“Well, I had to be here,” he shrugged, “to make sure no one hari-karies themself on my work.”He nodded to my barbed assailant.“...You did th...s?” I asked, my eyes growing wide.As I’d explained to Marie following several tortuous interrogations, set design aside, Peter Mulgrave was an authentic artist. At fourteen he’d started welding metal sculptures at his Father’s salvage yard in Halifax. But this was the first piece of his I’d seen in person. It was impressive—and imposing.“So, what’s it. Suddenly I had a terrible urge to go to the bathroom. The champagne obviously not only had gone to me head but also to my waterworks.“I don’t quite know why I’m saying this but I rather think you masturbate a lot. Am I right”? I shook when he said that, beginning to tremble uncontrollably.“Yes. Yes I do. Lots”, I said almost inaudibly. I was shaking like a leaf. ”I do it every night”The boldness of this question made my urgency to relieve myself intensify, until I could hardly bear it any. More

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