Ruined Nights - Parts 3-4

Sylvia invited me to come to bed with her, but I had to decline, since I rarely even knew her yet. So I adjourned to a separate bedroom, lying down quietly to get some sleep. I barely slept, though, fitfully turning in my bed as the images of my accident kept replaying in my mind. I was afraid, for the most part, to fall asleep; I didn’t want the same thing that happened to me in the restaurant to happen again.

Yet part of me wanted to fall asleep. I stared at the decorative crown molding that lined my bedroom’s ceiling, listening to the quiet and subtle noises of the old villa, and considered how I could make myself fall asleep. I tried reading a business magazine I found on the nightstand—not really as boring as I though it might have been. I tried counting sheep—nothing. So at about three in the morning, I got up and decided to get myself a glass of water, having nothing better to do.

Walking down the portrait-lined corridor, I noticed Sylvia’s bedroom door to be open a crack. I fancied I’d just peek in to see how she looked asleep, but as it turned out, she wasn’t asleep—she wasn’t even in her bedroom. The bed lay empty, the covers in slight disarray and obviously slept in.

Going downstairs, I quickly got myself a glass of water from the kitchen and began to search the huge house for her. She wasn’t in any of the downstairs rooms, nor was she in any of the bedrooms. I could only find William asleep in his own room further down the hall from where I was rooming, but as panicked as I was becoming, I didn’t feel like waking him at this hour. Instead, I went back to my bedroom and laid down again, setting my nearly-empty glass of water on the nightstand beside me.

I awoke to a low-lying sun just over the horizon of the sea, warming my face, and to the sounds of a television inside the great house. It was then I realized that I was out on a balcony, not in my bedroom. How did I get here? I wondered silently to myself, looking around the balcony. A gentle breeze washed over my face, the salty air tingling my nose. I got up from the reclining lawn chair I had been laying in and leaned over the balcony some, looking into the distance of the sea before me. Guiding my eyes downward, I saw the jagged rocky shore at the base of the cliff on which the house stood. Small waves were visible there as they crashed softly into the rocks, making little sloshing sounds. I stared at them a while, searching my mind for anything that would have shown me how I got from sleeping in my room to sleeping out here on the balcony. I couldn’t figure it out, and my head was beginning to feel more and more like Swiss cheese.

I decided to make my way back inside and downstairs to the living room, where William sat on the couch, his arms stretched out across its back. The sizzles and smells from the kitchen close by told me that breakfast was on its way.

“Hey!” William greeted me, turning his head away from the morning news as I came in. “Rest well, buddy?”

“I suppose so,” I answered, still a bit groggy. “Where’s Sylvia?”

“In the kitchen fixing eggs. I saw you asleep on the balcony this morning. Have a difficult time sleeping?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” I said honestly. “Where did Sylvia go last night?”

“What do you mean?” he replied.

“Well, I didn’t see her in her room last night when I got up to get a glass of water. I looked all around the house.”

“I was in the basement,” Sylvia called from the kitchen, obviously having overheard our conversation.

“But I thought I checked the basement…” I started, a bit confused. This was making less and less sense. Why couldn’t I remember all of last night? I could have sworn that I looked in the basement…but now, my mind’s eye didn’t want to bring up any images of what it looked like.

“Well, you were probably half asleep,” William replied. “I’m sure you either didn’t check and thought you did, or you checked and weren’t very observant.”

“Alright,” I said, still trying to work it out in my foggy mind. “I don’t sleepwalk, do I?” I asked William.

“Not as long as I’ve known you,” he replied. “Why?”

“No reason,” I said quickly, not wanting to draw too much suspicion. “Why were you in the basement, Sylvia?” I called, walking around more towards the kitchen.

Sylvia came out of the kitchen and into the living room with a metal spatula in her hand to meet me. “If you must know, I was having difficulty sleeping as well. I thought I’d go admire some of William’s work some more down there and I ended up falling asleep on the old couch.”

“You’re right,” I said, turning to William, who was starting to look at me strangely, as if he suspected something wrong about me. “I must have not checked the basement—I don’t remember ever seeing it now, from the description she gives me.” I said this more to quiet any questions the two might have had for me than out of true honesty. Something in my gut still told me that I did indeed look in the basement and saw nothing, but it was a trivial point at best, and not really worth debating. I decided I’d check out the basement later on and see if it wouldn’t help me remember anything.

