DEAR MR. HYDE,
RETURN THE SHOELACES OR BE CASTRATED.

SINCERELY MINE,

SILENUS

The note was pinned to his door with a viciously sharp looking chopstick. This was, regrettably, not the first. To be exact, there had been twenty-six others—all equally peculiar and equally incomprehensible. The author was always "Silenus," which, presumably, was an alias. Red, the lucky recipient of the priceless letters aforementioned, had never bothered to research the name, and had made a habit of diligently crumpling each note before tossing it into a nearby garbage can.

Red mulled over the chopstick. He wondered, for fourteen minutes and eighteen seconds, how it had become so sharp. He stopped wondering and put the bizarre utensil into the drawer. The drawer contained all of the other unusually pointy objects used to fasten unusually unusual notes to Red’s door. Amongst them were a syringe, a tribal spear, a saw blade, a jackhammer, a sailfish, and, most strangely, a horrifyingly sharp bar of soap.

Realistically, Red had mulled for a total of three hundred seventy one minutes and forty-eight seconds—fourteen minutes and eighteen seconds for each of the twenty-six objects. Pessimistically, Red had wasted six hours and twelve minutes pondering useless nonsense and effectively avoiding anything constructive. Optimistically, he had spent roughly a quarter of a day honing his cognitive abilities and keening his intellectual competence while demonstrating an impressive attention span.

Red’s door, on the other hand, was not so indecisive. It had been punctured twenty-six times by some psycho. It was irreversibly pessimistic. Red had considered replacing the old wooden door with an iron one—it’d be sure to drive crazy his blade-happy secret admirer. He had decided against it, though, after considering his enemy’s alternatives—magnets, welding, and glues. Besides, suspected Red, the guy might as well start sticking things into his walls.

"Hey Red. Check this out." Red lived with N. N was a middle-aged man whose wardrobe consisted solely of tank tops, gym shorts, and khakis. He was a highly organized individual with a tight schedule—he ate precisely three times per day, he drank exactly six beers per day, worked no less and no more than two days per week, and he shaved once per month. Red didn’t know where N worked or what he did—and, honestly, neither did N. In addition, Red couldn’t remember N’s real name. He was sure that N had mentioned it some time ago—Nick, Ned, or Nathan it must’ve been—but Red couldn’t remember and didn’t really care. Whatever his name was, he’d been raised Amish. Red didn’t have problems with Amish people. But N was ex-Amish. He was perpetually telling stories from his childhood—pastoral tales about family or livestock (sometimes it was hard to tell the difference) that were becoming unbearably dull. Occasionally, N would rant on about a secret society of Amish techno-wizards known esoterically as "the Izz." Red couldn’t decide whether or not to believe that "the Izz" even existed. Anyway, N hated them—mortally.

Currently, N was reclining in his ugly, plaid Lazy Boy watching the ten-inch TV that rested upon a twenty-inch broken TV.

"Hmm," Red replied as he gazed upon a shriveled, perilously pale 60-pound male somewhere in his thirties on a white background. The strange man was standing off-center to the right, and a digital clock was superimposed on the background to the left.

"Welcome to the Time Channel," announced the man. "We have up-to-the-minute time today." The wiry figure’s voice cracked. "Like…every…day." He picked up his voice again. "The current time is 5:35." Red stared at the TV for sixty seconds, whereupon the twisted man announced the time again.

Red shrugged. "TV these days."

N switched off the TV and rose from his Lazy Boy.

The story behind N’s Lazy Boy was another altogether. On March twentieth, 1996, while Red and N were sitting on an old sofa watching the twenty-inch TV (it worked at the time), the Lazy Boy fell through their roof. Interestingly enough, it fell directly in front of the TV. The two men didn’t even bother to move it. For the first few days, N would wait until noonday when the sun was shining brightly through the hole in the roof, and then use the Lazy Boy to get a tan. Unfortunately, rain, birds, insects, and pot-smoking roof-hopping teenagers who thought it was funny to throw burning joints down onto innocent tanners eventually led N and Red to cover the hole with glass, effectively transforming it into a skylight. This would become important later.

The Lazy Boy, which thereafter adopted the nickname "Lay-Zee," had embarked upon a lucrative hip-hop tour a year earlier, but had returned when his agent informed him that sales were decreasing due to Lay Zee’s "outdated style." He simply couldn’t compete with his leather counterparts. This would not be important later.

"How was work today?"

"Not bad," said Red as he doffed his uniform. "The usual." Red worked at the Pepsi bottling plant. He was, technically, an inspector. He checked the cans in their final stage of production for defects, problems, misprints, discolored metals, excess body hair, the Bubonic Plague, and anything else out of the ordinary. He discarded the defective cans, counted them, and their value (something around seven cents each) was subtracted from the factory workers’ paychecks. Red received a decent salary, and, when his money was pooled with N’s, the two men were able to afford a small but manageable house in Kendall.

