Dexter Is Dead

Hope is for people who can't see the Truth.

Sooner or later, having two separate agendas is going to cause trouble.

What is it, I wonder, that they hope to Correct? I am what I am, irredeemably, irretrievably, implacably — as are most of my fellow desperadoes here in Correctional Facility. We are monsters.

And when you came right down to it, the only purpose to life that I have ever been able to find is not to die. You couldn’t let them push you out the door to go gentle into that good night. You had to rage, rage, and slam that door on the bastards’ fingers. That was the contest—to delay the end of your personal match as long as you could. The point was not to win; you never did. Nobody can win in a game that ends with everybody dying—always, without exception. No, the only real point was to fight back and enjoy the combat. And by gum, I would.

It had been my experience that fatherhood was mostly a matter of suffering the insufferable, tolerating the intolerable, and changing diapers.

There are millions of homeless children in the world—which proved again that kids were a low-value commodity, didn’t it? I mean, there are very few homeless Bentleys in the world.

I pushed it away; killing yourself is serious business and one really should concentrate fully.

They were easily replaced—if not by breeding, then why not by adoption? There are millions of homeless children in the world—which proved again that kids were a low-value commodity, didn’t it? I mean, there are very few homeless Bentleys in the world.

Once again, the one thing that can always be relied upon to unite absolutely anybody and everybody is Ignorance.

what fair-minded person could possibly call me “nothing but” a psychopath? I’m very good at board games, too.

I closed my eyes and thought once again about the relative merits of honesty. It seemed to me that the only thing you could say about it, as far as its being a good thing, was that if you didn’t tell the truth, sooner or later your made-up story would whirl around and bite you in the crotch. The only other thing I could say about honesty was that whatever else you try first, it never works and honesty ends up as your last resort anyway. And then you’re standing there with a crotch wound, and you have to tell the truth just the same, but now you have to drop it into an atmosphere of anger and resentment. Life is a rigged game; there’s really no way to win.

A good storage unit is a wonderfully flexible space. It has lights, power, and even air-conditioning if desired. The walls and floor are generally of industrial strength and utilitarian design, so there is no need to fret about scratching the paint or leaving unsightly bloodstains on the floor. In truth, a unit is such a terrific place for mischief that it’s a real wonder that anyone ever uses them to store things.

Dexter, you miserable piece of shit!” I already knew I was a miserable piece of shit, so I hung up.

After I’d eaten I found a Starbucks and got a Double Super Reverse Mega Ultra Extra Wonder Something-or-Other that tasted surprisingly like coffee. I took it to a table in a quiet corner, sat, and called Brian.

Trust is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? Once it’s broken, there is no superglue in the world that can put it back together again. Perhaps with time I would come to trust my neo-ex-sister. Not yet.

It was such a cold and utilitarian about-face, so completely reptilian, that I should have admired it. I didn’t. I needed more.

I thought of a novel and ingenious way to get in touch with Brian. In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I did not actually think of it; the truth is, the ancient, battered landline telephone on the hotel’s front desk rang. I turned to follow the sound, saw the archaic device, and thought, Aha. I remember what those things are for.

Unfortunately, I knew better. Everyone has a hidden agenda, and it is never, never, never what it looks like on the surface—which is, of course, why it is a hidden agenda.

I was so completely Finished with It All that nothing could affect me. I was the New Age guru who had attained a perfect state of Enough Already, and if the world wanted any more from me they could damn well come and get it.

For the first time I understood and appreciated the true joy of having a job—it gave you someplace to go! And when you were done there, you could go to a home, however squalid. Suddenly I had neither, and I truly felt it. This whole homeless-and-unemployed thing was becoming a true burden.

If I was truly honest with myself, which is not as easy as it sounds, I had to admit that I didn’t really enjoy fatherhood. I simply endured it, because it was part of the disguise that hid Dexter the Wolf from the world of sheep I lived in. And as far as I could tell, the kids merely endured me, too. I was not a good father. I tried, but it was strictly pro forma. My heart was never in it, and I was just no good at it.

Why is it that there’s never enough time to do anything, unless it’s so immediate that not doing it results in instant catastrophe?

Well,” Brian said eventually. “Yes,” I said. “I suppose so.” “Cheer up, brother,” he said. “Keep smiling.” “What on earth for?” He smiled. “It confuses people?” he said.

It was very near what I imagine religious bliss must feel like, for those who have souls and can maintain a straight-faced belief in that kind of fairy tale.

Kraunauer turned to face me as I came in, gave me his polite-shark smile, and waved at a chair that almost certainly cost more than a new Cadillac Escalade. I sat in it carefully, determined to avoid wrinkling it, while at the same time savoring the luxury. There wasn’t a lot to savor. It didn’t feel much different from the chair I had at home that cost twenty-nine dollars at a thrift shop.

I told my stomach that I am more than my hunger. I exceed the sum total of any want that is merely physical. And we have standards, damn it! Would we really settle for anything less than excellence, out of mere convenience? Apparently we would. Seven minutes later I was wiping the last tendrils of grease from my chin and throwing away the meager detritus of my shameful downfall. Lo, how far the proud Dexter has fallen, I thought, and I heard the burbling echo as my stomach replied, And loving it.

So what should I do with all this intoxicating freedom? And was it true, after all, that freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose? I had already lost my family, my house, all my clothes, my car—I should have felt really free. I didn’t—I felt cheated, robbed, and victimized.

At least you can be grateful,” Brian said, “that I am not the type who insists on saying, told you so.” “Didn’t you just say it?” I asked him. “Nobody’s perfect,” he said, and put the car in gear.