In Defense of the Wandering Stranger

It is easy to judge me, even if you can’t pinpoint the moral or ethical laws that you think I’m violating. It’s easy to be repulsed. By conventional standards I am repulsing. But I trust you’ll understand once everything’s been explained. I’m not a monster; I am merely recycling. I haven’t taken the suit off a living person in some time. The last was a man from Kagoshima. He was making his way home drunk, tripping over stones on his path. I knew where he lived. I’d been watching, squatting in the water behind some tall grass on that dirt road for a few days, debating whether or not I should head into the city. I remember my suit at the time was a bit past ripe, oozing off my shoulders. I was annoyed, I had to keep tossing a slipping flap back over my crusty brown frame. When I caught sight of the man, I was weighing the necessity of finding a new suit against the horror of my appearance. A lot’s changed since then. I’m more considerate; much better at maintaining my suits.

Hiroto. That was his name. He’d been back and forth nightly. At sunset, he’d leave for town and when the moon tucked behind the mountain, he’d mutter his way home stinking of sake. An obvious solution to my predicament. I stepped out and, as expected, he screamed, stumbled and crawled away from me, tearing the skin on his knees. I was quick. I didn’t think about his suffering. I was more concerned about damage to his suit. Like a zipper, I split it down the middle and peeled it off. A horrid thing to do. I understand that now. I hadn’t the decency kill, or even render him unconscious before I peeled. I pulled it off while he wailed and thrashed and left him panting in terror till he passed. With a heavily practiced and precise method, death from this kind of exposure is caused by dehydration. An awful way to go. I’m not like that anymore.

Of course, this won’t make it better, but he was a rather repugnant man. When I pulled on his suit, his kamishimo, and his wooden sandals, and left for his home, a modest shack, I found his wife and daughter sleeping on mats around a pot half full with soup sitting on some golden embers. I slid the paper door open and announced my arrival, only to terrify the women. How embarrassing, I thought. Squeezing into his small suit, I had to break and overlap my crust to fit – something I had grown accustomed to – and in doing so, I must have forgotten to smooth out a lump, or I misaligned the nose, or neglected to tuck in my neck flesh. But no. They recoiled before I stepped out of the darkness. I noticed a tear in the wife’s kimono and a black crescent under the daughter’s eye and realized Hiroto had a penchant for sake and violence. It was obvious from his size, he wasn’t a match for other men and these bodies were where he exercised his abuse. 

What a predicament that was. At first, I was tender. I gave the wife a kiss on her forehead and stroked her cheek with the back of my glove. Even though I wasn’t comfortable with Hiroto’s voice, I croaked out words of affection. “I love you. I cherish you. You are my moonshine.” She acquiesced but quivered at my touch. The little girl ran to the corner furthest me and cried. 

“You are not my husband,” the wife muttered. And, of course; it was obvious. If I were her husband, I would have, like an ape, thrown down my fists on her and her daughter. 

The world was getting busier then. People were more connected. Grabbing the folks that sat in the little streams outside of towns and villages was no longer a sustainable practive. Even those people, stinking and incoherent, had little communities. I would run into friends or relatives and awkwardly improvise in my naturally deeper, crunchier voice, which lit in their eyes that familiar spark of paralytic terror. 

It became clear that if I were to remain close to people, it was advantageous to slip into a life when I took a suit. A welcome challenge learning to blend in. Before Hiroto, I had stepped into a few lives, none of which were notably successful as I wasn’t entirely sure how to behave. Though, it was a good bit of fun, practicing my imitation. I am quite skilled now. People have such diverse behavioral patterns, alike, yet unique in every relation and situation. The few times I was successful, before my familiarity was contaminated by nuanced aberrance I relished my roles. It’s much easier to make up a role, than to adopt one.

