"I said 'Open up, Wise. It's me, Hagle. I've got a cold'.... Never
mind, Wise, never mind."
* * * * *
But you don't want to hear about all that. You want to know about what
happened in the relief office. There's not much to tell.
I picked up the check from the guy's desk and looked at it. Nine
fifty-seven to buy food for two weeks. I griped that it wasn't
enough--not enough to keep alive on and save eighteen seventy-five
clear in a lifetime.
The slob at the desk said, "What have you got to complain about? You
got your health, don't you?"
That's when I slugged him and smashed up the relief office, and that's
why the four cops dragged me here, and that's why I'm lying here on
your couch telling you this story, Dr. Schultz.
I had my health, sure, but I finally figured out why. If you believe
any of this, you're thinking that the Hexers must have laid off me,
which is why I'm healthy. I thought so too, but how would that add up?
Look, I tried every way I could to raise eighteen seventy-five to buy
a government bond. I never made it I never made it because I wasn't
_allowed_ to.
But I didn't know it because I'd been euchred into the Foundation for
the Treatment of Hagle's Disease. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, all
earmarked for one purpose only--treating my disease--and I haven't got
any!
Or maybe you're figuring the way I did, that senility is a disease, and
all I have to do is wait for it to creep up on me so I can get some of
that Foundation money. But the Hexers have that fixed too, I'll bet.
I'm not sure, but I think I'm going to live for centuries without a
sick day in my life. In other words, I'm going to live that life out as
poor as I am right now!
It's a fantastic story, Doctor, but you believe me, don't you? You _do_
believe every word of it. You _have_ to, Doctor!
Because a persecution complex is kind of a disease and I'd have to be
treated for it.
Now will you let me out of this jacket so I can smoke a cigarette?