Monday was the start of a new week. You might say that Sunday is the true start, and you'd be right, but for these purposes, I had to get church done on Sunday before I took on Monday. The city of Wilkes-Barre didn't know what hit 'em.

Lately, I've been doing my best to be really nice. See, I don't have a lot of real friends here in Wilkes-Barre, and I figure it was time to get some by being really nice. It wasn't hard. But, ultimately, it didn't work. When you're nice, people get suspicious-- they don't get comfortable. After weeks of people treating me like I was trying to butter them up and that I would ask them for some major favor or something, I knew it was time to stop. There was only one alternative.

On Monday, I woke up and got out of bed. I opened my closet and pushed the bright, button-up shirts out of the way. I took the key off the top shelf and unlocked the secret door built into my closet. I took out my leather vest, dirty white tee shirt, and beat up black jeans. After putting them on (not showering, of course), I laced up by "ass-kickin' boots," given to me years ago by Patrick O'Connor. The skull-patterned bandanna still fit around my head and the shades reflected the face of whoever was lookin' at me (and they were sure to be hurt soon).

On the way out of the apartment I grabbed the shotgun, some grenades-- think Leonard Smalls in Raising Arizona. Anyway, I walked out into the hallway and some old lady was walking to her apartment. I growled at her and she had a massive heart attack. I knew I was off to a good start. This was the day I would stop being nice and start being real. No, real was me being nice. I'll stop being real, and start being a badass mofo. Perfect.

Before I left, I put the old lady's body down the garbage shoot, and threw some blue dye in the washing machine. When I got off the elevator, right by the exit, I smashed the glass and pulled the fire alarm. All those people would have to evacuate now. "In case of fire, do not use elevator." Ha!

I stopped in Public Square and set fire to the Christmas tree. It was okay because I peed on it until it went out. Just to be sure I could keep it up, I drank some Jack. Wine? Beer? What do you think I am? A wussy?

After kicking in a few doors, shooting out some streetlights, and throwing bricks through some windows, I saw some good-lookin' ladies heading to work. I went over to them and told them they were hoes and they should get outta my way before I have to hit 'em-- closed fist. One was too slow. She'll live. The other women were awestruck. I guess it's true-- you treat 'em like crap and they're attracted.

All this destruction was getting to me. I was worn out by the time I got to work, and it was only a ten minute walk. Once I got there, I realized that I shouldn't go to work, because that would be not-badass. Instead, I kept walking to a bar. It was closed, being 9:00 AM. Let's just say, I opened it.

When the cops came, I told them to bother somebody else. One of the guys recognized me and told his co-workers that I was a really nice guy and to cut me a break. I punched him in the face and broke his nose. His wife wrote me love letters when I was in prison, but that comes later. I went on and on, kickin' police ass, until they finally got me down. They swung and beat me for a while, but when they were done, through my swollen lips and bloody teeth, I told them they were all bitches. I don't think they understood me.

When I got to jail, following Greg's advice, I killed a guy. You know, kill a guy or be somebody's bitch. I have stomach problems. I can't risk being someone's bitch. I tried to ruin as many lives as possible in prison. I snitched, ran numbers, busted heads, etc. I got mail from tons of beautiful women, and it finally occurred to me one day, while I was pounding on this one Aryan guy, that this wasn't who I was.

I explained myself to the warden and he pardoned me for my deeds. I promptly left the prison and headed back to Wilkes-Barre. See, it occurred to me that the number of my friends didn't matter. It was the quality of the friends I had that made my time worth it. If new people didn't want to be my friends, then it was there loss. That's what my mom told me through the wire glass, during one of her visits. She could always figure me out. She tried to tell the judge it was just a phase.

So now, on Thursday, everything's back to normal. I mean, I could go around being a total jerk and being really outwardly messed up, or I could be me, messed up some other level, for sure. No woman could tame the beast I'd become. And sure, I had a gang in the joint, but they were my friends out of fear, not for who I was. My real friends welcomed me back with open arms when I got out of jail, and all the people I killed (except the dude in prison), houses I burned, and drugs I dealt all returned back to normal. The world was better off with me being nice, and it only took a dead convict to teach me that lesson.