There is a depressed Nazi werewolf that lives in my head. He has dark blond hair and his every movement speaks of precision and a near-anal attention to detail. He drinks a lot of whiskey and smokes a lot of unfiltered cigarettes. For every one he smokes, I smoke half. He's been camped there for four days. I can't make him leave.

A hero resides in another corner of my brain. He is tall and carries himself with an easy grace, self-assured. His grey eyes peer out of a profile similar to that of a bird of prey. He also drinks a lot of whiskey and smokes hand-rolled cigarettes. For each one he smokes, I smoke half. He's been camped there for three days. He won't leave either.

I am going to get imaginary lung cancer. And imaginary cirrhosis of the liver.

Just another sacrifice to the great game.