7:13pm, October 13th, 1989. It was a cool Autumn evening. The air was moist, but it wasn't yet raining. Instead it just hung there heavily, rubbing against your skin like a wet dog.           Mary watched the sky darken from the steps of a closed church, where he sat cross-legged with his hat in his lap. He silently watched small swarms of people walk past, scurrying through their evenings. Every now and then someone would notice him, approach hesitantly with guilt in their eyes, and drop a modest coin or two into his hat. Mary found their kindness amusing and happened to be in that certain melancholy state where you're without the energy to thrash those around you.           Half an hour later, the cold fully entrenched in Mary's thin bones, it began to drizzle softly. He watched small raindrops splatter against the pavement, unconsciously counting them. When he got to fifty he decided maybe he should start trying to figure out what it was he had to do, although he wasn't all that anxious to get back inside the hat.           He wandered down the street a bit, dimly aware of the cars hissing by through the rain beside him. Occasionally one would come too close to the curb and splash water on him, but he paid it no attention and kept walking until he came to a large but rather worn looking motel. He plodded around behind it.           There was a small park in the grass behind a parking lot, and from it you could see the rear wall of the motel. It was full of windows: some pitch black, and others lit with slow, intriguing shadows. He watched them with vague curiosity, soothed by the sound of the rain thumping softly against his hat. A lot of his time was spent thinking about therapy. About change. About the crowds now swarming through his hat like parasites. The irony that he was wearing his torment on his head.           It was around nine o'clock when he caught a glimpse of a curious figure walk by the side of the motel, down where he could see the sidewalk and street, leading to a large permanent bridge. He leaned forward to get a better look at the figure, but it was already out of view. Mary took a deep breath, straightened his hat and went after it.           The figure, who appeared to be a thin balding man as Mary caught new angles of him, went hesitantly to the bridge as though he was afraid of it; wary and suspicious. Mary kept his distance, unsure if the man knew he was being trailed or not. The man then went to the middle of the bridge, leaned against the wet metal railing and looked over into the rushing water below. He seemed to come to some sort of decision after a few moments' contemplation and climbed over the railing. Mary approached, his footsteps drowned out by rain smacking the asphalt. He stood directly behind him.           "Hey," he said. The man wobbled fiercely, straining for balance and trembling with shock. Mary was sure he was going to drop right then and there, but somehow he managed to hold onto the railing.           "What the fuck?!" yelled the man, lurching around at him. Mary casually stepped over the railing and stood on the cement ledge as well. Below was a black rushing river prickled with raindrops.           "Don't come near me!" the man yelled in his anxiety.           "Don't worry," said Mary, folding his arms and leaning back. "I don't care."           The man couldn't think of anything to say to this, so he said nothing. Instead he tried to continue with his suicidal contemplation as though no-one was standing beside him, but felt awkward and forced about it. Like he was trying to pee while being graded for form. Mary realized this and began tapping his foot impatiently, as though he were waiting to use the bridge after him and wished he'd finish up and get out of the way. He enjoyed watching the man's expression change from one of grave determination to common annoyance.           "Look," he said, turning around to face Mary. "What do you want?"           Mary shrugged. "Nothing," he said.           "Then why are you here?"           Mary looked out over the river and up at the far off buildings in a speculative manner and then shrugged again. "Why, am I not allowed up here?"           The man swallowed, began some sort of imploring gesture for sincerity but cut it off when he realized Mary was just staring at his hands blankly, like television. "It's not that you're not allowed," sputtered the man, "it's just that I'm... I kind of want to be alone right now."           Mary looked past him. "You're going to kill yourself."           The man stared down at the water.           "I can tell these sorts of things," said Mary.           "Look buddy," said the man, his voice hard and loud now, "would you just get the fuck out of here? I don't know what the fuck you're tryin' to pull, but I'm not looking for a fuckin' savior. I'm not looking for sympathy or an audience or a fuckin' freakshow psychopath to jump with me, okay? Just turn around and get the fuck out of here and forget you ever fuckin' saw me!"           Mary slugged him in the face.           The man yelped and his knees buckled down onto the ledge. He clutched his face as blood leaked out over his hands and wrists.           "You just watch your mouth," said Mary, leaning back again and folding his arms. "I'm the living dead. You don't talk like that to the living dead."          "What the hell did you do that for!?" wailed the man. "Fuckin' crazy motherfucker! Hit me in the goddamn..."           