He hit me over the head with an oar and dumped me in the bay to drown, which I thought was terribly rude. And after all I’d done for him! Hadn’t I taken him in, shown him the world, introduced him to the right people and the right attitude? He was so wonderfully louche, everyone adored him, the way he’d sweat and stammer when we’d ask him his opinions on art or music or politics or… well, anything, really! He wanted for nothing. I’d have given him the shirt off my back if he hadn’t already started wearing my clothes without asking.

Damned impertinent, really.

Still, so it goes, I suppose, if you’d believe my old father. “Don’t mix outside of your proper circle,” he’d say, “it’ll be the ruin of you yet.” I did think he was worried more about my getting hooked by some cheap piece that he’d have to pay off or send out of state to get the complications taken care off, but murder’s a pretty bad turn of affairs by anyone’s standards. At that he wasn’t far off, either, but I never did aspire to senatorhood, damn him. I could have been an artist, I swear, if I could have just buckled down and focused.

Well, anyway. Some hard feelings, but it’s too late for all that. Best of luck to him, the bastard.