Lies were so simple.

Rémi says this after we reach his office, having barely made it through the traditionally-simple-but-presently-perplexing keycard system, through the Halls of Erudition to his humble home in academia.

Rémi tells me he created a System, when he was my age, perfected it. Every lie must have enough truth to resemble reality, and any holes must be easily fillable should interrogations commence.

There was nary a situation I could not explain away, he says, not a loophole I couldn't find, no logician that could prove me wrong; my only adversary would have been an investigative journalist, he continues, someone with the audacity to research my every move, and in my darkest days of deceit, I would even account for that unseen nemesis, ensure that Sherlock himself could only find his own asshole, nothing else.

I did the scot-free dance on the daily, he admits, and I tell him that his candor almost makes him seem youthful.

He swings his right fist into my left arm, I jab back, and we break into hysterics, like hyenas dosed with helium and Heidegger.