Nothing ever went right for Leslie. He had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. But unlike most schizophrenics, who had two or more personalities, Leslie had only the one.
“It’s not fair,” moaned Leslie. “Everyone thinks I’m so consistent. I’m always the same. Totally reliable. No interesting personality suddenly pops out of my boring veneer. No raging extrovert suddenly springs from my placid façade.”
Clearly, to be a schizophrenic with only the one personality was not a comfortable position to be in. It bordered on the depressing.
That evening, as happened on most Thursday evenings, Leslie helped out at the soup kitchen, ladling soup for the poor folk of the city. On the way home he threw poisonous pellets over the fences of dog owners.