Wednesday, 26 June 2013

25th June 2013 - I probably wouldn't have killed him



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It’s not just that I hated him: If I had merely hated him, I probably wouldn’t have killed him. Wait, no; that’s a lie. I would have killed him anyway. But if he hadn’t embarrassed me so badly, I probably wouldn’t have taken such extreme steps with the body. 

Anyway, as I was saying, there was more to my contempt for this man than the usual juices of hatred. He really rubbed my fur the wrong way: My blood boils even just thinking about the injustice that he wrought with such exquisite care, and used to cuff me with such ease. It was embarrassing, undignifying, and I’ll be damned if I ever apologise for absolving that little piece of human shit excrement of its earthly duties. They’ll take me to the chair before I recant!

It probably all started in July at some stage; I was sitting in a restaurant with my loved ones when he walked around the back of my chair and sneezed on the back of my neck. I couldn’t believe the cheek of him—a deliberate act it had been, of that I was sure. Being of a strong moral character (I had been taught, at the point of the belt, by father dearest, never to let a man use me as a rug), I accosted the man at his table and demanded an apology for his vile actions. The man seemed somewhat shocked—bullies aren’t used to being pulled up on their deeds—and apologised instantly, claiming lack of intent to harm.

It was, without a doubt, the most dubious and insincere apologia ever produced since Christianity was first put on the defence by the forces of Enlightenment; a frothy rage descended over me: A cloud of red shrouded my eyes, and I became icy calm. With a voice that started calmly, I slowly reached an ireful crescendo and bellowed down at the man from the heights of my just rage. Next thing I knew, I was being dragged out of the restaurant by two burly waiters—the chap was clearly an influential guy, and had paid them to manhandle me like so many boxes.

As it turns out, my hunch about the guy being influential was right: He was an economist with a weekly column in a big-wig paper. His name was Xavier Something-or-Other. And, boy, did he use that power to humiliate me in a shower of self-righteous obloquy the following weekend. He was clever about how he went about it—no room for a libellous accusation—but the intent and meaning was clear enough in any case, if you were willing to scratch a bit: That week’s column was about the necessity of bankers apologising to the masses for wholly inappropriate conduct. As if that barely veiled message weren’t enough, the beginning letter of every second line spelled out my name (one of the lines used a ‘K’ instead of a ‘C’, but the man was clearly a jabbering simian—asking him to spell correctly was beyond the troglodytic processing power of his brain).

My husband tried to convince me that I had gotten the wrong end of the stick, but he calmed down sharpish when I accused him of being in cahoots with this Xavier. I clearly was onto something with that jab, but I never found the time to get to the bottom of it; now, the needle that they will jab into my arm tomorrow will prevent me from ever getting to the bottom of that mystery. I suspect that my husband was disloyal from the start; he had probably been poisoning the kids against me, too. It’s a shame that I’ll never know the truth, but at least I righted one wrong in the world.

I turned up at Xavier’s house with a well-worded letter; handing it over in person, I asked him to read it, and consider publishing it as a response to his column in next week’s edition. I didn’t bother dancing around the issue like he did: My letter was direct, to the point, and stated very clearly my grievances and the desired reparations. 

Alas, Xavier insisted on denying any connection between the article and his scandalous actions in the restaurant. He slammed the door in my face, but that wasn’t the last that he would hear of it. In order to make my point, I tracked down his kids’ school and left a message with his youngest daughter to give to her father: just a simple letter with the words “I will have my justice” written in red ink.

Next thing you know, Xavier slaps me with a restraining order. At first, I thought that it was some kind of sick joke—surely, no man could be powerful enough to influence our courts. But, apparently, this Xavier chap had more connections than I had previously thought.

Pops had always taught me that right is might, and I knew right then and there that this Xavier was a cancerous wart sitting on the anus of mankind, and that it was right for me to efface the memory of him from the annals of history. I bided my time, and waited until I knew that I could catch him on his own: I followed him into the countryside as he went on a fishing trip, alone, and approached him as he sat by the placid lakeside with a fishing pole.

The fear on his face was obvious right from the start: He knew that the avenging angel of justice had finally found him and would punish him for his calumnious deeds. You could, at least, say that I was merciful; a quick shot to the back of the head with a hunting rifle, and the deed was done. An icy calm descended over me, and I felt no remorse, merely a cold, calculating ruthlessness. His death had been too easy, compared to the pain that he had caused me. Taking a hacksaw from the back of my car, I cut his body into pieces (that took a long time) and hid them in freezer bags in the back of my car. That was cathartic, and the world seemed restored to some sort of partial equilibrium.

The trial, to be frank, is a bit of a blur and I don’t remember much of it. The term ‘court’ is probably overly generous in any case, it would be better to call it a kangaroo court; mutilating the body might have been, I admit, a touch too far. Nevertheless, I had exorcised a tortuous demon from humanity’s soul: I expected no more than a slap on the wrist. Instead, I am sitting here in this cold jail cell, awaiting a pleasant jab from a lethal needle tomorrow morning. I am not afraid to go: I know that I acted rightly and justly.

I scribble these final words in my own blood as my ultimate appeal to reason. You, dear reader, now have in your hands the documents that will help to right a wrong. In the hope that you are an honest person, I beg that you do your utmost to correct the official record, in order that my reputation may be posthumously restored to good standing and exonerated.

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