to be mailed with the hair from my mustache that sticks up

Orlando looked nine feet tall from my place behind the desk. I had been working the job for almost a year but I wasn’t really ready for this. My supervisor is in the room with us, trying to talk to him. His words are tangential, disjointed. In the business we would say that he is “responding to internal stimuli”. He tells us that there is a man in the streets who wants to murder him and he’ll have to do something about it. My supervisor asks why and Orlando tells him it’s because of a girl. “Have you been with this girl?” my supervisor asks. “I smashed it once,” he responds, and my supervisor (brunette, young, from the suburbs) just nods her head and I try to stifle a laugh. A psychiatrist comes into the room and that’s when Orlando leaves. Earlier, when it was just he and I, he stared at me and told me about Iraq. “When I close my eyes all I see are the letters K-I-L-L”. The cops pick him up a few days later and he’s in the hospital.