Stalkers and weirdos.

A friend of mine, if I dare use that term, is being stalked by what I can only describe as a sad yet creepy man. That doesn't really do the situation justice so I'll be a little more descriptive. Picture in your mind's eye - the grown up version of the kid in your grammar school class that you swore would grow up to be a serial killer some day. Add to that the look of Stephen King in the late 80s, and sprinkle in the aura of American Psycho - the literary version not the movie version. Now this creature you've created in your head - let's add some more to him - give him a gun and a job that makes that gun perfectly legal. Now, we're not done quite yet and I bet you're already creeped out. The final piece, add a hint of neediness - and make him as socially awkward as possible. Note the visual aid.

Last night, I was standing outside of my local watering hole with my friend Kelly. As we're outside I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something Wicked This Way Comes. I look to my left and in the distance see the creep-mobile. One simple U-Turn and he's parked in front of us. All of the blood drains from my head and hands, and it's not even me he's stalking. My friend, however, had departed a little early for the evening so he was in the clear, but there I stood, armed with only nouns and verbs - staring in the face of - well that dude you just created in your mind's eye.

I informed him that the person he was looking for was not there. And then...

"Well, I'm sorry he's not here because I actually came to apologize to the both of you for Sunday night."

As the words poured out of his mouth like molasses out of a barrel, I couldn't help but step in the mess being created by them. My thoughts sticking to the sidewalk. Shoes of verbs stuck in the viscous glue. Seriously, what do you say to that? What can you possibly say that won't invite the evil to continue the conversation or worse.

I opened my mouth to reply and bees poured out. Bees brandishing their stingers like warriors preparing for battle. But something held them back. They got caught in the molasses, their little wings stuck.

"Don't worry about it. But thanks."

More was said, but the important thing is that I didn't spew word vomit at him, nor did I shoot cocktail daggers into his eyes.