It had never occurred to me that the greasy-haired man could actually be a party alien to the ones in play. With his curly nonchalance and greasy ways, he keyed his way into my pie without as much as brandishing a silver glove. But the world that unfolded before me now as I blankly rutilated this piece of the jigsaw was one of laughing Frosinoan masterminds and deceit-seasoned carbonara. What was his true goal? Why did he go to the trouble of elaborating such a deviously stringent ruse, and to enact it with the simplicity of a carefree tartan – to the point that a casual observer would swear, when held at gunpoint, that he really didn’t even do anything – just to confound my plan and splash the pieces I had carefully placed on the levigated board?

He was just like them, but with a smidgeon of grease too much. This subatomic difference – and subatomic is a word I really objected to using in this particular contingency, but was forced to make time with – this minimal degree of error margin that I mockingly indulged in like one last drop of scotch after time – was about to run circles around my tail and produce consequences of unfathomably devastating magnitude.

But his true relevance to the development of the game plan was something that even the most astute anachronisms couldn’t have described in due detail. When dealing with an interloper of exulted position, there are a few basic rules to keep in mind. The man at the counter had been clear, but many of his words actually left room for disturbingly gushed interpretation. He was the one behind this, obviously, and it wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this. His penchant for building the most inconsequential bearing quivers into full-blown crises was illustrious, as was his soap-headedness to huff mightily in the face of altitude.

But now we were encapsulated in his endgame – so inextricably that even a verbose entrapment held little hope of saving us all. The slip of paper I clutched in my hand held little weight on a refurbished scale. As the greaseball stood and made his opening, I was struck by the bitterness of it all.

The Curly Haired Bastard had ridden my anvils with gauze, reducing everything to courteous utilitarianism. Now I saw the incalculable wealth of threads that I had blinded myself to, and with it came the distinct realization that black was not, and could not possibly be handled as, mere black. By walking in a straight line I had deprived myself of much, too much for one man to shoulder. I had reached my whimsical goals, but at what cost? Most of all, I saw the beauty, the heartbreakingly drenching beauty in all of its undying glory, and I knew at once what I had lost.

And yet, the road before me was still nothing but a straight line, and there was no way – for me or for any other of the players – to make it otherwise.

The greasy-haired individual’s clever move had thrown a hole in my plan; taken aback, I paused for air. Without thinking, I removed my headwear and happened to catch a glimpse of my own unfettered visage. It was then that it hit me, with the force of a thousand resonating typewriters –

I was the greasy-haired fuck, and I was the one dishing out bitterness and strife.

But even as this earth-shattering revolution seeped into my mind, I saw that indeed there was, and always had been, another greasy head sitting before me. He held me in check and slothfully awaited my retort. As I planned how to recuperate ground in a battle that seemed hopelessly lost, I knew this was hardly the adequate dressing for geometrical convolutions, and there was but one thing to do.

I lay down my pen, surrendered my sense of measure, and pocketed the pages.

I had written myself into a corner, and there was no way out.

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