did it man!"

     "Did what?"

     "I offed that guy, man!"

     "Frank, not on the phone!"

     "It's okay, I'm at a pay phone. Listen, remember what you said about a work of art and being original and all that?"

     "Yeah."

     "Well, that's how I did it. I can't tell you the details because a true psycho never reveals any details that only the perpetrator could know."

     "I don't want to know any details," I said, feeling queasy.

     "One thing pisses me off, though."

     "What's that?"

     "After all that work, there was nothing in the papers, man. Not a word. Nothing on TV either. I shoulda made the front page of the Daily News. I shoulda made Channel 5 News and especially Channel 7 Eyewitness News, because they go for anything gruesome. I was following all the papers and all the TV stations for a whole week, and nothing, not a peep. I can't figure it."

     "Well, uh... maybe his, uh... death... was reported under another name."

     "Wouldn't matter what name. The way I did it, I woulda recognized my handiwork. It was like nothing ever before, a total fucking masterpiece! Something so twisted and psycho I'd be world-famous if I ever got caught! I'm so proud of myself!"

     "I sure hope you don't get caught."

     "No way. Perfect crime. Per-fect-o. A work of art. And you know who I have to thank for it?"

     "No, who?"

     "You, you fucking cool dude! You were an inspiration to me!"

     "Oh God, I never--"

     "Ha, ha! Hey, don't be upset man, it's cool, trust me!"

     "Okay, Frank. I think I need a Valium."

     "Nah, just have a Molson Canadian beer and drink a toast to me! Hey, I gotta go, dude, but take it easy, and keep writing those books!"

     "Yeah, I will. Thanks for the call."

     After we'd hung up, I sat there for a long time, trying to grasp the enormity of it all. I finally stood up, went to the window, and gazed out at the evening traffic. I should never have gone to visit Frank. I should never have taken him to see Sungma Tenzing Lama Dickhoff, Ufologist. But I refuse to take any blame for whatever happened.

     I never heard from Frank again, sorry to say. I don't know if he got arrested or got put away in a mental hospital or what. I never made any enquiries about him. I never tried to learn exactly what he did. Unlike most people, I don't have morbid curiosity.

     What was that?