There I stood behind him—he sat in a chair (with thin wooden legs, in the middle of the room, they looked thin anyhow compared to his body, a blackboard behind me, he was facing the window). I coddled him into telling me I suppose—I flowered him with praises, plus his seclusion helped, I’m sure. He was an only child, with a private education. He had his moments, so I learned, with bursts that terrified his parents. Yes indeed, he had quite the inner life; one he could shut down in a minutes notice, or open up if he had the edge. But that, the day I strangled him with my belt, he did not have the edge, unless he felt he did because he was four inches taller than I, and one hundred pounds heavier. This most likely fostered some kind of freedom, but did he not have the imagination, that I would, or could try to kill him, he was vulnerable you know. Oh well, I will never know. Now will I.

His childhood development pattern was for the most part, hideous, he‘d tare apart wooden dressers, under fits of anger, wait for his parents, or babysitters, and try to strike them with the objects. Until he was put into Juvenile custody, and locked up in a child center for behavior modification; consequently, that is when he learned he needed an edge, lest he find himself back in the institution.

At any rate, here he was, and here I was, he sitting in a chair, myself behind him and he says, “Yes, sir, I killed them all….” About that time I had leaned forward on the chair—my weight on its wooden back, my hands gripped tightly—I got, a grotesque feeling in my lower abdomen, I found his spirit, it was now connected to mine, his evil one that is (I visualized his tongue sagging out of his mouth, like a dead bull), then my nerves started crumbling—as time went on and we continued to talk, I created (in minutes I would think) a plan, design like a poem, to do away with him. Our comradeship, as he thought we had, which was really a client-ship, suffered at that moment, my genius developed a scheme to kill him, the lyrics were real sensational: “…kill his will, and you kill the madness of the bull (inside of him).”

Oh, yes, the will, the will, the will, I said to myself, gazing over his shoulders, the notorious will, its door (his door) will never close to murder; and for myself, this ill-regarded poem made sense to me. In all practicality, I had to kill him; at the moment his pampered childish state was acting out, he was dependent on me for the most part, at this instant, though I had to be over careful: next, I made a decision knowing he would not assume responsibility—never would he, I mean.

Chapter Three

So it was at this moment I quickly seized my opportunity. I had studied at all the best universities in Peru—all which is, that Peru had to offer in higher education. Studied with American as well as with Europeon scholars; we talked a lot in those days, discussions on behavior development, modification, decadence, sensitiveness, social comparison, Operant Conditioning, discernment, changing formal reasoning, hypnosis, psychosis, neuroses, depression: you name it we talked about it, if it was in our professional area. Yes, I quickly seized the moment, knowing nothing would work in the long run for my client, this architect of destruction—I say nothing, therefore, our society would feed him, cloth him, and in ten-years, set him free to slaughter again, he was better off deed, than a burden to the tax payers. Yes, yes, I came to regard him as a carp, scavenger of sorts, and Satan’s invisible hand.