“Anything can, yes,” Randolph agreed. “But the mad do seem to die rather more undignified deaths than those who are perfectly sane.” Randolph looked at the dress and gun in his locker and noted with a detached and slightly muted sense of amusement that it was probably far too late to worry about either his sanity or dignity—he could not think of a noted psychologist who would not take exception to a man who delighted in dressing as a woman (all the better that Randolph took no note of other’s opinions of him, really, be they noted psychologists or anything else), and he’d never managed anything but tragic indignity where Pepe was concerned. Only his lack of dignity in regards to Pepe truly bothered him.

Randolph shook his head, as if to clear any stray unwelcome thoughts from it, then turned to the man. “I’m Randolph, by the way,” he said. “Randolph Skully.” And his mother was likely turning over in her grave, given how long it had taken him to properly introduce himself—she’d raised him to be more mindful of his manners (and his name, for that matter). Then again, she’d also raised him to be many other things he’d also failed to become. She likely rolled over in her grave daily, in regards to man Randolph had become.