You weren't the wrong person. He was a deeply misguided Hostess marketing director; that deflated look was the moment he realized that his entire outreach effort would only be able to identify pre-existing Hostess customers, the entire effort was inherently pointless, and he had flown a hijacked airplane four hundred and thirty six miles to your city - in conjunction with reports that you had wandered into the local 7-11 and were eyeing the pastry aisle with "serious munchieface" - for absolutely nothing.
Hours later, after you'd made it home from school, he called your house to ask how it had gotten so bad and whether there was still hope for someone who had failed his career, about which he was passionate about, and his boss, who he loved even more. He told you the story of how he'd begun work at Hostess as a high-risk hire, a street kid already damaged from his mother's drug use during the pregnancy and his own exacerbating habits, how Hostess had turned his life around and taught him the meaning of instant gratification without addiction - at least in the true sense of the word. How it had seemed to him like an outpost from Heaven staffed by angels, how he quit heroin his first week on a steady diet of cream-filled surrogates, how he'd fallen in love with his boss the first time the distinguished older man called him into his office and told him he'd done the company proud. How alone and confused he often felt when confronted with the realities of his job, the "adjustments" he was asked to make to "recalcitrant" clients and "unduly anxious" shareholders thinking of withdrawing their investments.
How he'd begun his own marketing efforts to try and show the company - show his boss - he could be useful in other ways, but it always led back to violence, and what's worse the violence always correlated with success. How he'd become a rising star even though half his intake was a result of unsolved muggings, protection rackets, underground Hostess-themed fighting rings where men driven mad by near-lethal levels of sugar saturation beat the life from each other. How he couldn't explain anything he was doing or why, knowing it wasn't normal or right, only that it was successful - until today, until you. He pulled himself back for the first time, subjugated his demons with the iron lash of his reason. And he lost the sale. He wanted to know what that made him, if he should kill himself, and you asked him wasn't there anything you could do to save him, to make it up to him - what he needed. And he told you he needed about tree fiddy, at which point you realized the ex-marketing director for Hostess was actually a paleolithic crustacean over 500 feet tall and, not unlike his journey to your school, reading this far was inherently pointless.
It was all for absolutely nothing, like the sentence that began eleven words ago, or maybe twelve, or six depending on how you count these things, because it was a waste of your time and so is this, a tombstone epilogue meant to trick the casual story-scanner into assuming last paragraph's devastating development will not occur when they settle in for a more leisurely and contemplative reading. And if you're thinking in triumph that I've lost more time than you, well, that would be true if I only got one of you, but every stolen moment past the first ten is nothing but black profit for the unmentionable coffers I keep in trust with Death and the Devil and the dark pharoah Nyarlathotep, with all the dark powers to whom I trade karma as proof of souls lost in exchange for unthinkable pleasures and irresistible agonies delivered to me wholesale in the writhing scream-gardens of my nightmarescape. And the worst part is that by the time your eyes have squinted in consternation far enough shut to blur these words, break the curse, and save you to ask yourself what the fuck did you just read, I'm gone - and even if you see me again, you'll never know for sure if it's the same man behind the mask.
Like an unidentified Hostess product, it's just smooth, flaky skin painted with an appealing butterscotch palette. The filling could be anything - is, in fact, everything - right up the moment you bite down. And that moment? Like the hour you share with Gandalf in the fortress of his unidentified enemy, it is later than you think - and too late, by far.