He unhooked himself and fell silently from his perch on my bedroom's ceiling. Partway through the fall, he seemed to reverse himself, but not through movement or reflex. It was as though his state of being abruptly shifted positions, and he was left standing casually upright, as though nothing had ever been amiss. I blinked, and found his face suddenly inches from mine.
"Hi, bro!" He practically screamed at me. I could feel his fetid breath wash over me, and there was something familiar to the stench. Like flower petals, rotting.
"Hello," I meant to respond, but only urinated forcefully and for a great length of time instead.
"You just peed there," he noted with cheer, the unmoving, pantomime smile never faltering from his face, "human beings usually use toilets!"
A very long silence, save for the muffled leaking of my own bladder, settled about the room. I could not hear him breathing, I noted with alarm. When the stillness became too much to bear, and I felt I should cry out if only to verify to myself that I still possessed the power to do so, I realized at last he was asking a question of me. The lack of intonation in his voice made queries almost impossible to distinguish.
"Y-yes. Yes they do," I replied, "you just scared me a little is all. A lot. Forever."
"Hey hey!" He spread his arms in a mockery of good humor, "you're more perceptive than you look, muchacho!"
The smile...every picture. Every picture the same...
I would suppose, at this point in a normal conversation, that he had noticed the confusion on my face and thought to explain himself, but that glass-eyed stare spoke of such complete indifference that I had to chock the following explanation up to mere self-indulgence.
"You should be scared. You wrote a piece about me. You told the truth. You said you wouldn't do that..." again the quiet that threatened to last forever.
"Amigo!" He finally finished, noticing there was something absent from his previous statement.
"Yes, I uh...I felt it was a moral imperative that I warn the world of the many terrible things that you represent. And would you mind?" I gestured to his face and mimicked the horrifying grimace that his television persona sported. His manic grin that never broke, his eyes that reflected only the great apathy of nature; the dull shine of onyx, the depths of the endless ocean.
"Oh. Yes. I do forget," he said, and I realized then that it was I who had forgotten -- forgotten how much worse the blankness of his honesty was compared to the mask. Every word he spoke drew life from the air, consumed it, and defecated it out again as spiritual offal, "is that better. Is that good."
"No," I answered, "but I honestly don't think that word could ever apply to my life again."
It follows. It follows me.
"A promise was made. You broke it. You did not seem the moral type."
"I'm really not," I admitted. I had to concede that point to him. It would seem rather hypocritical of me to deny it, considering the state of my quarters: Scattered all around us were empty bottles, used needles, entire platters of utterly untouched convenience store nachos. No less than three bodily fluid-stained mascot costumes lay in shambles about the floor; no less than two Asian prostitutes of gender indeterminate (it had been a long while since I had ceased specifying, much less caring about that particular detail) lay unconscious or possibly dead upon the floor and across the Total Gym. Also, I had stolen that Total Gym.
"But Jesus Christ," I began.
"Do not invoke its name," he quickly cut me off.