Mary ignored his ranting and stared up into the sky. The stars were coming through clear, like light through holes in tin-foil. "Nice night, isn't it?" he said conversationally.           The man crawled back a bit and spit bloody mouthfuls off the ledge. Red streaked down his chin, which he wiped on his jacket. He kept his eyes on Mary. "Yeah," he mumbled under his breath. "Yeah."           Mary turned towards him again. "You want to die," he said, calmly.           "Yeah," said the man nervously with his fingers in his mouth, feeling his teeth. "Yeah, I do. Is this your way of stopping me? I mean, I didn't ask..."           "Why the bridge?" asked Mary, leaning over a little bit, looking down into the water.           "What?"           "Why the bridge? Why not some other way? It doesn't look all that high up here. What if you don't die?"           "Uh. I hadn't thought much--"           "The water looks kind of deep too," Mary said, mostly to himself. "Was this your first choice?"           "What?"           "Are you deaf? To kill yourself. Was this your first choice?"           "Well, uh, yeah. Yeah it was. I mean, I didn't really--"           "What about a gun?"           "I don't--"           "That's how I did it," said Mary reflectively, as though he was recalling a certain summer's day. "Bang. Loud solid shot in the mouth, through the brain, lodged in the upper back of my skull. Minimal mess. Worked for me. I highly recommend it. Of course there are other options," he said, trailing off.           The rain rattled against the iron railing and dripped off the brim of Mary's hat onto his pale face.           "Like what?"           Mary shrugged. "Read a book," he said. "Although I can tell you that one of the most painful ways to die is to get yourself nice and tied down in the desert and then slowly be eaten alive by red ants. It'll drive you insane long before it kills you."           "How do you know that?"           "I took a course," said Mary. "You learn a lot being dead."           "You aren't dead," said the man. "Dead people can't walk and talk and punch me in the mouth and shit."           "Oh, how very wrong you are," said Mary. "I can even travel through time."           "No shit?"           "No shit whatsoever," said Mary.           "Why'd you hit me?"           "Because you're a fucking whiner. What the hell do you have to complain about? I've had a worse life and death than you and you don't see me on a bridge -- well, other than now, that is -- feeling sorry for my stupid-ass self just because I'm too busy kissing my own ass to do something about it."           The man tried to protest but Mary cut him off.           "No, shut up, I'm sick of you; and people like you. You think you've got it so bad. Well, that's bullshit. You're like a spoiled rich kid with parents you can run to every time things get rough. Only your rich parents are death and every time you get overwhelmed by the lack of direction or meaning in your petty little lifey-life you can just run back to the womb and feed off your mom like the little moral parasite you are."           "You don't even know me!" the man yelled.           "And you know what?" Mary continued. "The problem with your rich bitch-daddy death is that you only get one shot and once it's used up, you're out of turns. You automatically assume like the selfish son of a bitch you are that as soon as you move on to the next whatever you're going to have some other parental figure to wipe your nose and pick up your toys after you. Maybe God, maybe Satan, maybe some other floaty motherfucker people have been lying to you about since you were old enough to be tricked. You never stop to think that maybe you're not gonna always have the luxury of an ambiguous magical eject button."           "Nice advice," said the man.           Mary kicked his leg, hard. "It's not advice, you moron."           "Stop hitting me!"           "What the hell is your problem? Why do you want to die?"           "My girlfriend!" yelled the man in a sudden outpouring of emotion. "She's a slut! She cheated on me with my best friend--"           Mary rolled his eyes. "Oh, so what?" he said and then turned to the sky. "ALIENS STOLE MY BODY!" He looked down at the man. "Beat that. Can you? No, I didn't think so."           "You're crazy!"           "And you're so incredibly perceptive I could probably gouge both your eyes out and you'd still notice when I rammed your head up your ass, isn't that right?"           "Fuck, why are you doing this to me?! Just leave me alone!"           "I've been hit by cars, I've been harassed by fans, there are people in my hat, poets are still writing poetry, and I'm standing on a fucking bridge in New York talking to some guy who needs a shot in the head worse than anyone I've ever met before."           "Can't you understand!?" The man had tears welling up in his eyes and his chin trembled. "Can't you see that I--"           "Hey!" Mary cut him off. "I've got a joke for you."           The man stopped talking and stared blankly.           "Knock, knock," said Mary. The man was shaken up by the sudden change in mood. He was just getting used to being yelled at.           "Who..." said the man slowly, "Who's there?"           "Nobody," said Mary. And with that, he hopped over the railing and walked off into the distance, disappearing into the dark rain.           Later on he found a novelty beer hat in a park and gave it to a wino camping nearby.