For now, though, William simply nodded, seemingly content, and turned back to the news. The news reporter on the television was standing in front of a large pile of rubble, where EMS personnel, police officers, firemen, and a host of onlookers were milling about.

“Hey turn that up!” Sylvia said eagerly, to which William complied.

“…As you can see behind me,” the reporter was saying, “there seems to be little remaining of the mansion where J. R. Rynatt, the famous corporate millionaire and head of Rynatt Industries, once called home. The deceased bodies of Rynatt and his immediate family have been pulled out of the rubble, where they were found, as one police officer reported, ‘grotesquely misshapen and beyond belief,’ early this morning. Experts are unsure as to who or what could have caused this, but it is believed to be the work of middle and lower class union employees, who have been recently gathering into violent mobs and demanding increased freedoms by attacking those in charge. So far, however, these attacks had not escalated to anything so physically brutal and destructive until now…”

“That was John’s home,” Sylvia began, shaking rather violently. Sitting down on the sofa, she hunched over, appearing to be on the edge of breaking. “He lives—lived—not seven miles from here.” She buried her face in her hands, dropping the spatula, and sobbed.

Instinctively, I sat down beside her and began to caress her. She latched on to me and sobbed heavily on my shoulder. “I knew him well,” she cried out through the sobs, her voice muffled by my shoulder. After a few minutes, she came back up again and kissed my cheek. “Thank you,” she said to me softly. I kissed her cheek gently in return, inadvertently catching one of her salty tears on my lips.

“It’s just not right,” William said fairly dryly. “These people have gotten out of hand,” he went on, gesturing to the television. “It’s not like they have bad lives! Why do they have to continuously attack their bosses? If they don’t like the conditions where they work—which, I’ll have you know, are legal and sanitary and not hazardous in any way—then why don’t they just leave? I mean, where do these people think they get off, demanding more freedoms? Don’t they have enough freedom? This isn’t an anarchy you know.”

“I know,” I lied to reassure him, not really knowing too much about the system in general.

“I’m sorry, Midnight,” William sighed. “I didn’t mean to go off like that. It’s just…John Rynatt was my friend, too. I just can’t believe he’s gone…did they really say that he was dead?”

“I believe so,” I answered, frowning. I sniffed the air and said suddenly, “What’s burning?”

“Oh, god, the eggs!” Sylvia cried out and tore off into the kitchen, and William and I followed her. A couple of smoke-filled minutes later, the burnt breakfast had been thrown away and the pan was soaking in the sink.

“Sandwiches, then?” William offered. “It’s more like brunch time now.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sylvia replied, blushing a bit. Just as we finished brunch, I heard a loud and ancient doorbell reverberate throughout the large house. We all went to the door to see who it was, and were greeted by the diminutive figure of an elder, balding man on our doorstep. He was wearing a fine pinstriped suit and was supporting himself by a cane in one hand, the other hand clutching a Bible to his chest.

“Dr. Dorall,” William greeted the goat. “What brings you here?”

“I trust you’ve heard the news by now,” the goat replied feebly, his scratchy voice shaking with his loose jowls as he held out the envelope. We nodded. “Sad, sad thing. He was a good and decent creature. I’ve been asked to go around and offer counsel, but I don’t suppose this particular theology—“ he held up the Bible “—is anything that would be of comfort to any of you, is it?”

William looked at Sylvia and myself as if to make sure before answering. “No, I’m afraid it isn’t, Doctor.”

“Ah, I thought as much,” the Chaplain responded, reaching into his suit’s breast pocket. “In any case, I do have this for you,” he said as he pulled out an envelope. “I do hope that you can overlook religious differences enough to pay your last respects to our old friend.”

William took the letter slowly and opened it, quickly skimming over the contents. “The funeral is on the 14th, then?”

“That’s what it says,” Dorall replied.

“They’re rather quick,” William said.

“I know,” Dorall said, peering over the rim of his gold-rimmed bifocals at us. “He planned that date in his will. It was almost as if he was expecting to die around this time. Very odd. Very odd, indeed.”

“Yes it is,” William said carefully.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Dorall began, “I really must be going now. Death is an gloomy news to deliver.” He turned and headed for his shiny black Oldsmobile, and William closed the door.



