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**12-24-2014, 07:00 PM**

“Ye who enter,abandon all hope.”
― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

Who is Patrick Kissinger? That’s a good question. Who am I? Some days, I don’t even know the answer to that one myself. It’s all a matter of the mask I throw on, which face of the thousands in my wardrobe I show the world. Good samaritan, charming socialite, family man? I have all of those and more at my disposal, and even though I say this outright, that there is very little about me that’s genuine, I want you to know that I am being completely open right now. So, with that out of the way, let’s take a look into the psyche of Patrick Kissinger.

Jump way back in time to 1317. Now, before you assume that’s where my story starts, slap yourself. I know there are folks here in the XWF who claim to be hundreds of years old, or to be demons or any other sort of wild and fantastical phenomena, but I am not one of them. I like my lies to be at least slightly believable. No, 1317 is estimated to be the year in which Dante Alighieri wrote The Inferno. You all know the story there; Poet is escorted through the levels of Hell and sees all the horrors the sinners face for eternity.

Now jump to 1861. Gustave Dore publishes his illustrated version of The Inferno. Now, readers can see how one man pictured the horrors that another man described. And now, hundreds of years after The Inferno was first published, it still influences how people think of Hell, whether they even believe in it or not.

“How is this important?” I hear you ask. Another fine question, might I add. Though, this one has a much more straightforward answer. Think about it. A piece of fiction, written centuries ago gives us our way of viewing our potential afterlife, especially if you add in the rest of The Divine Comedy.

All it takes is a good story to change how you look at anything.

So now, jump to no time in particular. No place in particular, just my old shithole apartment. Shithole because I can’t be assed to actually take care of it and yet I bring my then-girlfriend Carrie or Christine or something that started with a hard C sound, probably, over for, for whatever the hell I decided to bring her over for. She notices the state of the apartment right away and that’s the first thing she comments on right as she steps through the doorway. Some thinly veiled cheap shot at the type of person I am, because she loves her passive-aggressive remarks more than I love myself. So, of course, I put on the mask best equipped to deal with the situation and make some self-deprecating joke that I hope will lighten the mood because the last thing I need right now is some fucking cunt I don’t even like all that much criticising me for every little thing.

Here’s the fun part.

I could say the joke landed perfectly, and she sucked my dick on the spot because it was oh so fantastic and how I’m such a humble guy. Blow smoke up my own ass until I’m able to communicate danger to a pack of Comanches. Talk about how everything always goes my way because people don’t even try to stop me because no one can. Y’know, I could Austin Fernando my way through the rest of this thing.

Or, I could talk about how it failed, and in a fit of rage for having to deal with her bullshit for one second too long, I stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a dirty knife and stabbed her until my whole floor was painted red. About how I laughed and laughed as I did it, before pointing up to the sky and feeling the approval of some imaginary, arbitrary, generic deity. I could cause so much Hysteria right now, if I really wanted to. Or, would I be pulling a Duncan B. Deadly in that situation? I can’t quite tell.

Maybe, I could say that I convinced her to join my suicide cult of the aforementioned generic higher power like my name was Aaron Underwood.

Though, my favorite option by far is telling you how I never even had a girlfriend because I have absolutely zero personality because my name is OC Koopa (yeah, really).

Point is, I could spin the story in any way I very well choose because stories are all we have. All we are is what we say we’ve done because who can tell us otherwise? Carmella isn’t here to vouch for the truthfulness of this account, thankfully, so I could’ve gone down any of the roads I listed and plenty more and you would all be none the wiser to any deception.

You know the phrase “History is written by the victor”?

Well, obviously that isn’t true because the Civil War is, in Southern textbooks, known as the War of Northern Aggression.

History is written from the point of viewer of the recounter.

And that’s who Patrick Kissinger is.

The recounter.

I am everything I need to be when I need to be it. A human chameleon, if you will. And the best part is, every word out of my mouth will be lapped up even when I admit it’s all a lie. So, this little confession is absolutely meaningless.

Just like your claims of superiority, Austin.

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