What Red’s money-crazed cock-sucking superiors didn’t know was that Red secretly preferred Coca-Cola. Or, to be more accurate, he was fanatical about it. In fact, he zealously abhorred Pepsi and everything it stood for. Consequently, Red had devised what he saw as one of the more ingenious plots in human history. At work, several times per hour, Red would twist the flip tabs (the small metal pieces used to open the beverage) off of random cans. In time, many of the tabless cans would be purchased through a vending machine. The targeted customer, seeking a cold, refreshing beverage, would find himself unable to open the can and become exceedingly frustrated. At that point, several things could happen. In Red’s worst case scenario, the customer would simply throw away the can and buy another. In his best case scenario, the enraged patron would stomp on the can, destroy the vending machine and embark upon a life-long crusade against Pepsi.

The amount of cans that Red sabotaged depended almost completely upon his mood. One day, after his boss confiscated one of his parakeets, Red went on a rampage and vandalized no less than four thousand and eight Pepsi cans. The beauty of it was that he couldn’t be caught: he inspected the final stages of production. The cans passed him never to be checked again.

"Hey, it’s time for my third meal." N grunted.

Red chuckled a little. "Dinner, N."

N glared. "Your abstruse nomenclature does not lessen the thirdness of my meal."

Red shook his head. "I’m pretty hungry too. Let’s go to Mick’s."

Mick’s Place was a brand new sports bar situated, conveniently, on the outer edge of Miami only a few miles from Mick and N’s house. It served beer, chicken wings and ostrich burgers. Mick, the owner and bartender, was a genuinely irregular character. He stood at five feet three inches with no hair except for particularly bushy eyebrows. His eyes were a toxic green, and he had a total of eight and a half fingers. One of his recently detached fingers existed happily in a jar of formaldehyde, which Mick had nonchalantly placed between two bottles of rum on the back shelf. Not too many people bought rum.

He harbored an unnatural hatred for ostriches, which he believed were actually aliens. Incidentally, ostriches thought the same of him.

The drive to Mick’s was typical. Like always, a few people stared. Possibly because N drove a Truly Nolen dispatch car, complete with ears, whiskers, hydraulics, and a supercharger (he had decided to spice it up a bit after a few paychecks). N had formerly worked as an exterminator in South Carolina. On April 1, 1993, he received a call requesting the immediate extermination of a small horde of spider monkeys. He was unable to locate the house, however, and got lost. He decided to simply continue driving. Three days later, he arrived in Miami.

Red broke the silence halfway through the drive. "What’d you do today?"

"What I do every day."

"Nothing?"

"No." N eyed Red. "I am the watcher of the world."

"What do you mean?"

"I monitor the earth from my throne."

"You watched TV."

"That’s one way to put it. You realize of course that you possess no understanding of the finer qualities of television. You are weak."

Silence.

Five minutes later, N managed to dominate three parking spaces with a single Ford Escort turned rodent. He and Red stepped out of the car, swung open the tinted glass door, and entered.

Mick’s seemed as usual. A few drunks on stools, a few couples at tables here and there, waitresses bustling about, Vinnie and Sam playing eight-ball on the pool table, and Becky throwing darts. Mick was mixing drinks at the bar, and winked politely as Red and N walked through the door. A dreary haze of cigarette smoke permeated the atmosphere, and the hanging Budweiser billiards lamp produced almost all of what dim light existed. An ancient jukebox cranked out "Roadhouse Blues" in the far corner. From the ceiling at the bar hung a single TV; the Dolphins played Denver.

It was 10:01. N ambled over to the pool table and slapped down half his money. Thirty dollars. Red had seen this before. It always went the same way: N would be hustled by Sam and Vinnie. At 10:10, he would proceed to wager the other half of his wealth on darts against Becky. At 10:15, after having lost sixty dollars, he would win a few drinking games and effectively win back ten. At 10:26, he would spend eight dollars on a cup of chili, a burger, and a beer. Overall, therefore, N would have lost fifty-eight dollars in a mere twenty minutes. The efficiency with which it was all accomplished was stunning. But then, after all, N was a highly organized man with a tight schedule.

"Hey Red," called Mick from the bar. He was polishing a wineglass. "Come over here."

Red took a seat at the bar and grabbed a handful of pretzels from a bowl on the counter. "What’s up Mick?"

"We need to talk about N’s tab. He owes me just over two hundred now."

Red stopped chewing. "Well, have you talked to N?"

"Yes…" Mick paused. "He says it will be paid whether he pays it or not."

At about that moment, N uttered a loud curse from the pool table. It was 6:09. He was early. Red quickly took the opportunity to summon his indebted companion to the counter.

"What is it?" N was re-pocketing the remainder of his cash.

"N," said Mick, "you need to pay your tab. You owe me over two hundred."

"Look," replied a frustrated N. "Why don’t you go purchase a rifle and start picking off pedestrians?"

Red shook his head. "What the hell has tha--"

N ignored the interruption. "I’ll show you why you don’t. You don’t because you know there are consequences. You realize that what is due to you—punishment—will come. Call it divine retribution, call it karma, call it fate… call it whatever you like. Everyone is its victim. It’s universal and inevitable. So if I owe you money it’s bound to come to you sometime." With that, he ambled over to the dartboard and greeted Becky.

