“Fuck yeah! Did you see that?” Bartleby yelled after he had fired his rifle.

“Yeah, Bartleby,” I said, looking downrange at his kill, “that was an insane shot you just made. Really. Insane.”

“I know, right? I fucking LOVE deer hunting.”

“This is… it’s a little awkward, my friend.”

“What do you mean? This is awesome. Doesn’t that deer look appetizing down there? Let’s go skin that fucker and have some venison!”

“Bartleby,” I said, “I don’t think there are a lot of deer in this area.”

“Not anymore, not after all the ones I’ve shot today!” Bartleby said, elbowing me in the ribs.

“No, you’re right. You’ve really taken an industrious liking to this deer hunting of yours.”

“Man, I never thought it would be so much fun. This is addictive.” Bartleby stood up, his white pajamas covered in filth and ruined by a thousand ragged holes.

“Bartleby, this is The Hollywood Community Hospital.” I said, trying to guide the man back down a path I could follow. “Those aren’t deer. They’re— psychiatrists, man.”