My role, in that remote shack, was a contradiction. Being tender to a partner was the typical behavior I’d observed, but it wasn’t convincing the woman. In the corner was a long wooden stick with knots and stains. In what I imagined was the manner of Hiroto, I beat the mother and child with it untill they lay shaking on the slatted wooden floor, wholly convinced, I’m sure, that I was in fact Hiroto. That night, as I slouched in the corner and slept with open eyes upon them, I was consumed by incertitude.

I didn’t enjoy the beating, and I never understood how Hiroto did. Or if he didn’t, if it wasn’t out of pleasure, I never understood why he did it so regularly. I’d seen people strike children with various degrees of severity, but as a method of social adjustment. Though I knew little about live in their home, I struggled to find any behavioral anomalies that would require such abuse. And yet, with a knotted wooden stick, I beat them to conceal my own nature.

I left the next morning for the mainland and wore Hiroto’s suit for a week. A rancid taste in my mouth. The beating had put into context the Hiroto’s final moments, panting and raw, confused and desperately searching for reason. Terror is grasping at the void for meaning. Hiroto no more knew the reason for losing his suit than his family knew of their abuse. Reason, I decided, was something that had to be shared. Without it there was terror, and terror did not help me blend in. But what a paradox that to imitate Hiroto was to cause terror, and if I failed, would terrorize the woman and child nonetheless. I have since deemed it prudent to only take the suits from those who no longer needed them. I would no longer cause undue suffering to those who still valued their suits, nor would I ever again be in a position where I was forced to behave in a manner that was senseless or paradoxical.

On the mainland, I tore away the loose dirt of a fresh grave with Hiroto’s ill-fitting gloves and procured a suit from an elderly woman. It was colder than I was used to, but more spacious than Hiroto’s. With the extra folds, I was able to open myself inside it, though also more prone to tearing. Pulling my arms through hers and folding her face over mine, I realized in the darkness of that cemetery that to avoid more complications, I had to travel beyond the bounds of this woman’s family. No longer could I take the place of a procured suit. Knowing nothing of this woman except that she was presumed dead by friends and relatives, imitation would be impossible. Just existing in the shadows of where she lived caused the unnecessary risk of exposure.

Sitting on that wooden box walled in by dirt, mud creeping into the cracks and crevices of the naked suit, I considered the challenges awaiting me as the world was becoming impossibly interconnected. Once one town caught word of a ‘monster’ who peels and wears human suits, all vicinal towns would be sharply suspicious of anyone with sagging flesh. The range of loved ones was much greater, and acquaintances greater still. To avoid unwanted encounters, I would have to travel far between suits. 

For a few centuries, it went like this: I’d find a discarded suit and, in the night, travel far to a town or city as much unlike the one before as possible. I would assimilate, watch and listen. When I heard whispers of my suit, I would seek out the mortuary or graveyard and start the process over. This was difficult because the speed of words outpaced the speed of bodies. Finding a city that spoke an entirely different language was best because messages about me slowed down or stopped altogether at these borders. Human languages are relatively simple, each word has one or a couple of corresponding objects or concepts connected with basic, albeit irrational, logic. Once I learn the way a language thinks and how it reasons itself to different meanings, I pick it up in a day or two. 

Despite the effort, I like the predictability of the routine, and I was able to enjoy the company of people without ending up in ethically questionable predicaments. But the world got busier. Languages became more invasive. And again, I had to adapt. At that point, I was living on an island off the west coast of the continent where I found larger settlements. More people meant more suits but also meant more connections, more exposure. Populations weren’t busy enough to loose me in a crowd, not like today. People moved and engaged like one. Though I never experienced it personally, I saw firsthand the collective mind burn alive one of their own. Though I had grown to abhor the violence, and I abhor it more now, I admittedly considered the ordeal to be an unfortunate waste of a suit.

After some consideration of the woman engulfed in flames, and of the circumstances that precipitated her persecution, I wondered about how I would act in the broader context and safety of that community. If I had found myself in that woman’s position, surrounded by the collapse of the parochial public opinion, my embarrassment would have compelled me to leave as quickly as possible regardless of who might surround me. If a hand grabbed my suit’s wrist, I would have removed it at the wrist, elbow, or shoulder, without a second’s thought. At just the possibility of taking a life, I left.

