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One day Jake, a thinking kind of guy, complained to me about the killing in the world.

"There's too much killing in the world. Something should be done about outlawing guns."

I reminded him, "Guns don't kill people, people kill people."

Jake was silent, and then said, "Well, if that's the case, why doesn't the government outlaw people?"

That's Jake for you.

Jake's a writer, and I know Jake better than he knows himself because it's not possible for him to know himself. He thinks a lot, and although he graduated cum laude from Princeton, at the top of his class along with some other sons of bitches, Jake can't think his way out of a paper bag. He writes, but all his thinking takes place in the writing, not in his private life, his real life.

Jake stays home and works all day, hardly ever leaving the apartment. Maybe out for coffee and a doughnut, or Chinese later.

Lonely. No wife, girlfriend, not even a goddamn gold fish.

"Pretty lame," I remind him.

You could say that he's anti-social, but that wouldn't be it, exactly. He's not social. More asocial than anything else. He doesn't care one way or the other folks, but admits that asocial is another way of saying asshole, at least according to the socially minded.

"Who needs people?" That's how he put it to me one day. Incredible.

Not just a writer. My best friend. The only person he thinks to confide in. I don't know why as I'm nothing special; a mannequin made of paint and wood, watching as he slaves over fiction.

"An imperfect world," I say, but he only shrugs.

"Shut up, Sawdust." And so, for the time being, I do.

Story by:

Robert Dickhoff Jr

7 June 2013