text: This all happened last November, and I've finally had time to process it, and want to get it down on paper while the details are fresh in my head. It was two in the morning. I was casing out an alleyway in the city nearest my home, I'll admit it. I was looking for open doors, unlocked doors, and access onto the roofs and into windows. I didn't tell the police about that part. This particular alleyway was awash in doorways, leading to the kitchens of many restaurants (some of) which weren't very diligent about making their drops after closing. I know I would have snuck into a grease pit and snuck out with the daily take (minus tip-outs, as the staff generally had left by this hour), had luck been with me that night. But I was not lucky. I found an open doorway, a barrel lodged between the doorframe and the door, the wind whipping through the dish pit. It was an eerily easy looking target. Had I then discovered the restaurant to not yet be closed, I could have just hid and to outwait the wait staffs leaving for the night. But something about this scene rang hollow, as I gingerly eased the door open and stepped through the threshold. I heard nothing, no talking, no walking, no anyone, as I made my way through the silent (and now noticing) darkened kitchen. I walked past the line, and quickly ducked down, as I beheld 5 diners casually chatting in the empty and darkened dining room. The only light had come from a candle on their table, and were talking with great animation, gesticulating wildly. It was obvious that they had not spotted me. I needed to get across the room to the cash register, but it was across the room from these people. Why were they here, and where was the restaurant staff? I hunkered down in a quiet corner, to wait them out, and to hopefully, still find my payday. It seemed like I would be able to sneak out again if they decided to stay the night. They must have deactivated the alarm system themselves to even be in here at this hour. It seemed that they were authors. The first man produced a notebook from his pocket and declared that he had written a short story. The third man laughed. The second man declared that he had recently began writing poems, his rhyming dictionary popping comically from his front pocket. The third man laughed again, I couldn't quite hear what he was saying, but he mocked the first two men. Then the third man was knocked down by the fourth man, who went on somewhat of a speech about the nature of writing, all of which seemed incredibly confusing to me. The fifth man produced a novel, and smacked it on the table with a flourish, silencing the other men. They stared at him spell bound. "I have been published", he declared, and the other gaped at him incredulously. They began to comment on his work, denigrating his choice of font, or his cover art. The fifth man took it in stride, and began to extol the plot of his book. "It is about a stranger, a man who strangles, and that I am he!", he declared. The other men seemed rather impressed, and went on to read the jacket of the book, and congratulate the fifth man on his choice reviews and excellent typesetting. It was only then, when I noticed the sixth man. The one who now snuck behind the third man and began to choke the life out of him. The other four men around the table looked on with some disinterest. "I thought him rather annoying," said the fourth man, after the sixth man made his exit. "And his choice in novelists is, WAS! somewhat poor", commented the second. They extinguished their candle, and made their way out of the back of the restaurant. I couldn't have stopped them, if I wanted to. In truth I found the third man to have been a bit much myself. I took the take (they had left two days worth of money in the register), and made my police report, saying I was walking by and saw light in the window. From a pay phone, of course. I still don't know what to think about that night, other than that I'm glad I don't have many friends.