In an abandoned home not far from where the woman had been immolated, I happened upon the suit of a small girl who had died from a disease the left behind black pockmarks. As I was breaking and overlapping my crust to stuff myself into the still warm suit, I overheard from the next room of a place across the sea with pockets of dense populations that were far, but not too far apart. What luck! A place, perhaps, less taken by suppositious collective dynamics, and the perfect suit for the journey. When the suit exposed my brown crust, it didn’t look much different than the black marks already covering the suit which allowed me the extra week needed to get through the voyage.

My suit also afforded me a guardian for much of the trip. Although people tend to, at best ignore, and at worst, chase away the unsightly, they also tend to care for the more slight. Young girls, I’ve noticed, always garner much attention, especially when left alone. That first night on the boat, I was on the main deck staring at the new moon when a man put a large hand on my shoulder. He asked if I was alone, and when I told him so, he insisted I come back to his cabin. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten and looked forward to some company and perhaps a bit of bread. He chauffeured me into the well-lit room and quietly secured the door behind him. But when he turned around his expression changed. I caught a moment’s glimpse of pure, simple excitement – the kind I saw on a street boy who charmed a rat into his palm. By a similar measure, when the rat bit the boy’s finger and his face turned to horror, the man’s face, once he saw me in the light, dropped into something between repulsion and pity. Or maybe shame. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist after that point, but he did give me a lump of hard bread with spots. I once thought the indigent were ostracized because they ate the bue and black spotted loaves but when the man offered me bread, I understood the nature of possessions. You see, it is not the use of the thing that is deplorable, but the means of obtaining it. I know that now.

It took some time to understand the nuances of this, but I still find it illogical to waste food when I consider the street children with their tight, boney suits. They could use a little meat stuffed between to fill themselves out. Such as they are, though; people are strange. That man on the boat, for instance. He let me sleep in his cabin, but each night, after he blew out his lantern, he hesitantly asked if I’d share his cot for warmth. My range of comfortable temperatures is much wider than what people can tolerate, but regardless, it was late August (on the Gregorian calendar) and he was a well-fed man and visibly sweating the entire trip. He was presumably concerned about my safety, sleeping slumped in a corner near the locked door. One night something must have frightened him because he grabbed me suddenly and held me tight to his chest. I could hear his heart racing, and I could feel his breath on my suit’s patchy blonde hair. He was unresponsive when I asked to be put down. It wasn’t until I unfolded a claw through my glove and dragged it across his lips that he let go.

It wasn’t the kindest thing to do and I was hoping our friendship would continue. I did my best to explain my position rationally. But perhaps because his lips were split to the teeth from his septum to his chin, or perhaps because I was a bit too loose with my language (I had forgotten that little girls are not well spoken), he wouldn’t be reasoned with and adamantly expressed an urgency that I leave his quarters. I was concerned he might rally the crew against me for the incision and I would be left alone at sea, but nothing ever came of it. The few times we crossed paths, he quickly made himself scarce. I spent my remaining nights slouched against the masthead, sleeping, watching the ocean slip past, deliberating on my casual infliction of pain. The circumstances were different than in Hiroto’s hut, I had asked for something and was, effectively, ignored. The pain wasn’t meaningless, as it was for the woman and her daughter, but it was the obvious cause for the man’s aversion to me and thus bothered me nonetheless. During the last night on the ship, I concluded that inflicting pain is rarely if ever acceptable and should be avoided at all costs. There are more humane ways of getting what you want.

