I don’t know a thing about him. Nope, nothing at all. You expect me to be saying something. I’m not saying anything.

Still here? Nope. Nada. I refuse. Unless you’re here for a good time? Are you here to laugh? Are you here to cry? Do you believe you have the right guy? You have the wrong guy, but I might know something—or I could be lying. You might never know.

He’s about yay tall and has black hair. He’s got a tattoo on his left arm that says PORKER. Why? Who knows?

Why would I ever tell you any of this? You might never know. For example, I might not know anything he likes. Favorite color? No idea. But his darkest secrets? I know those well.

What kind of guy would I be if I just spilled his secrets? Never mind, you know me well enough to know otherwise. Like the time he stabbed an old man in the gut, kicked him against his grandson’s grave stone, and left him in Maple Cemetery, dancing on the way out.

Or that time he held your attention just long enough to steal your time, thoughts, and sense that he’d tell you a story. Well, he did. A story of confession.