With a few brisk strokes, I found my leather belt un-clipped, and in my hands, and then I looked, —I mean, I stared at his thick obscure bronze neck. It would take me three minutes—that is all, just three long, very long minutes, I did not know at the time, but a lot of images would flash into my subconscious during those long, long minutes. He talked very little towards the end of the session, or last session, almost daring me, yes, that is what he was doing, daring me—boldly, and silently daring me: he was like a dead ape in that chair—a smart bold childish dead ape, that sat up straight—erect, in an ironic pose—

I suppose what he did become was a devotee of mine, he sat in a liberated way, and I put the belt around his thick neck quickly, and hung on for dear life, like a wild bull ride I thought we’d have (I was ready), strange he was, puzzlement, his eyes popped out, his face thinned to an assortment of dim colors, his tongue hung loose after it all, like the dead bull I talked about before. The child was gone now, my poet instinct also. I may have been his closest, if not only, friend, so he thought; a product and residue of prolonged psychotherapy—a conjecture.

He remained in the chair, perhaps by inertia—I don’t know, but he did not have my protectiveness anymore, nor did I balance him after my pursuit with my hands; when this war was over, it was simply over, or call it psychological difficulty, in any case, I felt an exhilaration; to this day, this very day, his presence still haunts me, extremely at times, as if he had some kind of black magic spell cast upon me, before he died.

Conclusion:

There are tales of horrible about this strange fellow, tales such I dare not repeat, he was easily aggravated by the fact he knew he’d die insane, under rather queer circumstances, perhaps; even, conceivably me killing him was his so-called expected future ritual I do believe—we provoke people to such stages you know, provoke them to kill is, in fear, we have to do it ourselves, although he did not say anything to that affect, he never would. That is to say, he did it, now he wanted to experience the other side of it, a speculation of course, but perhaps a good one. I mean all he had was facial rumors and whispers from his dying victims to stop, but he never asked me to stop, and he never stopped for them. Fiendishly done to his liking, curious things like this is of course baffling to me, but it marvels the mind, especially when one finds out it is more truthful than thought. On the other hand, bad reality for some I expect: idealism for others. What can I say? He was most unusual, but I had never had a case like his before, He was, beyond question, a genuine psychopath. Consciously I did the right thing, but I question: was it worth only a bowl of soup [?]

Notes: Dennis Siluk has had many discussions with the actual psychologist whom was accused of murdering the Butcher of Lima, whom served his prison time and now is out free, and sells his books in the parks of Lima, Peru. The Psychologist has been to his house for breakfast as they’ve talked on such matters, and here he produces in historical fiction form, how he sees the events unfolding to a horror that took place in Lima. Written in Lima, Peru, 10-23-2006. Conjecture, and facts are mixed.