Of course, in the new world, with its expansive yet connected, dense yet disconnected nature I was afforded the freedom to fully adopt my new, yet still incomplete, ethical practice. Because of the novelty of the railway, for the first and last time I could haunt a town long before word of my exploits reached their borders. And my slip-ups, the few I did have, weren’t deemed important enough to disseminate through the post. Life in the new world revolved more around work than community, and that brought with it an indifference to superstitions and unnecessary fears. The meeting of skepticism and utility produced an apathy that nearly obscured my existence entirely. Workers would stand in the burning desert sun, or in deep suffocating caverns ten hours a day and never see each other, never mind me. Because the work was so physically demanding, I wore my suits weeks past their prime. Once, while working in a coal mine, my suit’s jaw was nearly removed when it caught the back end of shovel. The miner apologized, patted me on the back, and continued shoveling. I went on for another three days before a man selling wares said slow passivity that my mouth was disconnected on the left side. Something in the manner of ‘partner, I reckon your face is hangin’ a bit,’ before sending me on my way.

That was one benefit of taking a man’s suit. People tended to care less about how disfigured I looked. It wasn’t until recently that I chose to take a woman’s suit. Back then women, especially single women, couldn’t move as freely as men. People would stop me in the street just to talk. Men grabbed me, and women pulled me into their homes and fed me. I appreciated the food and the attention, but in a woman’s suit I often found myself in situations that necessitated more basic motivators; those I had vowed to avoid. When my suit was torn, people thought I’d been attacked, or if my suit was fresh, that I was on the run. I made the mistake once while wearing the suit of a young woman of telling a young widow who’d pulled me into her home that I didn’t want to be seentown. I had sourced the suit from the basement of a local coffin maker and didn’t cross paths with any family members. But she understood more than what I had said and when I excused myself for the evening, she all but locked me in her home. While she expressed vehemently that it was of the utmost importance that I divulge a ‘who,’ I weighed my commitment to avoid unnecessary violence against the convenience of clearing a path through the middle of her to the door. It was a misunderstanding, but she persisted no matter my explanation. Despite its simplicity, language can be astonishingly complex. It wasn’t until my dress, and inevitably my suit, was aflame that I was able to leave. The woman in a panic tried to put me out. She slapped the burning suit and when I was fully engulfed, when the boiling flesh stuck to her hands, did fled.

The suit had completely burned off my body though I was fine, apart from being naked. I ran from the burning adobe home to a different town and roamed around in the dark until I found a graveyard. But again, in my journey, another complication. The fear in the widow’s eyes face me but was not entirely my fault. If I were to incidentally light the spark of terror in one’s eyes, or inflict pain accidentally, was acceptable? Should the conditions of my commitment be reconsidered? Alone you never worry about these things. Motivations and intentions are pure; justification is nonexistent in isolation. But in a community, in relationships, there are concomitant interests to consider – my understanding of this concept is, perhaps, the root of my ethical growth. Yet in that desert cemetery, laying the cold chest of a rail worker’s suit over my fully opened crust, the branches of that moral center I had planted began to twist. The nuances of intent and consequence illuminated spaces between my devotion to nonviolence through which I might pass without remorse.

My understanding of these nuances was simple for quite some time. I am a bit embarrassed to admit this, but that method of escape was so effective that for decades I carried propellant and flint in case I needed a clean escape. I never once considered, as I do now, that had I used that method I would be the actor who started the flame and incited the panic, and therefore still responsible for the consequences. Fortunately, modernity caught up before I ignited myself. In modern cities that wouldn’t work. I’d be extinguished and exposed before I could step away. A gift and a curse. One of few drawbacks of the modern world is the effort and technology put into preserving life. Years ago, when I was shot in the head, I laid still and waited for everyone to leave before moving on. Today the dead are measured the instant they die. They have dissections. Autopsies. It would be an awkward if I were to find myself on the autopsy table. Worse yet, people don’t die young. And if they do their suits are horribly mangled.

