Some people think God is perfect. Okay, a lot of people think God is perfect. I disagree. God is very imperfect, and I can prove it. When God created man, he made one single, colossal mistake: He created fingers.

Throughout history people have said that money, greed, or some other thing is the root of all evil. Fingers are the true root of all evil, and of all the fingers the middle finger is the worst due to its wide range of immoral uses.

Without fingers there could have been no First World War, because Ferdinand's assassin couldn't have pulled the trigger of his rifle. Without fingers, some priests and rabbis couldn't do funny things with unsuspecting boys.

Without fingers the millions of factory workers around the world, many of whom lose fingers each year in accidents, would not have to toil in their horrible sweaty jobs, and would not even have those fingers to get jammed and lost in factory machinery.

Without fingers there would be no written history, so there would be a lot less ideology in the world. The world would be a safer place in which to live.

A few days later, amidst my typical brooding and moaning about the world, I went out into the city. And amongst the people I found solitude and emptiness. Real emptiness – where everyone you see is like a life-sized, cardboard-cutout, propped-up photograph – is hard to handle. In the city, as in the forest, you can be surrounded by life and yet be totally alone. Or so I have heard.

I stayed out in the city for only a short time. I made a jaunt up Yonge Street, to look at all the girls that like to show off with their short skirts, even in the cold. I stopped in at the Eaton Centre and lazily strolled through the giant mall. I stuck to the basement level, where all the cheap stores were, but I still didn't buy anything.

I got bored in the mall, so I thought I'd take Peter up on his offer to hang out. I walked east to Church Street. Saint Michael's Cathedral was there on the corner. I didn't know it then, but it turns out that the church parking lot was built on top of the old chapel cemetery. Life sure is grand.

Peter looked happy and healthy. He was relaxed and at his dressed-to-impress best in a royal-red robe.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked.

"Nothing."

"Having a bad day, eh?" he asked.

I bobbled my head a little bit and shrugged.

"Well," said Peter, smiling, "come in and have some fun. Empire Strikes Back?"

"Okay!"

Peter turned down the lights and put on the movie.

"Oh, try some of this Salmon Pâté," Peter said. He handed me a plate of crackers with pink stuff spread on them. I have to admit it did taste good, but it wasn't really my thing.

The movie was beginning, and Peter was busy staring at Han Solo. I took the opportunity to observe Peter. He seemed to be very well kept and very neat.

On screen, Han Solo blasted an imperial soldier. Peter shouted "Woohoo!" He nearly jumped out of his seat.

"What just happened?" I asked Peter.

"Weren't you watching?"

"Never mind," I said.

With the way he really got absorbed into his movies, Peter sometimes seemed like a big kid. We were about half-way through Episode V when he pulled a pipe from the pocket of his robe. He lit it, and smoked it for a bit before handing it to me.

"What is it?"

"It's good," he said, trying to make a crooked smile, just like Han Solo.

"Oh," I said as I stared into the pipe. I put it to my lips and drew in the smoke. Peter watched eagerly, and then turned back to the movie. I started to get really light-headed, so I ended up slouched down, leaning a little toward Peter.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Uh?" I straightened myself up. "Yeah, I'm okay."

The end of the movie came. The heroes were beaten and bruised. We felt a little choked up over the drama of it all.

"That was a good movie," Peter said. He handed me a little package. "This is for you. It'll help you to relax."

"Thanks," I said, juggling the little package a few times before dropping it in my pocket.

"Episode six next time?"

"Totally!"

I stopped into a general store to get a drink on the way home. A title caught my eye as I passed the magazine racks. Guns & Ammo. Some photo of a rifle was plastered on the cover, with the caption "Winchester Model 70 Classic" printed below the picture. I picked up the magazine and opened the cover.

"No reading!" shouted the Asian clerk at the counter. He stared at me with intense dark eyes. "No reading! You buy!"

"Sorry," I said quietly. I took Guns & Ammo to the counter along with my can of pop, and handed the man my cash.

"Thank you!" shouted the clerk. He clearly had volume control problems.

I spirited myself away into my room, and laid on my bed with the magazine. I opened the magazine to the title article, and I read the history of the Winchester Model 70. The gun was a beautiful, useful, perfect hunting weapon, first built in 1936. There's a whole history behind it, but I won't mention it here. What's the point?

