Theodore's roommate took to pranking him with the omni-ventriloquism trick he'd developed, which got old quite quickly. Imagine sitting in the kitchen, at the table, finishing a crossword puzzle that makes you feel woefully inadequate. Imagine having every object in the room abruptly start to mutter at you as if under their breath; the blue tea kettle your sister gave you for Christmas. The microwave. The block of cheese that your roommate still hasn't put in the fridge since he used it last night. Imagine all these pinprick voices referring to your indiscretions, your secret fears, the ugliness of your individual body parts. This was Theodore's life now, rubbing his temples while his shoes demeaned the smell of his toes and the crossword called him names. The pencil, well, the pencil made terribly unfunny Freudian references. This was all Lyle's doing with his ability to throw his voice about simultaneously. As a result, Theodore felt it best to execute him. There would be no time to practice the weird technique with Lyle nursing a major chest wound and a disgorged heart leaking rotten blood onto the bathroom floor. Unable to think of a suitably ironic means of death, Theodore bludgeoned him with a frying pan -- a frying pan that pleaded with him for its life as he brought it up and down -- while he screamed "I can't hear you." The whole thing was a bit embarrassing in retrospect, but Theodore could, afterward, walk into a room crowded with knick-knacks and antiques without being concerned they'd make reference to his hairline.