In the mid-20th century, finding suitable suits became increasingly difficult. Pacing the shelves of a morgue in upstate New York one evening, I found myself cursing any and all pioneers of modern medicine. Long gone were the days of tuberculosis, yellow fever, smallpox. A cough was no longer a death sentences, and suddenly my excess supply of bodies dwindled. That night I pulled the suit off of a older man who’d taken a blow to the back of his skull when a length of rebar flew off a truck in a rear-end collision. It was in his chart. It wasn’t satisfactory but I could wear hats until I found something better. That night I spent in his apartment, he’d only been gone a day and all of his information was in his wallet. It was a gamble, but fortunately, he lived alone. As I slouched down in front of an open window, the wind tickling my crust through the hole in the suit I perseverated on my feelings at the morgue. Not until the morning did I realize my selfishness. A substantial reduction in global suffering caused me a minor weekly, or monthly inconvenience. I no longer had easy access to undamaged suits, but days when the youth would asphyxiate on their blood was a thing of the past. This dilemma haunted just as much as Hiroto’s wife and child. And yet, I hadn’t done a thing. I was caught inside my tangled branches of principles, clawing my way towards some illuminating light that might justify my fantasy of the bisecting medical doctors shrinking my abundance of suits. It was no use. Although something had been taken from me – was being taken from me, it was for a good much greater than myself. As the sun crept across the wooden floor, I wondered whether my violent fantasy was, on its own, immoral. I could have spent all morning propped up against the breezy apartment pondering the ethical nuance of thoughts but decided it was easier to make a conscious effort to think in nonviolent ways. Of course, that was before I met you. 

It goes without saying you’d never recognize me. We first met eighteen months ago. I was in a different suit. I’ve had a few since, most of which, admittedly have crossed paths with you. It was the fourth of July office party. You were wearing black. It teased a shape, tight against your body. You were wearing that beautiful watch. A golden band with a blue face, the hands outlined in gilt. I never understood the importance of time. I understand the value of arriving when expected and knowing when the sun will rise and set. But with such short lives, I wonder if those with watches are not, in some way, reminded of their own clock. I’ve heard it’s important to remembering one’s mortality. The inevitability of death is something people should come to terms with, but does staring at the dark end takes away from the scenery?

I wonder if you think about your end. I’d like you to. Perhaps that’s why you wear the watch. Rolex. That’s what was inscribed on it. A large watch for large wrists because you have large ambitions.

You were still just another body wandering through the space around me then. I was fascinated with you, the same way I am fascinated with everyone. It wasn’t until we were outside, in the alley, where Marge was working the grill, that you became something else.I was slipping a bratwurst through my suit’s face hole. You walked over, so delicate and determined. You asked my name, and I choked on the sausage, nearly tearing my suit. You laughed softly, a beautiful smile pulled across high cheekbones. I said my name was Joe. The name of my suit’s original owner was Sue, but you caught me off guard. You raised a furry eyebrow, and I explained my real name was Sue, but I prefer Joe, and you nodded, and shook my hand. I hesitated at first. I hurt myself when my suit’s glove got caught in the industrial rollers downstairs and pressed my retracted claw into my palm. It had been along time since I had cut myself, I had almost forgotten pain. I felt a bubble of blood built up underneath my glove. But I didn’t want to be rude. When our palms touched, my blood on your skin, you became the only thing I ever needed. You must have had a cut on your hand that bled into the cut on mine. A single atom of shared biology infused in my mind like a chemical lure; pancrustacea pheromones. The shape of your face encompassing all of humanity in your features, quintessentially human, now an absolute point in a world undetermined. So perfectly defined that everything else turned to fog.

