text: I first saw him out the window, getting out of his car. He wore vibrant colors: A bright red sports jacket, bright green pants, and a bright purple hat. He had a pencil mustache, and looked too old to be looking as he looked. He walked up to my door and knocked. I looked through the keyhole just to see his eye looking through his end of the hole, right back at me. I opened the door. "Well howdy partner!" He said in a terrible imitation of a southern man. "How can I help you?" "Well, I heard you're an interesting guy to talk with." "From who?" "Well, from everyone around the block!" "I'm not sure what they're talking about, so I guess I'm going to have to--" He walked right in, gently shoving me aside. He walked up to one of my paintings, something I had painted a couple years back. It was of a naked man holding a cat, which covered up his genitals. The critics loved it and made all sorts of claims of what the whole thing was about, and they couldn't seem to agree on a single thing that the painting was about. A lot of people asked me about it, but I never had any answers: I didn't know what the damn thing was about either. "Well, this is interesting." He paused for a minute, "So, the cat is the man's coping system for the world, in this case it is most likely depression or schizophrenia, and without it he would be completely naked?" This struck me. I almost told him he was right, but then he walked over to the kitchen table, picked up a knife, and chopped his fingers off. Then, he ran over to the painting and waved his arm around, splattering blood onto it. I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1, but when I looked up after dialing it I saw that he was running toward me. He tackled me and started beating me with his good hand as his other dripped blood onto my face and into my nose and mouth. Then, he dragged me by the collar over to my backyard and dumped me into my pool. He jumped in and pushed me down. I gasped for air, but only sucked in his bloody water.