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his angry little hounds. Now, while I’m a big fan of wolves,
I’ve never considered myself a suitable analogue for the
hairy things. Besides, everything boiled down, we’re all
predators. And it should go without saying that any living
thing could be, from the right rhetorical angle, analogized
to wolves. It’s really quite a lazy comparison, if I’m being
honest.”
He carried on in a relaxed and casual manner, as if we
were old friends conversing over coffee. “Now, those that
I must rescue from the path most trampled, they could be
wolves—nearly programmed, from embryo to corpse,
to wander the paths they walk. No, that’s not quite right,
is it? They don’t even wander, those two-faced buffoons.
Wandering would imply that they begrudged chance some
teeny-weeny sway over their lives. But that’s rarely the case.
Never the case, actually. Well, until now.
“You know, Family Man, I never sorted out a life that
faced the right way before—those with only one face, I
mean to say. Take this one here, the one I’m wearing. It’s
the likeness of the Boiler Man. We met a short while ago.
Wonderful fella, I have to say. He exhausted every last bit
of his potential, practically wrung it out with his bare hands.
He was a man who willed his way through the world—
every curiosity satisfied, all chances taken. What the hell
business do I have with his face? Sure, I’m wearing it.
More as an apology than anything else. But he has no other
face, nothing hidden. He is what he concealed. And I killed
him—I destroyed what I’ve spent a lifetime promoting. And
yet, here I am—here we are—chasing victory over top the
bodies of our brethren. Still, I can feel the hidden face of
the world, the right one—slowly turning around, with every
“wolf” I topple. So, I suppose that makes it all just hunky-
dory! But perhaps you feel differently? Speaking of different,
I do sense a sort of incompleteness to you, a hidden face,
something I could properly wear . . . .

94 | Mark Anzalone