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The headaches had been growing steadily worse and the clichés he used to describe them increasingly more bizarre. His vision had finally stopped tunneling, but that had given way to a certain smeariness, as if someone had rubbed Vaseline directly on his eyeballs. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, the smearing giving way to wavy starbursts and vaguely menacing shapes that reminded him of gaping, toothy mouths. The tumor was getting bigger, and when he put his fingers to the back of his head, he could actually feel it pulsing there, just below his skull, strangling the brain bits in its path.

He decided to call it Clyde.