Anyways, I examined Peter's package. Little blue pills with smiley-faces stamped on them. They looked harmless enough, so I tried one. I flipped through the magazine. I noticed a little historical piece about how American infantrymen would get one rifle to keep with them for their entire career. They'd keep that rifle in perfect condition – it was a matter of pride. During the war the military requisitioned entire orchards for growing tung oil, just to provide oil to polish the wooden parts of the rifles. Incredible!

I laid there on my bed. I felt tired, so I closed my eyes. I drifted off. I got stuck in a state neither asleep nor awake. Whatever I would think about would appear before my mind's eye as if I could actually see it.

I saw the Winchester 70 in front of me on a marble pedestal. The sun was shining down on it, or maybe it was a spotlight. The rifle and the pedestal were rotating slowly, like it was on display. The wood grain was beautiful, flawless and heavenly. It reflected the light so perfectly that the whole gun seemed to be alive. It almost seemed to be speaking to me.

But it didn't speak in English. It spoke in gun. It wanted me to pick it up, to feel its weight, to hold it lovingly, to caress it, to polish and take care of it. It wanted me to experience its special, unique loveliness. Try shooting with it. Try some target practice. Try what only it can offer. Can a man love his gun? When he shoots does he feel the connection within himself? On both counts the gun seemed to scream, "yes!" The gun screamed yes!

So in my dream I picked up the gun. I was nervous but excited. My hand merged with the rifle. My fingers grew into it like roots into the earth. I was part of the gun, and the gun was part of me. I felt the power, the awe, and the love. Oh the love! The love flattened me the way Wile E. Coyote inevitably gets flattened by an anvil. The love fulfilled me and I didn't feel lonely. I felt like together, the two of us, me and my rifle, could do anything – wasn't there a Beatles song called me and my gun? No, it was me and my monkey. But there was no monkey, only my gun. Why am I talking about monkeys? There are no monkeys here. Only rifles.

I felt like the two of us could do anything together; that no power could stop us. Not Death, not the devil, not even God. Then I awoke, and I was alone.

So I left my room to get some food. I found a bag of potato chips. Not those wonderful, crispy, tangy chips. No. Instead I found an old opened bag of mushy, bitter, boring chips. I took them to my room, along with some Coca-Cola. I sat cross-legged on my bed and picked at the chips as I flipped through the pages of Guns & Ammo. I sipped my soda, nibbled my chewy chips, and dog-eared the pages where I found interesting articles or pictures. I got bored and I realized that I was reading the little classified ads at the back of the magazine. So I took another of Peter's little blue smiley-face pills.

I fell into a dream again. There I was, with my hand on my gun. My fingers had grown right into it. The rifle was a part of me, and I held it with confidence and passion. In my dream I was walking along Philosopher's Walk, pointing my gun at potential enemies. I came upon the jocks practicing football outside Trinity College. I looked at them through the links in the fence that separated them from the rest of the school.

How arrogant they seemed to be, running around, flexing their muscles, showing off their big pecs, and smiling with their square-cut jaws. I felt anger well up inside me like some overheating boiler. I raised up my gun and pushed it through one of the holes in the fence. I've got you now, I said to myself in my dream. You won't be showing off those athletic asses for long!

I would pull the trigger every time I had one of those jocks in my sights. But the gun would fail to fire. I couldn't do anything to stop those guys from flaunting themselves. I pulled the gun out of the fence and tried to shake it off. But I couldn't let go of it. It was permanently attached. I began to scream. I felt so futile having this big rifle, but being unable to use it. I got the idea that I would just jump over the fence and beat those football dickheads with the butt. But as I started to climb, the fence began to get taller. I tried to climb faster, but the fence grew until I couldn't see the top of it anymore.

I dropped to the ground in despair, and laid down on the grass and cried. The dream sun beat hotly down on me, the dream clouds whisked by silently, and the dream wind rustled my hair. My dream tears rolled out of my stinging dream eyes, and my dream brain was wracked with a dream feeling of total dream futility.

I didn't move for a while. I just laid there with my stupid permanently attached gun. Then the rifle vanished. Then the jocks vanished. Then everything else vanished, except for my own body and the patch of grass I was lying on. Everything else was black. I could hear people laughing, out there in the blackness. I tried to get up to see if I could find them, but my head knocked against the blackness when I sat up. So I closed my eyes, and endured the laughter and the blackness, until I fell asleep in my dream.

The next day, I think around eleven in the morning, I woke up after thirteen or fourteen hours sleep. My head felt swollen, my stomach was churning, and as soon as I sat up my balance faltered and I fell back down. I discovered that I was lying on Peter's package of goodies, and that the magazine was still sitting beside me.