I have never needed anything. I don’t need food, I don’t need water. During the dark ages, I spent time at the bottom of a pond and realized I don’t even need air. People interest me. I don’t want them; not like this. They are fascinating. The first time I saw people was at the edge of a dark forest. Peering out from where the trees give way to plains, I saw a fire, and heard noises, not the primal screeching or braying of beasts but soft chattering. Voices on stones around a flame. I watched them, slumped against a tree, till they fell asleep. I had never seen animals engage in that way. I wanted to be like them. To sit close in the circle and watch their hands, their faces, and listen to sounds they made. Their reaction to my presence was violent and, I am embarrassed to say, I wasn’t very kind to them. I didn’t understand horror then. I felt nothing, sitting on that blood-stained stone. Except perhaps the semblance of regret. I had immediately torn up a treasure. Passively twirling my claw through their flesh ribbons, I began to wonder if there were others. My first suit was made from scraps that surrounded me. Parts of six different bodies were thrown over my crust. People were dirtier then; I got away with a lot more. I found a community in a cave not far from the camp, and that was that. Each moment since I have spent incorperationg myself into the world of humans. Existing in their spaces. I don’t want to fit in, I just I don’t want to be thrown out. I want to linger on the periphery and engage socially only when necessary. In the office I’ll work and listen, and nothing more. Your handshake turned on something new. Desire.

You haven’t seen me since. That suit with, its large chest and belly, tore itself apart on my way to the office. A nasty thing. I’ve found other suits, and despite the ‘moods’ I’ve been experiencing, I haven’t taken a fresh suit. When Sue’s suit came apart, it took a Sisyphean effort to not peel Marge and wear her to work. I’ve outgrown that violence. Well, I’ve outgrown senseless violence. Considering that I didn’t know, at that point, how to quench my desire, that kind of violence, and the thoughts that lingered on it, were senseless. Desire is an odd thing. More physical than a mental. An abyss appeared inside me, and I didn’t know how to fill it. I do now.

It hit me just about a week ago when you and your date, Lucile, were leaving Los Wen Diago’s. I was wearing a brown hoodie. You were radiant. The streetlights cut your jaw with their shadows. Lucile was on your arm, dainty compared to you. That thin gold necklace around your neck dripped down blouse. I followed you down the alley, a shortcut your top-floor loft. I’m not sure what I was planning. I wanted to pull off Lucile’s suit. It was a logical way to get closer to you, but it had been 800 years since I had done that. I wasn’t thinking. Lucile knew I was following. You disappeared behind dumpster, and when I drew near, she confronted me. I didn’t know what I was doing. I mumbled as much as she towered over me, in her sequined dress. You watched silently in your knee-high boots, a heavy hand on your hip. Even though I was done with violence, your proximity necessitated that I move through her. But she knocked me to the ground, put a heel on my neck. I imagined I was Hiroto’s daughter being beaten with the knotted stick. Lucile pressed her heel, punctured my suit. She spat, and you left.

I slouched against the dumpster in the trash water and spit. A man in a blanket poked me but otherwise it was a quiet night. Quiet enough to gather my thoughts. Lucille, the office, Marge, Hiroto, his wife and daughter, the man on the boat, that bratwurst, it was all circling around you and my abyss of desire.

Slowly it became as clear as the night before time began when I first crawled out of the hole in the earth. I need your suit. Need it wrapped around me. The only thing I have ever needed, and every instant that I am not inside your suit, I am rotting from the inside out. The abyss festers. I need to slip my claws inside the sleeves of your hairy arms. To slide your curves around mine. Your strong yet delicate long legs and wide hips, perfect accommodations for my jagged frame. Your broad shoulders, your soft lips. The ridges that run down your front, your supple chest. The perfect size. I could be invisible or stand out like a burning coal. You were made for me.

That’s why I’m writing this. So you’ll understand. I’ve seen, and met, and been more people than you will ever know. I’ve changed a lot, and I am far from perfect. I’m terrifying to most, and I have no doubts I will be terrifying to you, but here I can make my case, so you’ll understand. I’m not a monster. I’ve given up violence. I’ve only take what’s throw away and bury. This is the first time I’ve needed anything, and I don’t want to take it from you.

