”I have no desire whatsoever to reform myself. My only desire is to reform people who try to reform me. And I believe that the only way to reform people is to kill ‘em.” – Carl Panzram
A man once said to another man, “I envy you. You aren’t weighed down by hopes or ambition. You just float along through life like a dead body in a river.”
Sorry that I inadvertently rendered everything you planned to say impotent, but I’m actually lying. I don’t care. You are, of course, an uninspired, uninspiring, pointless cunt. In case a certain female sausage casing disguised as a wrestler gets offended by the word cunt, let me clarify.
YOU. ARE. A. CUNT.
You aren’t the only cunt, but you’re one of the set. Keep buying happy meals, collect all four cunts in the cunt set. Then buy three more happy meals and scarf those down, too. Bobinette Carey knows what I’m talkin’ about.
I’m sure there are people actually offended by your lack of effort. Me? I applaud you. Be who you are, always, Robert. Never let anyone try to do anything silly like make you want to win, ever. We know what you’ll say, Arya. “That’s not me.”
Yes, I applaud you, Bobby.
You’ll be exactly what you want to be. A nobody.
“”When she died, all things soft and beautiful and bright would be buried with her.” – Madeline Miller
Whoever said that loss gets easier with time was a liar. Here’s what really happens: The spaces between the times you miss them grow longer. Then, when you do remember to miss them again, it’s still with a stabbing pain to the heart. And you have guilt. Guilt because it’s been too long since you missed them last.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds. We all know that’s bullshit; it comes from people who have nothing comforting or original to say.
The mightiest power of death is not that it can make people die, but that it can make the people you left behind want to stop living.
She was there when I was born. I wonder if my first breath was as soul-stirring to my mother as her last breath was to me.
I was tired of well-meaning people, telling me it was time I got over it. When somebody tells you that, a little bell dings in your mind. Some people don’t know grief from a bowl of cereal. There are some things a body isn’t meant to get over. It will never, ever fully go away. It’s like dumping a pile of rocks in your front yard. Every day you walk out and see those rocks. They’re sharp and ugly and heavy and you just learn to live around them the best way you can. Some people plant moss or ivy; some leave it be. Some take the rocks one by one and build a wall, and with what’s left, they bash someone’s brains in.
Yes, it feels good to heal.
My wife, simply put, was the one who had to put up with me. That she did so with love and patience and encouragement instead of strangling me, throwing my remains into a wood chipper, and then pretending she had never been married to me at all is a testament to the fact that she is, truly, the single best person I know.
Which made my manipulation of her that much more compelling. The manipulation of my wife was a joy to me. You cannot understand the feeling of elation and pure energy that burst forth from me in those moments. And finally, I looked her in the eye, and I told her “I will always love you.” Then I plunged the knife into her heart. It wasn’t as precise a blow as I would have liked, not with the way she was dodging. I struggled to get the knife deep enough to her heart, unsure if I could do it from this angle. Then, her struggles stopped. Her eyes stared at me, stunned, and her lips parted, almost into a smile, albeit a grisly and pained one, and she gasped out her last breath.
I looked at her, with her hair spilled out on the pillows and the fading warmth of her body warming mine. And I thought, goddamn, if this isn’t a hell of a way to be in bed with a pretty woman. The two of you arguing about murder and threatening each other, when you’re supposed to be in love and you could be doing something pretty nice. And then I thought, well, maybe it isn’t so strange after all. Maybe it’s like this with most people, everyone doing pretty much the same thing in a different way. And all the time they’re holding heaven in their hands.
I cradled her head, her dead eyes staring back at mine. I sunk to the floor, overcome, and laughed uncontrollably.
She was my first.
Brian, you say you like to reinvent yourself. I have a suggestion. Reinvent yourself as someone with talent. Reinvent yourself as someone who matters to anyone else at all. Reinvent yourself as “not a pathetic pile of dog crap.” Or do what you want. Become a dog catcher, a game warden, maybe the first wrestling lion tamer. Reinvent yourself, Brian.
And I’ll try to reinvent myself as someone who gives a fuck.
I appreciate your candor. I do.
I’ve already heard the one about how you aren’t scared by me in the least bit, because you fucking said it already, several weeks ago, when I took this belt away from you in the first place.
But, having my restraints removed for this ‘match,’ I am mostly thinking about whether I shall add to the disorder of the occasion by scattering your brains about the walls.
I can smack a hard, dull object right in the middle of your face and explode it in a sea of red before your reinvented boots hit the prison yard floor.
Reinvent, reinvent, reinvent. I’d love to meet the person who invented you in the first place. I would very much like to be able to go back in time and impale him on something and save the world from your existence. You, like the others, are a plague, Brian. I’m here now, and this company is moving up to a better class of criminal.
”Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever.” – Lance Armstrong
If you could read my mind, you wouldn’t be smiling.
You wouldn’t calmly put your sunglasses on to give a half-hearted speech about anything, ever.
I have been quite put out of my temper dealing with the lot of you, and someone ought to die for it. It isn’t civilized. There’s a time and place for everything. But your time is approaching faster than you realize.
