If the rain falls on the just and the unjust alike, then does it not follow that the warmth of the sun fail to lift every even the crudest spirit.
It’s the kind of a question that a thinking person ponders as he or she goes for a stroll through the city after a light spring rain, filling lungs with a rare breath of fresh air, and seeking the common thread of humanity in the endless faces that stream by on a freshly washed sidewalk. It is not, however, what Barry is thinking. As he lumbers down the sidewalk, Barry is thinking about Cotton Candy.
Barry has been thinking about Cotton Candy for three weeks. Not off and on, but straight. At night he goes to sleep with visions of spun sugar dancing in his head. And when he wakes in the morning, the pink confection is still at the front of his mind. No matter where he goes or what he does, the thought of cotton candy is with him.
This thought had been introduced by an attempt at hypnotherapy. You see, Barry is a very violent man. And, as a condition of his parole, he has been ordered to see a psychiatrist. At his last visit, the psychiatrist asked Barry to think of a pleasant memory from his childhood. Barry had responded “Cotton candy.”
“What is it about cotton candy?” asked the psychiatrist, feeling that he was finally getting somewhere with a difficult and uncommunicative patient.
“Stacy bought.”
Now the psychiatrist is excited. Barry never really speaks in sentences longer than two words. To get two, two-word sentences in one session — let alone in a row — well, the shrink feels like he’s really getting somewhere. So he decides to dig a little deeper in search of the mother lode. “Can you tell me another pleasant memory about Stacy?”
Unfortunately for the psychiatrist, and more unfortunately for his office, Barry doesn’t have any other pleasant memories of Stacy. And as he searches for them through his small, yet very unorganized brain, he becomes uncomfortable. Barry starts breathing erratically. He snorts and shakes his head from side to side. “This is good,” says the psychiatrist, “Work through it. Let it come.”
Barry has no idea what this means. To be fair, even the shrink doesn’t know what it means. It’s just one of those things he says. But when Barry leaves his office by walking directly through a brick wall, all his clever mental health clichés desert him.
Barry has been recommended to Edwin Windsor by a former client who is currently being held in EnSuMac. EnSuMac is the unofficial term for the Enhanced Super Maximum prison where Barry was incarcerated. Edwin has developed an outstanding relationship with a few of the guards and inmates who have the eye and aptitude to spot talents that a man like Edwin can exploit. Barry shows remarkable potential. No one really knows how strong or destructive Barry really is, but in prison the guards went to great pains to make sure Barry didn’t get angry.
The rumor is that Barry had been granted early release, not because he had reformed or changed in any way, but because the warden was not at all sure his prison could contain Barry. And the warden is smart enough to know, it’s better not to have Barry’s eventual escape on his record. Ship the problem to someone else. Even if someone else turns out to be a defenseless and unsuspecting public.
All of this information only serves to heighten Edwin’s interest. He has watched Barry from afar, but has yet to interfere. Edwin believes that every man must make his own choices. All he can do is to present the options more clearly. Ultimately, responsibility lies with the individual. Edwin is very careful not to get his hands dirty. After all, that is not his role. He is not a villain. He is merely a consultant.
Barry can almost remember that he has an appointment with Edwin. But it’s not clear. His thoughts never are. But he has this generalized feeling that he has somewhere to be. He’s pretty sure his destination is in the direction he is walking, but he can’t get a grip on it. As he lumbers along the sidewalk, a beautiful little girl crosses his path. She is holding a beautiful little kitten. Barry has limited experience with beauty, so he doesn’t really know what do to. He stops before he tramples her and just stands there, breathing through his mouth. The little girl is terrified. She holds the kitten up to Barry. “Do you want to pet my kitty? His name is Candy.”
As if it is the most natural thing in the world, Barry eats the kitten and keeps walking.
For a long time, Barry thinks about how scratchy Cotton Candy is. Then he remembers that the address of the place he needs to be is written down on a piece of paper in the wallet that hangs around his neck. For the next twenty minutes, he terrorizes passerbys by walking up to them and shoving the wallet in their face. “Where?” he demands. Eventually someone points him in the right direction.
The security guards at Windsor Tower have pretty much seen it all. Even before Barry shows them his paper, they are pointing towards the express elevator to the penthouse. The sooner they get this guy out of the lobby, the less likely whatever it is he’s going to do will be their fault.