An antemeridian glow warmed my face and shook me from my slumber. I rose from my make shift cot of branches, leafs and a winter coat. The fading embers told me that the fire burned through most of the night. At once relieved and annoyed that natural forces could not finish off what a car wreck failed to do, I walked on towards the vibrant horizon, eastwards and homeward bound – all the while, slowly plotting my rival’s doom.
When you want someone dead, there is no rational reason why. Sources for murderous intentions can be narrowed to a few general categories: revenge, envy, and war - none of which are remotely rational; unless, of course, you put the proper spin on them. The fun of murderous machinations – of course it’s fun! – comes from concocting sanctimony in order to conceal, to justify, and to exult it as an almost honourable act. Convince yourself, convince the world.
“Yes, we’re sure the world is better off without so-and-so, but did you have to saw off his limbs, ground them in an industrial meat-grinder, and serve him as Hor' Oeuvres to his colleagues at a Fortune 500 luncheon?”
“Well, you see, your Honour, he was a lying cheating captialist pig who rogered all of his associates' daughters and a few of their sons. He sold poisoned candied apples to schoolchildren and lured the pretty ones with bags of candy. He shot the sheriff and sodomized the deputy. He kicked my dog and chased my cat away. He killed Jimmy Hoffa; he ordered the hit on JFK; he greenlighted Gigli.”
“Good God! Gigli! I certainly cannot convict you for having removed such unrepentant cruel-hearted scum from the face of the earth. Case dismissed!”
Ah, only if such a defence would suffice – I would get away with things worse than murder. So, back in the forest, I wandered eastwards until I came across the road, about ten kilometres from the spot where the car had careened off the highway. I pulled out my right hand, stuck out the thumb, and was ready to hitchhike the rest of my way back to Calgary.
