It was cold. Of that I was certain. Cold as the damned hands that crawled desperately from the Earth to make their way into my apartment's bathroom and terrorize my ass as I dropped a deuce. The porcelain felt that way, like dark creatures cooling my bottom side. I was enraptured by this, because it had been a long time since I'd had a bowel movement, and now, of all times, I was terrified by it. Was it dehydration that had done this to my mind, or something deeper? I would never know, because I leaped without wiping and raced over to the door to pursue a scream's origin.
Frank was poised there, howling about scorpions. "They're tingling my toes, buddy boy! Give me a cracker so they'll eat and be satisfied. Otherfore I might lose my mind or toes." He'd obviously lost it. My time in the mental ward had prepared me for this moment. It's a decisive trade, dealing with these madmen. I'd known Frank for years, but I still couldn't imagine him reaching this level. He'd been falling deeper into his mental illness as of late, but his lockpicking skills apparently hadn't diminished; I sure as hell didn't give this psychopath a key to my place.
"Frankie... The scorpions won't hurt you, they're here to teach you about things like sorcery and memories," I cooed, attempting to soothe his tortured soul.
"Frank isn't here right now!" he screamed, slapping himself repeatedly in some vain attempt to bring himself back to reality. That wasn't going to happen. "The scorpions demand sustenance," he said, assuming the fetal position underneath my new sheets. 'Damn,' I thought, 'I'll have to buy new ones again. Can't let this freak give me the HIV.' He was falling further into madness, and his speech became slurred and confusing. "Oh-oh-oh-oh, midnight! Lucky Charms!" he screamed, throwing the covers away and jumping to his feet. He raced over to me, as I was still standing halfway behind the door, using it as a makeshift shield. "You! Who are you and why are you in my house?"
"Oh, no reason, really. I'm just the butler." 'Why not? Just give him what he wants. He lives for falsity,' I thought. But I was royally screwed - he pulled an ancient revolver out of his overcoat and pointed it at me.
"You're not Alfred!"
I didn't want to play my trump card this soon into the altercation, but his threats incited it. "Frank, you've had enough. You need to kill yourself." He shot me and then himself. He got me in the chest and sent his own brains splattering against my wall. As a dark pool of sanguine poured out of me, I let my gaze fall beneath the bed to see hordes of scorpions rushing out toward me. "Fuck irony," I gasped.