The funeral took place at a large Catholic cathedral on the other side of town. William looked off-kilter wearing funeral black since I was so accustomed to seeing him in the white suit he always loved to wear. Sylvia, too, seemed different—more distant than usual in the black dress and veiled hat she was wearing. I looked at her concernedly, giving an audible sigh towards her, and she looked up at me quizzically.

“I guess this whole business of death just made me realize how much I cherish you,” I told her. “I wish I could remember more of you—you’ve been an excellent and a dear friend to me during the short time I’ve known you.”

“It’s because I love you,” she replied, her voice sounding more firmly earnest than I had ever heard her speak.

“I love you, too,” I revealed to her. “I find myself being absolutely content just to be with you.”

“Thank you.” Even through the veil, I could see how wet her eyes were becoming, and she wrapped her arms around me once again, holding me…simply holding me. I would have given anything to remain in her embrace, even there in the back bench of the car, for an eternity. “But I mean that I’m IN love with you. Even after 28 years, I still am.”

My heart skipped a beat, and I thought silently about how to respond. Did I really feel the same way about her as she did about me? It’s a confusing feeling, I must say. How does anyone really know? “So do I,” I finally decided to answer, and she looked up at me with deep, hopeful eyes. Without much warning, I was suddenly lost in a long, passionate kiss with her. She was so warm, and so full of love, her spirit felt nearly palpable.

Pulling away was a certain hell, but we had to, as William silently pulled up to the towering cathedral where the service was taking place. I got out of the car to find scores of people—friends, family, employees, press—all here to pay tribute. They were all making their way inside; the service was about to begin.

The memorial was long and tear-filled, with long eulogies praising the Rynatts given by a select few that knew them well. In addition to the solemness I would expect to sense at a funeral, the air seemed to be tense and foreboding, as if someone expected something dreadful to happen at any moment during the service.

Nothing did happen, however—at least, not until the reception afterwards, which took place outside in the courtyard, surrounded by well-manicured greens. Sylvia, William, and I decided to wander for a bit to socialize with people Sylvia and William knew. Not knowing anyone myself, I simply remained silent for the most part.

It wasn’t long before we heard rumors of some rather alarming news. There had been another attack just last night—the same kind that killed Rynatt—only this time, the victim was some other member of high society: a vice president of some big oil company. Violent union groups were to blame again, even though neither the news nor the police had been able to prove that the alleged suspects were indeed responsible.

The three of us were headed towards a good and reliable friend of William’s to verify this claim, when we heard a cry just to our right. “How dare you!” a shrill voice attempted to say quietly, and we all turned to see what had happened.

“How dare you show yourself here!” a tall, elder, and pompous-looking woman in a sequined black gown continued. She was berating a shorter man of mixed nationalities wearing a dark suit and a stunned look across his face.

“Mark Ralks,” William said heavily and in disgust, addressing the half-breed man. “What are you doing here? I thought the police had you in for questioning.”

“They let me go,” the man replied gruffly. “Because they—and none of you—have any evidence that shows that any of us had anything to do with this. I never wanted Rynatt dead, and neither does anyone else in the union. We don’t work like that. But if you really want me gone, then fine—I’ll leave.”

With that, he turned to leave. As William and Sylvia wandered on, I decided to go pay Ralks a short visit, running to catch up with him. I caught up with him halfway across the courtyard, and called his name.

“What do you want?” he said dejectedly, turning around to me. “Didn’t finish insulting me? Who do you think you are, anyway?”

“Look, I’m not with them,” I nodded back to the crowd. “Well, I am, but not exactly—at least, not on this…”

“So what do you want?”

“I just wanted to ask you—if you and your union didn’t do it, who do you think did?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?!” he exclaimed, flailing his arms. “Rynatt was a decent man, for the most part. He had his problems, which we were trying to work with, but none of us ever wanted him dead.”

“What exactly was your beef with him, anyway? My friend tells me that the working conditions offer many freedoms and that you guys really don’t need any more.”

“It was never about working conditions,” he sighed. “That was just a marketing ploy the media grossly exaggerated—as they often do with most things—and used to make us look like the bad guy.”

“Then what ARE you fighting for?”

“For a new world. A world that doesn’t rely on money or materialism for a society to function well.”