I fumbled my way out of bed, greeted the daylight by squinting against its brightness as I crossed the living room, and landed in the kitchen barely standing. I dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. I pulled a jar of peanut butter out of the cupboard. I got a knife from God-knows-where. The toaster popped and I enjoyed a welcomed meal of toast & peanut butter.

I munched my breakfast while I stared out the window. Clouds dressed up the sky in a slowly drifting polka-dot pattern. It seemed cold outside. Not bitterly cold, but not warm either. Just normal Toronto cold. A hunk of peanut butter toast got stuck against the roof of my mouth, so I had to reach in and pull it away. Food never tasted so good as that stuck bit of toast.

I figured Peter wouldn't be working that day, so I decided to visit him. I bundled myself up in an ugly old parka, and headed into the grey world. My neighborhood was deserted. On cold days it was so peaceful and safe and quiet, almost like a normal neighborhood. I liked that. It made me feel better.

I went into the coffee shop on Church Street. Some young men were standing on the front steps, talking passionately about different things. I didn't try to hear what they were saying, and so all their voices mixed together sounded like warbling chipmunks. I bought two coffees and a few biscotti and walked down the street toward Peter's home.

"Wow!" said Peter when he opened the door. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I came for episode six," I said, pushing the coffee toward him.

"Mmmm, coffee! Thanks." He cradled the coffee in both hands, warming himself. He led me into the living room.

"Let me get some food," he said, disappearing into the kitchen. He returned with a plate of crackers with pâté and a sampler of cheeses. Pepper Jack, Brick, Gouda, and Swiss. I don't think I touched a single cracker, but the different cheeses did taste good. The Pepper Jack was dry and spicy, totally opposite the sweet and greasy Gouda. I think I alternated between the cheeses, and experimented by eating the cheeses in different orders.

"Nice biscotti," said Peter, dropping crumbs onto the floor. "That coffee shop surprises me sometimes."

I nodded with a mouth full of brick cheese.

"So how are you today?"

"Okay."

"Did the stuff I gave you help you relax?" Peter asked with a smile.

"Uh-huh," I said. "But I had really strange dreams."

Peter looked at me with understanding. "But do you feel better?"

"Yeah, I think so," I said.

"Good! Now let's watch episode six...."

Father, come with me, says the son, desperate with hope that some shred of good still lives within his father's soul.

It's too late for me, my son, says the father, who, knowing all the bad things he has done, is resigned to his fate.

It was at this point in the movie that I began to feel nauseous. Peter looked at me attentively.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"I feel sick."

"Oh dear," he said compassionately. "Just lie back and rest, okay?"

"Okay," I said, leaning my head back on the sofa.

"You're probably having a hang-over."

"Yeah," I said. My lips felt dry. "It feels like it."

Peter took my hand in his, and I felt something small drop into my palm.

"Take this pill. You'll probably feel better."

I swallowed the little thing. I started to feel better after a few seconds. I felt my body relaxing. I settled in to watch the rest of the movie. A great battle was taking place on the screen.

After a few minutes I felt light headed, so I leaned back again. I began to fall asleep. I heard a voice calling me, asking if I was okay. But I felt fine, so I didn't say anything. I was content to rest. While I was sleeping I felt like something was weighing me down. I felt sluggish and runny, like syrup.

I woke up and it was dark outside. I was laying on my back on Peter's couch, with a blanket over me. My underwear seemed a little damp. Peter was sitting on a chair beside me, smiling curiously.

"Hi," said Peter.

"What..." I said groggily.

"You've been sleeping for over two hours," he said. He pointed at the clock on his wall. "Welcome back."

I didn't answer him. I must have looked confused.

"Oh, I guess that pill was too much for you. Sorry. How do you feel now?"

"Better," I said. He offered his hand to me to help me up. I took his hand and pulled myself upright.

"Listen," Peter said. "I'm going on vacation, to Rio."

"When?" I asked. I suddenly felt anxious, though I didn't know why.

"I'm leaving next week. I'll be back after the new year." Peter picked up a glass of water from the table and handed it to me. "Drink this," he said.

"Oh," I said, looking down into the bottom of the glass.

"Anyways, it's only for a few weeks," said Peter cheerily, "so you'll have time to hang out with your other friends, and visit people for Christmas."

"Yeah, I guess so."

That was the end of my day with Peter. He walked me to his door and closed it remorselessly. The entire way home I just stared at the ground. I looked at the world with sunken eyes. How could I manage three weeks without my new friend?

The next chapter should be online in the afternoon/evening of 11/25/2015.