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Ive had enough, Dad. I know what it is to love, because I love you and Mort, but I also know Ill never find a woman to love me. Im often in pain—real pain that blacks out everything until I no longer exist except as a ball of fire. I look ridiculous—my mouth hangs open, I dribble, my tongue gets in the way when I talk, Im all twisted, I spasm and usually cant even feed myself and have started shitting and pissing in my pants. My hearts fucked, yet they want me to get it fixed so I can go on and on and on and on. I had a visitor in the hospital, a fat religious git. One of those silly white collars. He asked me how I felt, so I told him. Guess what he said.
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It was a sombre group who prepared Morts suitcase, watched him dress in his best clothes, and bid tearful farewells. Marshall wanted to go out and confront Perdita, but Mort convinced him to remain inside, because he had a plan.
Yeah? Brilliant.
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