“I don’t get it…are you some type of Communist?”

“No,” he said quite firmly. “We’re more like Transcendentalists. Everyone thinks that we’re Communists or Anarchists or something, but we’re not. We just want to do away with the system of trade and form a society where everyone helps each other out, and no one takes more than a fair share.”

“I still don’t think I understand,” I said, frowning.

“It’s okay,” Mark sighed. “Most people don’t. Look, I gotta go. Sorry.” He turned around and started for the parking lot, leaving me standing in the courtyard feeling more confused than before.

“He try his propaganda on you?” I heard William’s voice call to me from behind.

“I think so,” I said, still watching him leave.

“C’mon,” William said. “I think it’s best that we leave.” I looked at him a bit peculiarly, and he continued, “This place is just getting me down, and I want to go home, if you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind,” I said. Sylvia came up to me and took my arm, and I led her to the car. Tears were streaming down her face silently, and I could tell that she was fighting back heavy sobs.

Hugging her close, she whispered into my ear, “I have something to tell you.” She sounded afraid and remorseful, and I looked at her with great concern. “Later, once we’re back at home. I don’t want William to hear. Either of you would think this is crazy, but you’d believe me more than he would.”

Trying to speak carefully, all I uttered back to her was, “I’m here for you.” With that, we got into the car and headed home.



“I think I’m a murderer,” Sylvia said shakily, gulping hard. We were sitting in her bedroom on her queen-sized bed. William had gone to take a nap for the afternoon, so Sylvia and I felt safe talking for now. I was here for her, of course—I loved her. But this was something that just took me aback.

“How do you mean?” my shocked voice asked her.

“Those reports about Rynatt and that other vice president dying…you think I’m crazy for this, I know you do…but I think I’m the one that killed them and destroyed their homes.” I must have looked at her the wrong way, because she continued as she stared at me, “You DO think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“No,” I said immediately and without thinking. After pausing for a moment, the stillness of the room and house quickly becoming unnerving, I spoke carefully, “I don’t think you’re crazy. You might be confused and emotional right now because of the funeral. But I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“But you still don’t believe me, do you?”

I paused again, not sure exactly what to say. “I’m not sure what to believe,” I said finally. “I’m still supposed to believe that I was asleep for three decades, that I lived a lifetime before that which I barely remember at all…” I came to my senses just then—what was I doing? What was I saying? “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be doing this to you.”

“No, it’s okay,” she responded, wiping a tear gently from her eye. “Would you do me a favor, though?”

“Anything,” I pledged.

“Stay with me in this room when I sleep. I can’t exactly remember well those nights that each of the murders happened—all I truly remember was that I slept fitfully.”

“But you told me you went down into the basement that one night,” I said, remembering.

“I thought I did. I figured I must have, since that’s where I woke up the next morning.”

I nodded and agreed. “Alright,” I said. “I’ll stay in here with you. I must say, it’s not exactly something I wouldn’t look forward to.” I winked at her, which made her smile and kiss my cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered earnestly. “If something does happen, I have a small video camera in my closet which I want you to use to show me what happens, if anything.”

I nodded and said, “Just one thing.” My mind went back 28 years again.

“Yes?”

“Did I really love to skydive? Remembering that…episode I had in the restaurant, it all seemed rather frightening to me.”

Her look then was rather indiscernible. “Yes,” she said with a bit of a strain, as if trying to remember herself. “You told me once that it was more like flying than falling to you. You let yourself truly go when you flew. It made you happy.” She smiled reassuringly at me.

“There seems to be better ways of becoming happy…ways that last longer…” I gazed into her eyes, feeling as if I was falling into their vast, unfathomable depths. “I love you,” I told her, and kissed her passionately.



That evening, we got into bed together and snuggled close, my large arms wrapped around her smaller frame. I watched her fall asleep quickly and easily, then fell asleep myself with my arms still around her, as if to protect her. Nothing happened, however—not that night, nor the following week, and no reports were ever on the news about any more murders. I remembered some nights were a hell in their own right to me, as I did my best to not take advantage of her in this situation. Then one evening, I awoke abruptly in the middle of the night to find Sylvia out of bed. I caught her just in time, it seemed, as I saw her small, white body drifting slowly out into the hall just beyond the open doorway.