Mary's nervous breakdown had hit the bunny the hardest. His gut churned with anxiety and he had depleted his small supply of over the counter drugs within a few days. Whiskey and cigarettes, his eyes were blurry and his stomach felt burnt. He hadn't eaten anything in days and yet had vomited twice, the last time only blood. But he forced himself to keep up with the hat. There was much more to be done now than ever what with the increased population and when there was no other escape it was all he could do. It was all that gave his existence meaning. He lugged trash into the sub-basements for disposal, he cleaned, he unclogged toilets, he refilled soap dispensers. He felt like the manager of a paranormal resort hotel. Everyone needed rooms to stay in, accommodations, meals, etc. Luckily, capitalism was already rampant on the hat so whatever people were interested in purchasing would eventually wind up presenting itself to them, though usually in the form of cheap knock-offs. The bunny fretted and scurried, trying to make everyone but himself comfortable and at home while Maxine worked the crowds.           That was her thing. She was experienced with positions of control; it was what she excelled at. She handled personnel, complaints about the management, job applications, relocations, domestic disputes, fights, mobs, disability issues, ethnic considerations and all manner of impending terrorist attack.           Increasingly though, people would come up to her and not ask "Where can I go to the can around here?" or "Where can I get a ham sandwich?" or "Where can I get a ham sandwich in the can around here?" all of which she had concise, helpful answers to. She wasn't always rosy and cheerful, but she had answers. Instead, though, of practical things, they would now ask "Why am I here?", "What does this mean?", "Is my family here?", "Are all my old pets here?", "Is this Heaven or is this Hell?" She tried to content them with bureaucratic gibberish which had always worked well in the past, but in the end she had to just avoid them. She didn't know the answers to these questions. Nobody knew the answers to these questions. She had always just been an inspector specializing in internal bureau matters. It wasn't her business where people went when they died, only that when they got there they didn't cause any trouble. So she sent everyone else to Mary's room for divine answers. Mary tried his best to deal with these questions in his own way.           "What is the meaning of life?" someone would inevitably ask.           "Who cares?" Mary would say. "You're dead now."           "Well what was the meaning of life?"           "I don't know," Mary would answer.           "Well," the person would pause and continue, not knowing what they were up against, "What's the meaning of death then?"           Mary would frown and gaze within his soul then say. "Look, quit bothering me with this stupid shit. Who cares what it means? It just is however it is. Why bother trying to read extra stuff into it?"           "But why..."           "Who do I look like; God?"           "There's another thing I've been meaning--"           "Okay, you got me, I'm God! I run an amusement park! I am, in fact, the being which created not only the universe, but all the materials that the universe consists of, and I spend my time dealing with you morons. Now go get God a Coke or he'll have you shot."           If he wasn't already, he quickly became a legend. His awkward manner and erratic style quickly earned him if not a sense of respect then a sense of fear from the majority of the beings on the hat. It was all they could do.

Mary walked into the noisy barroom, a few people cautiously said hi as he passed them. There were topless girls bumping and grinding on a few of the tables, men and women sticking money into their g-strings and a lot of different people drinking a lot of different things in a lot of different ways. Mary ignored them and went to a table in the corner where a group of his new friends were seated. He relaxed there for a while in silence, absorbing the conversation of the others. Artists and a few of the less serious revolutionaries.           "How fared your mission, young Holiday?" one of them asked in an old British accent as Mary sat down.           "Utterly pointless!" Mary said brightly, clumsily grabbing hold of somebody's drink and spilling most of it on the tablecloth.           "Gads! Please be careful!" cried the owner of the drink.           "What feats of chivalry awaited you this time?"           "I had to give a broken beer hat to some homeless guy."           The group roared with laughter. Mary blushed faintly and sucked Coke through a straw. "Screw off," he said through his teeth.           Maxine approached the table, and Mary made an impressive attempt to slide down under it but was blocked by someone's legs.           "Mary?" she said. Mary lifted his eyebrows. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"           "Well, I..."           "It's urgent."           "Cool," said Mary. He nodded to everyone, got out from behind the table and they moved over into a dark corner.           "What's so important?" he said when they got there.           "Who's that creepy guy?" Maxine asked him, motioning at one of the men sitting at the table.           "Who is he? He's Salvador Dali!"           "He keeps staring at my ass."           "Let him! He's a brilliant artist."           "I don't care if he's brilliant! Tell him to stop staring at my ass or I'll get my 'paints' and make my own surreal creation on the canvas of his face."           Mary grinned a bit, frowned, and then grinned again. "When you said 'paints', you meant weapons, right?"           Maxine put her hands on her hips. "Tell him to stop it or I will. I'm just telling you because I know he's your friend."           "Okay," said Mary, "but your ass is missing out on a really wonderful opportunity here."           "And your ass is going to have a few opportunities of its own if you don't tell him to stop it right now."           "Okay, okay. Whatever, fine. Was that all you wanted to talk to me about?"           "No, the bunny's severely overworked down at Maryland. I think it'd be a good idea if you went down there to help out."           "Yes," Mary said, "that does seem like a good idea."           Maxine regarded him carefully. "But you're not going to, are you?"           Mary nodded. "That's right."           "He's overworked! He needs help!"           "The kind of help that bunny needs, baby, I can't provide."           "Don't call me baby."           "Okay," said Mary. "Baby." He smiled.           "Fuck off," she said and left the bar.           "Somehow, even if they suicide, everyone survives." - Harlan Ellison, The Harlan Ellison Hornbook. "Well, I've always been ambitious!" he called after her. He wasn't sure if she heard him so he went back over to the table. "Did you hear that?" he said to everyone.           "Hear what?" they asked, pausing their conversation.           "She told me to 'fuck off' and I said, 'Well, I've always been ambitious!' Pretty good, huh?"           "I've heard better," said a man with a heavy Spanish accent.           "Shut up," Mary said and slumped into his seat. "Oh, and Maxine says to stop staring at her ass."           "Yo tengo chicle en cerabo!"           "Ah, go paint a house, you freak."