So the week dragged on, the weekend was no relief, and Monday morning came around again as it almost always seems to do. And even though I brought a large box of doughnuts into work, Monday had nothing much to offer me in return, either, except more work.

A drive-by shooting in Liberty City took me out onto the hot streets for several unnecessary hours. A sixteen-year-old boy was dead, and it was obvious from one quick look at the blood pattern that he had been shot from a moving vehicle. But “obvious” is never enough for a police investigation, so there I was sweating under the hot sun and doing things that came perilously close to physical labor, just so I could fill out the correct forms.

By the time I got back to my little cubby at headquarters I had sweated away most of my artificial human covering and I wanted nothing more out of life than to take a shower, put on some dry clothes, and then possibly slice up somebody who thoroughly deserved it. Of course, that led my slowly chugging train of thought straight down the track to Weiss, and with nothing else to do except admire the feel and smell of my own sweat, I checked his YouTube page one more time.

And this time there was a brand new thumbnail waiting for me at the bottom of the page.

It was labeled, “Dexterama!” There wasn't any realistic choice in the matter. I clicked on the box.

There was an unfocused blur, and then the sound of trumpets that led into noble-sounding music that reminded me of high school graduation. Then a series of pictures; the “New Miami” bodies, intercut with reaction shots from people seeing them, as Weiss's voice came in, sounding like a wicked version of a newsreel announcer.

“For thousands of years” he intoned, “terrible things have happened to us ...” and there were some close-up shots of the bodies and their plastic-masked faces. “And man has asked the same question: why am I here? For all that time, the answer has been the same ...” A close-up of a face from the crowd at Fairchild Gardens, looking puzzled, confused, uncertain, and Weiss's voice coming over it in dopey tones. I dunno ...” The film technique was very clumsy, nothing at all like the earlier stuff, and I tried not to be too critical —after all, Weiss's talents were in another area, and he had lost his two partners who were good at editing.

“So man has turned to art” Weiss said with artificially solemn breathlessness, and there was a picture of a statue with no arms and legs. “And art has given us a much better answer ...” Close-up of the jogger finding the body on South Beach, followed by Weiss's famous scream.