There were three of Allan Kuper. One good Allan, one bad, and one with no personality beyond a raging hunger. Each was but a portion of the complete Allan Kuper, and without the other two was woefully inadequate to deal with the world. The good Allan had run out of the apartment in the morning, chasing the sun into the west, seeking to make reparations for the excesses of the bad Allan that lingered behind him. The bad Allan had crept out of the apartment in the evening, into the moonless, starless night of the city, face twisted and loathsome, a palpable aura of deformity surrounding him. The other Allan remained blankly in the apartment for two days, slumped weakly in his battered brown armchair, hands dusted with cheeto orange tremulously moving food to his mouth. After two days he was stronger and the food was gone from the apartment. He left the apartment on the fire escape in the afternoon, and began tracking the good Allan.

He found the good Allan after a week of searching, far into the western lands, upon the high plains. When he came upon the other, the hunger had grown to a mighty thing within him. The good Allan was sleeping beneath a bridge, his body bright and beautiful even in the guttering light of a tire fire, his hands pale and spotless upon the filthy ground. Allan lifted the rock over his head and brought it down, shattering the beauty and the grace that slept there. There was a clatter and the hobos that had clustered around the fire ran along the river. One of them left a knife behind, a dull hunter’s knife.

Allan took it and began to carve the good Allan open. He had to eat the heart, after all. And the hunger was singing inside him.