The combination of a bowl of Cap’n Crunch, an Amazing Spider-Man Comic, preferably from the Romita era, and the sweet dulcet tones of the television is a religion that dominates my Saturday morning. Hell, it’s basically sacred. True, a lot of people don’t really understand how I can possibly focus on all three at once, but that’s because they lack the talent to focus on the things that really matter in life. I pity them, really. With my cereal in one hand and a comic in the other, I staggered over to my ancient, contemptible excuse for a couch and, trying my best not to spill the golden glory within, lazily collapsed. You should have seen the thing in its prime. Now it resembles the crumbling statue of Ozymandius, a colossal wreck decaying from years of uneventful evenings and sexual encounters, none of them mine. But it wasn’t all that bad. My routine was a simple one, devoid of stress. I proudly surveyed the piles of filthy dishes and pulp fiction strewn about the flat surfaces of my humble dwelling. This was why Saturday was my favorite day of the week. Nothing to do, and all the time in the world to think about it. My gradual descent into apathy was suddenly interrupted by a noise at the door. It sounded like my door was having a sparring match with Apollo Creed. Not wanting to disturb my usual custom, I tried to ignore it. However, after about two minutes of the same ceaseless commotion, I decided that it was probably worth looking into. Annoyed and about five percent intrigued, I grudgingly removed myself from the familiar, rough cushions of the couch, cradled my cereal bowl in one hand, and stumbled towards the unwelcomed excitement, trying my best not to trip over anything on the way. “You’d better have a damned good reason to disturb my…serenity”, I yawned menacingly. I opened the door and the first thing that hit me was the cold. The blast of air violated my very being, and I stood helpless as the frigid aura gripped my throat and pierced my insides. The second thing that hit me was a fist…I think. Yup. Definitely a fist. Unapologetic and swift, the dense mitt clashed with the most central part of my face, right between the eyes. Pain now engulfed my face as I was flung backward. I howled in agony. The one out of three things that mattered to me on a Saturday had been laid to waste, its contents now spilled all over the ratty welcome mat. I felt the tears coming. I heard a thundering voice interrupt the wind. “Where the hell have you been?! I’ve been out here forever trying to get your attention you miserable piece of shit,” it growled viciously. My heart began to quake uncontrollably. I recognized the grating, surly tone of the visitor. Knowing him, I was lucky I only got punched in the face. I got to my feet abruptly, wiping the bloody nose on the sleeve of my bathrobe. Standing in the doorway was a marvelous example of a man, but not in the way that you’d think. He was a freakishly tall individual who towered over everyone. He was also slightly scruffy and careless in appearance, with his shirt half tucked, his hair an unholy mess, and his dress shoes tarnished by nature and possibly urine. He wore a pitch black tie with little white skulls scattered all over it. At the moment, he was the glowering portrait of malevolence, his eyes glowing red and dense vapor pouring out of his nose and mouth. To anyone else this scowling, fearsome, and sloppy leviathan would probably be considered a savage, or quite possibly a Wookie in a suit. But I simply called him Henson. And he was my best friend in the entire universe. “That is a bitchin tie”, I slurred admiringly. Henson moved as if to reprimand me again, but he then looked down at his tie as if he had completely forgotten about it. There was a brief pause before he shook his head in resignation. He picked up the overturned cereal bowl on the welcome mat and held it out to me. This was his way of apologizing. “C’mon let’s get inside,” he grunted, “it feels like Hoth out here and I’ve got a lot to tell you.” I shrugged and shuffled back into the house, “Sure, make yourself at home. Mind the puddle of milk, blood and drool…” “There any more cereal left?” “I’ll tell you after I find my nose,” I mumbled. ……. The envelope was in horrible condition. The edges of the thing were dripping wet and deathly cold. I lifted the letter to my nose and inhaled, the unmistakable scent of crappy perfume and bile filling my nostrils. A boot mark was also imprinted on the envelope, complete with some mud and other refuse that came from the culprit. And finally, under all of the grime and unpleasantness was a simple name: Betty. The handwriting was the best looking thing on the whole enclosure, like a diamond underneath a crap load of slop. I continued scrutinizing the letter even when I heard the sound of unrepentant pillaging coming from the kitchen. I guess obliterating a man’s peaceful existence just isn’t enough for some people. Upon learning that my fridge was just as devoid of sustenance as I was, Henson walked over to the couch and sat down in defeat. “Dude, did I destroy the only source of food you had in this place?” “Maybe...,” I said absently. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything to snack on, would you?” Without taking my eyes from the letter, I plunged my hand into the disgusting bowels of the couch and rummaged around. I pulled my hand out and offered him two things: a menu from a Chinese take-out place and an ancient jawbreaker that had hairy gum stuck to the wrapper. There was a slight pause before he made his choice. Trying not to touch the wrapper too much, he looked over at me and said, “Thanks for the jawbreaker” I nodded, still looking at the envelope, “I was offering you the gum”. Henson scoffed as he continued to struggle with the tenacious wrapper. I finally placed the envelope down and watched as he threw the wrapper across the room and placed the jawbreaker in his mouth. He stared rigidly ahead, focusing on the uninterrupted stream of nonsense that darted across the television screen. His back was ramrod straight and he was perched right on the edge of the couch. This was an odd thing to behold, since Henson has and always will be a chronic sloucher and couch potato. His right hand began to fidget; the trigger finger twitching sporadically. Something was definitely gnawing away at him, unless he was actually finding the Animaniacs unbelievably riveting, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to tell me what it was unless I went about it the right way. So I started with the obvious question… “Who’s Betty?” Henson continued staring at the television, “a woman.” I scoffed and prodded him with my elbow, “go on…” Henson clenched his jaw in annoyance, looking like he wanted to punch my lights out again. After a short pause, he suddenly blurted out his description of the dame, the words coming out clumsily and swiftly, “She was younger than I was. A college student probably, or a waitress. She had on one of those simple, short sleeved plaid shirts. Her hair was long; the color of red wine, but it looked like it was soft before. And she was about 5’4 in height…I liked her immediately.” I whistled and nodded energetically, trying to put all the pieces together in my head to form a mental image of her, “Who wouldn’t? I should have known from the hand writing that she was gorgeous. Hearing stuff like that actually makes me want to get out of the damn house. Man, some ugly idiots get all the luck. That was her handwriting on the envelope, right?” He nodded, still staring ahead. I was surprised he hadn’t burned a damned hole in the TV by now. “So, what’s the deal? Did you find out that you’re the father of her kid or something?” That got his attention. He turned his head, agitated and fuming, “No! Nothing like that…” I chortled, cupping my hands and putting them over my mouth and breathing asthmatically. I dropped my voice about three octaves and uttered, “Search your feelings, spaz! You know it to be true!” “Get bent!” he retorted venomously. Still laughing, I lowered my hands and focused on the television, trying my best to avoid the hazardous glare he was giving me. “I’m just joking, man. We both know that women find you repulsive. But seriously, what’s the story with her?” “There is no story.” “What do you mean?” “I had to kill her this morning.” That statement changed the entire atmosphere of the room. Whatever smile I had plastered on my face dissolved and morphed into a bitter line. I could feel the whole illusion of apathy crumble and collapse around me. I tend not to concern myself with the horrors of reality; it brings nothing but apprehension, stress, and resentment. But that’s the thing about Henson: I can always count on him to show me the ugly side of life...