So, there we sat turned towards the other, the story-teller and the listener, that we had become — probably to some surprise for both of us. My whiskey was ended, but I wasn't interested in any more, I wanted to keep my head clear from now on.

"Well, is there any particular story you would like me to tell?", Patrick said after a moment of silence. "Any special piece of clothing you're interested in hearing whom they belonged to and how they got into my closet?" His quirky smile was ever-present on his lips now, and I was getting really irritated over it. I could tell he really enjoyed telling me about this very special hobby of his; this was probably his first chance to do it, something he had been forced to - no pun intended — 'keep in the closet'. But still, I played along in this game of his. I couldn't help being interested in hearing some more. 'Just one more', I told myself.

I went through those dresses I had seen in his wardrobe looking for my wife's black piece of clothing. There weren't many that had caught my interest except for one, and I didn't want to go in these once again, so I picked that one: the police uniform. "Okay, tell me how you got over that uniform. Which masquerade-outfitter did you steal it from?"

His face turned to show some fake kind of offense, and his voice had some strange Shakespearian tone in it when he answered "Do you take me for a liar? I insist, those clothes have all belonged to others, and all my stories are quite true!" After a brief pause, he continued, "But I take you want to hear of how I robbed a police officer of all her clothing? Well, let me, then." With that, he began his story.