She looked frighteningly ethereal, almost ghastly, and I hopped up quickly and ran to her, shaking her gently to try and snap her out of it. She didn’t wake, though, not even when I called her name. I remembered the camera, and rushed into her room to get it. I followed her down the stairs and out the front door. Her eyes were open, but they were gazing distantly, as if she were seeing some other world.

The air was particularly cool that night with a moderate breeze blowing through. Sylvia passed by the convertible and merely walked down the road, her pace quickening some. I jogged to keep up with her, watching her intently through the LCD screen of the recording camera. The roads were empty and quiet, so at least I knew she seemed safe to continue her travel on the roads.

We traveled for a while, and all the while my mind was wondering how exactly she would murder these people—if she murdered at all—and how she could bring a mansion down to rubble all by her lonesome. When we reached a large estate sitting ominously dark in the night a couple hours later, however, my question was answered.

To my horror and disbelief, I saw an impossibility happen in front of my eyes. I rubbed them, and checked again—yep, it was still happening. Sylvia was growing. And, my, was she growing! I have no idea how she was doing it, and I could only watch in shock as she zoomed up from the five-foot-tall vixen I knew into a towering beast almost a hundred feet tall (by my guess).

“A beast,” I wondered aloud, whispering to myself, “or a goddess? She seems both lovely and terrible to be either.” For a moment, nothing happened—she just stood there, towering over the grand house in chilling quiet of the night. Then, without warning, she raised an arm high over the house, her paw balled into a fist, and brought it down fast and with full force. The sight was incredible, and I ran backwards to avoid the flying debris. Now hiding behind the safety of a large tree, I peeked out to continue filming her, wondering how such a creature I knew to be benign could be truly wreaking the havoc I was witnessing.

She smashed the house again, and it quickly caved in. She stomped it, and I bewilderedly thought how no one could hear the loud grinding and crunching that was being made. Why was no one else coming up to stop her?

After a few minutes, however, she seemed to finish her job. Were there people in there? I suspected there was, though I didn’t feel like searching for any corpses. She shrank back down to her normal height as quickly as she had grown, and we made our way back to our home. I tried to shake her awake again, but to no avail. She simply continued to walk on as mildly as if nothing had happened. When we got back, she simply slipped quietly downstairs into the basement and fell back asleep.

Still shocked beyond belief, I stood there dumbfounded another half an hour, watching and filming her sleep. I finally decided to rest myself, and turning off the camera, I slumped into a nearby chair and drifted back into an uneasy sleep.



The next day was difficult. I decided it was best not to let William see the tape I had made last night, so I dragged Sylvia up to her room and let her watch the tape. I fast forwarded through the hours of walking and came finally to the part of interest. Her eyes opened in wide-eyed horror as she realized that her worst nightmare was true. She wasn’t crazy to believe that she was a murderer, and she started to panic.

“Oh, god, Midnight! What have I done?! What am I going to do?!” She sobbed heavily, clutching me tightly. “Please tell me that the tape isn’t real. Please, please tell me it isn’t so.”

“I wish I could,” I cried back to her, my chin resting on top of her head as we embraced. “We’ve got to find a way to get you to stop this, though.”

“But how?” she cried. “It’s hopeless. What could stop me from becoming such a monster?”

“I don’t know. But I do know that we at least need to get a way to calm you down.” She looked up at me with frightened eyes. “Maybe you should just find some way to relax right now. Listen to some soft music, take a bath—whatever you need to do.”

“A bath sounds good right about now,” she sniffed.

“Alright,” I said, and let go of her. She headed for her bathroom, and I went downstairs to talk to William. I figured it was best he know that something is up.

William was watching the morning news again, and as I had expected, they were doing a story on the mansion Sylvia had just wrecked last night.

“People are starting to get scared,” William told me as I entered. “Many of us well-to-do are getting killed off, and it’s frightening people. I honestly hope they catch whoever it is doing it.”

“William, there’s something I need to tell you—“ I began, but was interrupted by a loud and long shriek coming from upstairs. The zebra and I exchanged glances, and then dashed upstairs with me in the lead to Sylvia’s bathroom.

