How do I know this to be true? His menacing growl. His heartless stare. The color of his tie—blood, anger, pain. I can see it inside his cranium—plotting, lurking, itching to carve out your eyeballs and serve them with ketchup and a morsel of mustard. He is the man your mother warned you about long, long ago. He speaks 26 languages, but understands none of them. He has fixed your dishwasher, but the spoons remain dirty. He once rode the Cyclone 276 times in a row, vomiting cotton candy each time.
Or, me might just be some dude.
I’m not sure.