[ WP ] A teenage boy confides in his best friend that he is the Antichrist .

`` I am an anarchist,'' said Petey. 
 
 He had a knack for a lack of a tact, I'll give Petey that much. He did n't sit me down and say, `` Cunio, I have to tell you something but you got ta promise me you will never, on your mother's grave, relay these words to another living soul, so help you God.'' He did n't say, `` Cunio, I am leaving tonight. You will never hear from me again. I am trusting you this letter but you must not open it until you have received word of my death. Once you have opened it, you and four other friends to whom I have entrusted matching envelopes, must never, for any reason, overlay the five letters and hold them up to the sunlight and then voice the ninth word from each sentence. Some things must be taken to the grave forever.'' Or anything sensible at all. 
 
 It all started with Mr. Betling introducing us to that accursed Diogenes of Sinope, it was clear now. And here I thought Petey was n't even listening. Why copy off my test when you've taken the trouble to run the material through your veins and become the embodiment of its filthy doctrine yourself? An anarchist in my own town, for the love of God. 
 
 `` And I am an antichrist,'' Petey continued. 
 
 Petey was now not content to simply lack the appropriate ladle from which to pour scalding crude oil on the withered, seltzered seagull of my heart. The fucker *literally sang it to me*. 
 
 As it is the thirtieth anniversary of that fateful night and an apocalypse has not visibly transpired, I have gathered the gumption to venture outside of my bomb shelter and mail this one letter to you and yours, Chief Gregory Urfslaught of the Department of Homeland Security. His name is Petey and he lives on 134 East Riverside St., or used to.
