Listen to what he has to say.

"At least, you're not psychic in every aspect. Psychic ability can be very narrow, working only under certain conditions and for certain tasks. Yours, obviously, doesn't like guessing what's on the back of fiftytwo square sheets of plastic."

"What are you saying, then?" you ask.
"I'm saying that you're a PUSHER, my friend. A pusher. Like me."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you can read thoughts and emotions, but more importantly, you can PUSH thoughts and emotions into people's heads."
Rrrrright...
"Right."

That seemed strangely familiar. Well, nevermind... It's time to scrutinize. You ask him how he knows all this.

He slaps you in the back of your still dizzy head. "Weren't you listening? I said I can read thoughts and emotions! You asked me at the party what my secret was. Well, here it is."

This is his secret? Telepathy? Mind control? It seems far-fetched, but it was -twice- that you saw this guy in the company of -women,- and not even the same ones. A quick glance at him is enough to tell anyone that he isn't much of a looker, but still... telepathic powers? And he's saying that you can do these things too?

He nods his head. "I don't think there are many of us out there. On move-in day, I felt a disturbance in the ****-- no, I'm just kidding. But I did feel something. Something I hadn't felt since I was a child, before my mother died.

"I called out to you, do you know?" You didn't come to my room because you were lost. And you didn't see me at the party just by luck."
"You mean you were controlling me?" you ask.
"I was -guiding- you. And the itch, well..." he suppresses a snicker, "I was just messing with you. I'm sorry about that."

That ordeal was pretty fuckin embarassing. Well, at least he's being much more congenial now. Hell, maybe you'd do the same thing in his position...

"As the most gifted, highly-evolved upperclassmen of the human race, we have knowledge and abilities far beyond what anyone else can understand. I believe it is our duty to share that knowledge, and our prerogative to enjoy the -use- of that knowledge."

There is an awkward silence, as you try to take all that in. You must still be **** on the sidewalk, dreaming. Maybe if you're lucky, the whole telepathy exam was a dream, too, and you're still in bed, getting over your hangover. Maybe if you're even luckier, the hangover was also just a dream and...

"Well? What do you say?" asks King What.

He looks on you with sympathy, understanding that these are some pretty radical ideas being presented. He says that he knows how you feel, and hands you a card:

"Michael Hersh
Mind controller extraordinaire
(555)555-555"

Well that's not something you see everyday. He hands this card out to people? He laughs. "No no... just you. Call me when you turn around."

"Or I'll just come see you in your room," you suggest. He lives on the same floor, afterall.
"Room? What room?" Odd that King What seems genuinely unknowing, for once.
"You live in 250, right? Remember on...-move-in day-...?" That day was unforgettable in more ways than one. Oh wow, was that only yesterday?
Hersh furrows his eyebrows in thought. Does he really not remember? "250? Oh! -That- room! Move-in day! Haha. Yah, that wasn't my room."
Hersh smiles stupidly and scratches his head, as if embarassed. "Actually I don't have a room."
No room? "Where do you live then?" you ask.

Michael Hersh edges away from you. "Anywhere I want," is his reply. He turns and walks away. You never even told him your name. Maybe he knows it already.