Red threw an apologetic shrug at Mick. He’d attempt to explain the necessity of paying debts to N later. For now, he grabbed a beer and followed his friend to the dartboard. It wasn’t long before the door swung open and in marched Charlie.

Red and N knew Charlie vaguely, at best. He frequented Mick’s, but spent only about half an hour before rushing off as though some urgent business required him. Today, as always, he wore what appeared to be a fine Italian shirt, a solid black tie, and dress pants. His jet-black hair was slicked back and his hands rested casually in his pockets. Wrapped around his wrist was what seemed a Rolex. A cell phone hung at his belt.

The newcomer, composed and professional, ordered a glass of wine and advanced confidently to the pool table. Red watched intently as Charlie dropped a five-dollar bill onto the table, picked up a cue, and chalked it as though it was an hourly routine. If anyone appeared a shark, it was this guy.

But Red wasn’t impressed. He knew Charlie. He knew that the Italian clothing was made in China. He knew that his Rolex was a phony. And he knew that the cell phone was not in service. Charlie was a fake. But he was no hustler. Hustlers have skills, or, at the very least, cunning—tools necessary to make a profit by deception. Charlie, on the other hand, was empty. He was all imagination. He was a modern Don Quixote; he was everything to himself and nothing to everyone else. For all Red knew, Charlie had just emptied his wallet—which would explain his inevitable early departures.

Within six minutes, Sam was five dollars richer. Charlie threw up his arms nonchalantly and shrugged. "You win some, you lose some," he announced. He then glanced down at his fake watch and sighed. "Wow. I’ve gotta take a leak." Red had to go too, so he followed Charlie in thirty seconds later.

At first Red thought nothing of it. But, like most men, Red did most of his thinking in front of the urinal, and it struck him then. He waited a few minutes, curious. No Charlie. No noises from any of the stalls. Red didn’t understand how he could have missed him. He didn’t really know what to think, so once again he thought nothing at all and washed his hands. There was a watch on the counter, by the sink. It was a fake Rolex. Red picked it up and put it in his pocket to return to Charlie when they met again.

Two strange things would occur that day. That was the first.

Red asked Mick about Charlie. Mick hadn’t seen him. But he’d lured N back to the bar, anyway, and would have been too busy debating his tab to have noticed anyone entering or leaving. Red didn’t care to take part. Besides, he needed a cigarette. Mick was out. He headed for the door. "I’m going next door to grab a pack of cigarettes." N nodded in recognition as Red left the building.

The Seven Eleven next to Mick’s was identical to every other Seven Eleven in the universe. This unfailing exactitude was, as Red knew it, the Seven Eleven Phenomenon. There were the fourteen-year olds at the counter attempting to purchase three twenty-four packs with their fake I.D.s. There were the coffee-zombies whose most exciting and riveting experiences included choosing between Irish Cream and French Vanilla. There was the Arab clerk that was—Red noticed--a bit zombie-ish himself. There were the perverts in trench coats and eyeglasses paging through porno mags at the back. And there were even the ancient women sifting through racks of milk trying to find the cartons with the latest expiration dates.

There was one constant, however, for which Red was thankful. He sauntered over to the refrigerators, pulled out a twenty ounce Coke, and took his place in line. The fourteen-year olds were still bickering over the beer. Red would simply have purchased it for them or told them to go away if the clerk hadn’t pulled a shotgun first. The adolescents fled, and the clerk smiled and greeted Red as he replaced the firearm.

"Will that be all, sir?"

"No… let me have a pack of Marlboros."

Red pulled out his wallet as the clerk handed over the cigarettes. "Can I interest you in anything else? A glow-in-the-dark lollipop, perhaps? Or maybe some vegetable-flavored beef jerky? Monkey-colored pumpkins are popular this time of--"

"No thank—"

"Then perhaps you’d desire a risqué magazine, or a fine foreign newspaper?"

"No. Thank you."

The clerk artificially smiled again and gave Red his change.

Red glanced at the pack of cigarettes before he stuffed it in his pocket: "SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING: THIS PRODUCT MAY CAUSE TERRIBLE AND PAINFUL DEATH, PARALYSIS, OR ETERNAL DAMNATION. CONSUMERS OF THIS PRODUCT ARE GENERALLY EVIL AND HAVE SMALL GENITALS."

Red spent three and a half seconds considering quitting, decided against it, and twisted the cap off of his soft drink. He took a gulp and then flipped over the cap to read its underside. "MYSTERY PRIZE." Red’s eyes opened wide and his heart started to boom. His legs almost collapsed under his weight.

"Holy God!" he shouted. Coffee-zombies, perverts, and milk women alike stopped what they were doing and stared. "I won, I won!" Red jumped up and down.

The clerk grumbled. Red just kept bouncing. "I thought I had fished out all the winners. Where in the seven hells did he find a winning Coke?" The Arabic clerk continued to curse himself in various languages.