"So you came to my house to talk to me about what, Michael?"

"It's Amanda. She's… she's… Lester, I don't know why I'm here actually." I was sitting on his bed with the same checkered sheets as last time. I wondered if he constantly washed them or if he had more than one set for they were always clean and crisp.

"Then why are you wasting my time? I have day trading to attend to." He rolled his wheelchair back to one of the three screens he connected to the computer. All three of them were on. The first one, the one on the left, labeled 'A', showed a ticker that was a mad display of green and red. The second was a graph of the BAWSAQ. Monitor 'C' showed one particular stock that I didn't take the time to read.

"I am not wasting your time. Things are all serious in my house." I couldn't think of a way to say that more intelligently. Fuck, not it like I give a shit.

"What? You mean like how you're not even living in that house anymore?" His eyes did not leave the stock market on the screen.

"And how the fuck did you know that?" The question came out of my mouth with, not rage, but its opposite, laughter. Trust me; I wasn't angry about how he could have known. This whole town figured shit out before the people involved knew what the hell was going on.

"I know everything, Michael." That was a matter of fact. "And now, you're here to pick my brain about what to do?"

"Well, if you know anything, oh magical and perceptive being" I could fell the derision creeping into and overwhelming my speech, "What the fuck should I do about my cheating wife, my daughter who may not be mine biologically, and my son who's always drunk to escape whatever the matter's with him? What should I do you wise sage?"

"Well, when you put it like that, shit gets hard for me decipher." He took no interest, more like, actively ignored my sarcasm. He still had not turned around from that damned computer. It was pissing me off a little bit, but I decided to ignore it.

"Well last thing first, what do I do with Jimmy?"

"He can go to meetings, Michael." His answer was quick, almost a little too quick. He, at least turned his chair around with him. He spoke again, chuckling, "Perhaps you can go with him."

"Fuck you." I said, trying stifling a laugh with little effectiveness.

"Well, I'm pretty sure you got the kit and did your own test."

"You would be right about that."

"With Amanda, I don't know what to say… uh… Do you love her? I guess… would be the first question." He stammered, and that was unfamiliar. This, apparently, was on place where Lester Crest was not an expert.

"Franklin already took me through that."

"Well then… oh… I've got it. One of the reason's you thinking about ending it is infidelity."

"Not making me feel better, man."

"Just fucking listen," He snapped the same way he did when anyone interrupted his train of thought, "Make a list of all the people you cheated with and all the people she's cheated with."

"How's this supposed to help me?" Seriously, how was it?

"I know that you like facts," he said as he reached to the shelf next to the computer, grabbing some, maybe five or six sheets, of the yellowing lined paper and a pencil. "I figured that if I let you outline the facts of this situation, you'll see what you want. So first I want you to make a chart. On the left, I want you to honestly write down all of the women you've cheated with. On the right I want you to write who Amanda's been with that you know of."

"Fine." I started writing. It took a few minutes, but goddamn it, it felt like school again. I was the apt pupil and Lester was the attentive teacher.

"Alright," he said sitting up in her chair, "Let's hear it."

"Well for me, one stripper."

"Alright, and for Amanda." His head was cocked to the left, as if he was trying to suppress a grimace.

"Amanda has cheated with, Fabien, her tennis coach that I paid $150 an hour, Jimmy's third grade teacher, that hippie Jesus wannabe at the pier, a guy called Cletus id Blaine County, the mailman, a pizza delivery boy, Jock Cranley, the cable car operator at Mount Chiliad, an Epsilonist, my barber, a tattoo artist, another Epsilonist."

"Michael, I get it." He rolled his eyes. "Now I would say to make a list for all of the reasons that you love her."

"This shit is too sappy." I said, writing.

"This is what happens when you come to me. You know that I don't have a clue about any of this."

"You don't have a clue?! You don't have a clue?! I come here to a man whose IQ is somewhere in the high 200's and you don't have a fucking clue. This is shit." Fuck this, I mean, of all people Lester should have been the more logical, most logical and methodical person in the bunch.

"No, I don't this is your problem and you don't have to come here and yell at me about having a shitty life! You can make decisions on how to rob jewelry store and super-banks and now your life is simple all you have to do is decide if you want a divorce or if you want to work it out. You know what, let me tell you something. When you have a disease that is literally eating your body from the inside out, you know what a shitty life is, and yours isn't it. Michael Townley!"

"Well, fuck, it' like no one wants to help-"

"I am sick of the damn pity. Stop pitying yourself. I don't know what happened, but the 'woe is me' has got to stop. You're a handsome white billionaire in his forties," The handsome part was a bit off-putting. I suffered him to continue, while suppressing the urge to punch him in his wheelchair, "and if and when you get a divorce I can fix your bank account to only look like you have a couple of million, and make that alimony more fair in light of her… infidelities. But you're about to say that you can't do it. Why?" Lester asked.

"I wrote it down before you started harping on me about how lucky I am." It seemed that without any conscious effort my voice had calmed down. I handed him the (now ruffled) sheet. The two words I'd scribbled in red ink were now a mirrored image in my face as he brought the paper up to his face.

"The kids," he said loud enough to tell me that he had not meant to say it aloud. "The kids?" His tone was mellow.

"Yes, the kids. I don't know how they'll take it. Tracey would probably never forgive me and Jimmy would just binge drink until he was in no pain."

"Hey," he said his tone softening, "You've got to give your kids more credit than that. They handled a 1,500 mile move to San Andreas, and then to the worst city in it, in the country, Los Santos."

"I guess. Look, I'm sorry for yelling at you. I guess I fell like a living, breathing piece of crap. I mean this is the first time in my life where I felt like I was in limbo, like a purgatory on Earth. It's like I'm trapped between a rock and a hard place. I know that I came to you for advice but I got a piece of advice for you."

"And what's that?" he asked turning his wheelchair back to the stock market.

"Don't ever fall in love. Don't ever get married," I said.

"That's two," he said

"And something else." I had just remembered something

"Yeah," he said distantly, now watching whatever he was trading.

"How do you hack into a computer?"