I’m always amazed at what people won’t believe. Most of them won’t believe other people don’t care about their jobs.

They believe in UFOs, bigfoot, and astrology, but in the insane narrative of my father’s murder, the thing they won’t believe is his official cause of death: Killed Super Dead.

“He was a gay man in Montana-” I paused, finges to temples “-with a meth problem.” The fingers shot forward. “Absolutely no one gave a shit.”

“The police can’t just put ‘killed super dead’ on a death certificate,” said Allan.

“Yeah, that doesn’t make any sense,” agreed Saffron, his hippie girlfriend. “Why wouldn’t they just put suicide or OD if they didn’t care.”

“Because they didn’t care! No one cared! They didn’t hate him, they didn’t like him. He didn’t really exist to them. He was a thing to the cops, and no one would ever read his cert!”

“But they’re not allowed to do that,” said Saffron.