Ever since my pen pal sent his “don’tforgettolockup” note, I’d been carrying my gun wherever I went. Even downstairs to pick up my mail. Especially downstairs to pick up my mail.

So when I walked out to my porch and saw Psycho Kevin looking up at me from the sidewalk, I assured myself that at least my gun was only a reach away. And luckily, it was my 6.5 mm. Beretta, with a fifteen-shot clip, because with Kevin, I had a feeling I’d have to use every bullet I had.

He stared at me for a long time. Eventually, I sat down on the top step, opened my three bills, and leafed through my latest issue of Spin, read some of an article on Machinery Hall.

“You listen to Machinery Hall, Kev?” I said eventually.

Kevin stared and breathed through his nostrils.

“Good band,” I said. “You should pick up their CD.”

Kevin didn’t look like he’d be dropping by Tower Records after our chat.

“Sure, they’re a little derivative, but who isn’t these days?”

Kevin didn’t look like he knew what derivative meant.

For ten minutes, he stood there without saying a word, his eyes never leaving me, and they were dull murky eyes, as lively as swamp water. I guessed this was the morning Kevin. The night Kevin was the one with the charged-up eyes, the ones that seemed to pulse with homicide. The morning Kevin looked catatonic.

“So, Kev, I’m guessing here, but I’d say you’re not a big alternative music fan.”

Kevin lit a cigarette.

“I didn’t used to be, but then my partner pretty much convinced me that there was more out there than the Stones and Springsteen. A lot of it is corporate bullshit, and a lot is overrated, don’t get me wrong. I mean, explain Morrisey. But then you get a Kurt Cobain or a Trent Reznor, and you say, ‘These guys are the real deal,’ and it’s all enough to give you hope. Or maybe I’m wrong. By the way, Kev, how did you feel about Kurt’s death? Did you think we lost the voice of our generation or did that happen when Frankie Goes to Hollywood broke up?”

A sharp breeze creased the avenue and his voice sounded like nothing—an ugly soulless nothing—when he spoke.

“Kenzie, a guy skimmed over forty large from Jackie a few years back.”

“It speaks,” I said.

“This guy is like two hours from taking a flight to Paraguay or some fucking place when I find him at his girlfriend’s.” He flicked his cigarette into the bushes fronting the three-decker. “I made him lie face down on the floor, Kenzie, and then I jumped up and down on his back until his spine broke in half. Made the same sound a door makes when you kick it in. Exact same sound. There’s that one big loud crack and all those little splintering noises at the same time.”

The sharp breeze rode up the avenue again, and the crisp leaves in the gutters made a crackling sound.