Naturally, one does not normally discuss plans to commit murder with the intended victim.
Consider yourself a special case.
The question is, would anyone even notice?
You apparently used to get it up for big shows and big matches, but now it seems like you’re limp-dicking your way through everything.
You might as well quit while you’re behind, Jiles.
At the end, someone or something always gives up. It is the way of things. It is either you give up and quit or the obstacle or failure gives up and makes way for your success to come through. I’m not interested in making way for you, I’m very sorry to say.
You like taking the easy path. Giving up is easy. It’s in your nature. Slink away to the abyss, my friend. We’ll all shed a tear for you when you finally quit. Reliable people are so rare in this world.
You need vision to survive in this world, and no matter the brand name imprinted on the side, those sunglasses have not improved yours one bit. You are uncommitted and uninterested. If you’re not married to your vision, you’re fucking yourself and screwing your future.
So go on. Quit. Give up the ghost, motherfucker.
Quitting is your habit, Cancer Jiles. Play it again, Sam. Give us the hits.
It’s all you’ve got left anyway.
”It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.” – Voltaire
No one has ever been arrested for murder; they have only ever been arrested for not planning it properly.
Sloppy, lazy, prone to mistakes – the marks of an amateur.
On the whole, we are a murderous race. According to scripture, it took as few as four people to make the planet too crowded to stand, and the first murder was a fratricide. It says that in a fit of jealous rage, the very first child born to mortal parents, Cain, snapped and popped the first metaphorical cap in another human being. The attack was a bloody, brutal, violent, reprehensible killing. Cain’s brother Abel probably never saw it coming. As I left the trailer home we shared, my wife’s bloody corpse still fresh in the bedroom, I was filled with a sense of empathic sympathy and intuitive understanding. For freaking Cain.
Except for cases that clearly involve a homicidal maniac, the police like to believe murders are committed by those we know and love, and most of the time they’re right – a chilling thought when you sit down to dinner with a family of five. All those potential killers passing their plates.
What I feel is that if one has got to have a murder actually happening in one’s house, one might as well enjoy it, if you know what I mean.
I killed her because I felt I owed it to myself and to the world in general. I had, after all, accounted for two male drifters and thus done womankind something of a statistical favor. If I really had the courage of my convictions, I reasoned, I ought to redress the balance at least slightly. My wife was simply the easiest and most obvious target.
There’s no way you can kill someone and get to the other side of the experience unchanged. Play with murder enough and it gets you one of two ways. It makes you sick, or you get to like it.
I outdid myself with the apologies and the sob story to her family. To the untrained eye, I seemed sincere. The psychologists on the case found me much less convincing. They saw a psychopath. Classic. I even pulled the stunt of self-diagnosing to dismiss it. “I wish I was a fucking psychopath so I didn’t have any remorse,” I said. “But I do.”
Watching me say that made the doctor very very angry indeed. Remorse meant a deep desire to correct a mistake. I hadn’t done it yet. I excused my actions several times on the tapes. The good old doc was a tough one to rattle, but that got to him. “Those are the most worthless apologies I’ve ever heard in my life,” he said. It got more ludicrous later, when I willed some of my possessions to two of my buddies, “if you live.”
Mine is the name of the winking demon star, Medusa of the skies; fair but deadly to look on, even for one who is already dying.
Ah, the bright stars of the night.
Almost they obliterate the clear white pain. A thousand stars shining in the ether; but no dazzling newcomer. And so little time left, so little time…
Yet still, two-faced Medusa laughs from behind the clouds, demanding homage. Homage, Medusa, or a sword, a blade sharper than death itself.
The wind stirs. Night clouds obscure the universe. A lower music now, a different kind of death.
No more stars tonight. No more anything.
I am at peace, prepared for his calling.
I will answer it.
”Nothing gives a ruthless man more courage than another’s fear.” – Umberto Eco
Only an idiot would address a man who has literally killed dozens of people, and dismiss him as a threat. You can name-call all you want, but you are an intellectually deficient child. I have been imprisoned for the last ten years. I didn’t live in a prison. I didn’t find a nice apartment I liked and then stayed ten years because I liked the perks of a nice pool and a business center.
No, I killed people for sport.
You can make your snarky comments, but just so you know, I don’t respond to disrespect with witty quips and jokes. I respond by stabbing you through the face, removing your eyeballs, and then fucking the bloody holes. Do you understand?
All of the murders in the history of HOW do not even register as a tick on my ledger, and that’s not a threat, my dear Scotty. That’s just a fact of life. You’re a cartoon character. You’re a video game pixelated tough guy hardcore wrestler. I have been in prison for ten years, and I will still outfight you, outthink you, and tear the flesh from your limbs, all with my heart rate never going above 75. I won’t leave you with scars, Scott. I will take pieces of you and press them against the pages of my memory book. A bloody stump of you will forever be in my possession, and you will forever know the true meaning of fear, of power. I am everything, death and life to you, pal. You are nothing.
Believe me, it would be better if we didn’t meet again. Go back to school. Go back to your life. And next time they ask you, say no. Killing is for grown-ups and you’re still a child.