The door was open, and I looked in total horror as I witnessed the sight before me. Sylvia was sitting in the half-full bathtub, the water turning a murky red. A razorblade lay loosely in Sylvia’s unmoving paw, and I cried out loud when I saw her wrists. Her empty, hollow eyes were pointed upwards, and she wasn’t moving.

I did nothing but let loose a long, hurtful howl. Sylvia was gone. She couldn’t take the guilt of being a murderer, so she ended her life. William and I stood in silence for a minute in the bathroom until something I never expected happened.

The now-lifeless body of the vixen whom I had loved more dearly than anything disappeared. Not just suddenly, though—it turned off, like a television. Sylvia went fuzzy like the salt and pepper of a bad TV channel, then just…turned off.

“Oh, shit,” I heard William say, and I turned and looked at him. He had a guilty look on his face, and turned to me to say, “Midnight, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What?” I said curiously, fuming, but I was already guessing what he would tell me.

“Sylvia...was…well…do you remember the fish in the restaurant?”

“I don’t believe it…no…I refuse to believe it…” I didn’t want to believe it. Sylvia…a program?! Just like those damn fish?!

“Whether or not you believe it, it’s the truth,” he said heavily.

“No!” I shouted defiantly. “You said you hated those fish! You said you didn’t want anything to do with that art!”

“What did I say?” he argued back angrily. “I said those fish were created not as art, and that the technology was cheap. I perfected that technology!” he said proudly.

“Why?” I asked him, feeling as if I had just been betrayed.

“Because I’m an artist. It’s what I do. Sylvia was the ultimate piece of artwork I had ever created. She was my masterpiece!”

“She was a tool for you to murder people!”

“That was the message!” he shouted, defending himself. “These damn Communists that wanted to do away with money—people like that Mark Ralks—if they had been successful, then people like Rynatt and those others were as good as dead. We all would have been! I was simply delivering an ultimatum.”

“You don’t think a world without money would have been good?”

“I don’t see the problem with money. It makes you happy, and it’s not hurting anyone. Didn’t I say that happiness was what mattered?”

“I thought there was more to life than that… When did you create her?” I asked him angrily and shaking, my paws balled into fists.

“Shortly after you woke up,” he admitted. “While you were still in the hospital learning to walk again.”

“Then she was never my girlfriend before the accident?” I asked with a shaky voice.

“No,” he admitted, bowing his head sadly. “I’m sorry…” He looked up at me, and I saw in his eyes true remorse, but I didn’t care.

“You USED me!” I shouted at him, tears welling up in my eyes. “You—you exploited me and my being in a coma and having no memory! You lied to me!”

“I just wanted to be close to you,” he admitted, bowing his head again, his eyes cast to the floor and his tail hanging limp. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I’ve always loved you…”

“She wasn’t even real,” I continued, not really hearing him. “I was in love with her, and she wasn’t even real. And now she’s gone. I don’t know what to say or think anymore. I need to go. Goodbye.” I started to leave, not sure exactly where I was heading.

“I can create her again if you want,” he offered eagerly, and I stopped and turned around.

“You don’t understand,” I told him. “I loved something without a soul. How can any being so fabricated have a soul?” I turned away from him, preparing to leave again, but he stopped me once more.

“I was the soul behind her,” he said, approaching me. “It was my soul in her creation, and it was my soul in her as long as she was alive.” He placed a hand on my shoulder and said sadly, “Can’t you love me the same way you loved her?”

I turned my head back around to him, gazing into his deep, hopeful eyes. I felt sickened looking at him, even though my vision was blurred by the tears now streaming down the contours of my face. I tried to think of something aptly vulgar to say in return to him, my hatred for him building every second, but all that managed to escape my muzzle was, “You’re twisted.” I turned back and started to leave.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

I broke into a run, heading for the balcony overlooking the sea. “I should have never survived that fall 28 years ago,” I cried out. I heard him running after me, calling for me, but it was too late, and my mind was made up. Without looking at the jagged rocks far below, without even thinking, I leapt over the railing of the balcony…

They were right, you know, my friends were. I love the feeling of falling…of flying. I didn’t hear my comrade’s cries far above me, nor did I see the ground rushing up beneath me. No… All I knew was that moment, the air whipping around my sleek body. I didn’t even care if it was real or not. It was liberating; and, oh, how I loved it! After all, that’s the point, isn’t it? Personal desire…happiness…