Enthusiastic at first, Garcia’s feelings about the Make-A-Wish folks became more and more complicated over the course of the day.

First off, even Garcia could see this was not a child, no matter how many times “Timmy” said “I am a young child,” or pooped in his pants. The chest hair was another clue, as was the fact that “Timmy” had driven himself to the meeting.

Second, he didn’t look sick. Garcia was a nice guy, so he didn’t say anything because you’re not allowed to call people on that without a shit-ton of evidence. But “Timmy” didn’t look sick: he looked like a shirtless middle-aged man wandering around Garcia’s house fondling things and not wearing a shirt as loud as he could.

Third, even he were a child, even if he were sick, no one had as a dying wish: “Lemme take your guitar out the shed and fuck on it for a while. Good long while. Timmy gonna get his fuck on, Garcia…”

(It should be noted that “Timmy” had not broken eye contact with Garcia for quite some time, nor had he broken hand contact with his own crotch for the same amount of time.)

“Listen, man,” Garcia started, searching for Parish or a bat or Billy. Any weapon would do.

“Garcia, listen to me: my name is Jimmy–”

“Timmy,” Garcia said.

“–whatever, and I am a small male youth who is suffering from a disease and you need to let me take your guitar out to the shed and fuck it in the ass.”

We’re done here.

Just because you’re bored and weird doesn’t mean others should suffer.