Suckers - J.A. Konrath

"Then...I dunno, do something to demonstrate responsibility."
"If you give me some money, I’ll spend it responsibly."
"Don’t be a smartass."
"I wasn’t. I was offering to demonstrate fiscal responsibility." I didn’t get that C+ on my
economics test without learning a few things.
"You know what, Andrew? You’re going to have smartass kids just like you, and they’re
going to drive you to an early grave."
"Yeah, right."
"And I’ll be having a big ol’ laugh at you from the early grave that you drove me to. Go on,
get out of here."
"No money, huh?"
"Oh, all right. But don’t tell your mother."
* * *
Roger’s second-floor bedroom consisted of a bed, a dresser, a telescope, and lots of
unpacked boxes. We’d spent the evening watching television in a pleasant state of zombie-like
vegetation, and now I was unrolling my sleeping bag out onto his bedroom floor.
"See anything?" I asked.
"A few naked women having a pillow fight. Ooooh...good hit! That had to hurt!"
"What about your neighbor?"
"He’s just sitting there, reading a book."
"What if he looks up and sees you?"
"I’ll scream like a girl and faint."
"Good plan."
"Thanks."
We just hung out in his room for a while, chatting about subjects that were awe-inspiring in
their lack of substantive content, until finally—
"Oooh, he’s doing something," said Roger, adjusting the telescope. "He’s walking around,
yep, he’s got the butcher knife...take a look at this!"
I peeked through the telescope. Roger’s neighbor, a slightly overweight, balding guy who
looked about forty, was indeed pacing around his room, waving a butcher knife.
"Holy cow," I said. "He’s gone nutzo."
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