Fortunately, slouched against that dumpster I also realized why I need your suit – the rationality inside the obsession. The ethical nuances weave in and out of the abyss and define it with resounding clarity. Your suit will be the last. What will I be left to do when there are no more suitable bodies to peel? When the young only die disfigured and the old drip off my frame, where could I go? The world is already too busy for me to escape; my only option is assimilation. Once you see me, you’ll understand, no one will accept my natural form. You are the means for the greatest good. Yet, I’m not advocating for sacrifice, your interest is as much my concern as the greatest good, and whatever silly desire I might entertain. That’s why you need to understand and give me your suit willingly.

You know what I want, but your interests are important. For the act we’ll go wherever you like. Somewhere private would be best. I’ll purchase whiskey. I know you prefer rye, perhaps blended? I’ll bring flowers, and candles. I’ll run a bath. The soapy warm water will soften your skin. We’ll go at your pace. I’ll be quick. A painless slice from your skull to your perineum. It’ll peel off like a night slip. You won’t last long once it’s done, but with humidifiers and sterile blankets, and you should last long enough to watch me slide it on. And there will be enough time to show off your suit’s best qualities. A dance, maybe. Or some exercises, you’re built like a spartan, I’ll do push-ups, pull-ups, even squats. It’ll be your last moments. What you see should be up to you.

I understand if you might want to say no, but don’t answer just yet. Sit on it. Commitments like this one require an exchange. I’ve already left some gifts; I purchased a diamond ring and left it on your doormat next impact drill you looked at in the hardware store and your mom’s butcher knife, the one you said you liked at Thanksgiving. I put a pack of cigarettes in your mailbox. I know you quit recently, but longevity shouldn’t be your concern anymore. I spoke to your boss Charlie au natural in his mansion last Friday. He is eager to give you that corner office and he wants to engrave a plaque with your name. He gave me his little 80 lb chow, I’ll leave it in your apartment this week. I’ve been considering finding a child, I understand they can curry favor between partners. This is just the beginning, don’t worry. I’ll do more. We have some time.

The thousands of suits that slowly rotted off frame were worthless disgusting husks. Your suit is better. The best. Too good to let spot and stink. It needs to be permanent. I’ve been searching for a way to preserve it. The Biolab has some promising research on formaldehyde derivatives and cold temperatures. I’ve also discovered that shaving off a layer of crust before putting on a suit triples the half-life. With a fresh suit, this method will extend the life even further. I’ve been looming around car accidents. Nothing wrong with taking the suit from someone who’s almost dead. Don’t worry. I’m not going to peel someone if they’re going to live. You’ll be the last. I’ve made a lot of progress; added four weeks to my usual rotation. Still it’s not enough. You’re young, but you’ll wither up sooner than you think. It’s too early to consider this, but I’m aware that at a certain point, we’ll have to move ahead before we are certain it will be permanent. But that’s another five to ten years before we have that conversation. And I will find a solution before then. I have to. I don’t know how long I’ll live but I won’t let your suit expire before me. Once inside, my crust will never see the light of day. I promise.

In the meantime, I’ll be around. Whenever a new friend or coworker develops a spot, or starts to stink and then disappears, you can rest easy knowing it was me, just checking in. When you are ready to accept, just reach out and shake the hand of someone new in your life. Chances are it’ll be me. A repeat of our first contact will precipitates our last. Once I know how to preserve your suit, I’ll knock at your door, naked, freshly shaved, with a bottle of whiskey and a bouquet of roses wrapped inside my claws.

***

M. Julian Kerr, whose name remains undisclosed, is a self-proclaimed writer who honed his craft over a short, and modest lifetime by asking and telling himself and others how to write. Having spent much time in a town – nondescript save for a penchant for witchcraft and tourism – M has always been drawn to the power of words to elevate the terrifying absurdity of collectively accepted reality and of language itself. Sporadically aloof, M does not have any active social media but can, if needed, be reached at mjuliankerr@gmail.com where he is more than happy to consider entertaining strange conversations with strange people just like you