13

13

Copyright 2011 tj lord

Published by tj lord at Smashwords

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contents

can opener

look at me

trailer

the last party of nevin goldfarb

binge

liana

white lady

dead places

the bunkhouse

gravedigger

carnival

the town

13

can opener

Do believe me, don’t believe me. I met a lot of crazy fucks in prison.

Now, there are many different levels of crazy, and you have to be able to read people in prison. If you make a mistake, it can kill you. I read a lot of psychology books when I was in and I think it saved my life more than once.

I developed my own system of defining crazy. I had four levels. The first level was cool. Cool was the lowest level of crazy; I put myself as a cool. Cools are just that; they're only in for an average of four years, so they have incentive to behave. Cools usually have support on the outside; mine was Mom. She visited me faithfully and even sent me money. I was definitely a cool, even though I did five years.

In case you're wondering, there was no zero-level. Everyone inside is on some level of crazy. I promise you that.

Level two was twitchy. Twitchies aren't quite crazy, but they're on their way. They're jumpy, antsy. They're doing about eight-to-ten and often have minimal outside support. Twitchies are usually junkies, not major addicts, but they're always the ones trying to smuggle shit in, like this kid we called Uptown. He was a rich kid but got busted for possession of - I can't quite remember, but probably meth. He was damn jumpy.

The third level was mild-crazy, and that was the broadest category, at least in my book. Mild-crazies are nutso, but not dangerous. They're usually doing around fifteen, sometimes as high as twenty. Of course, there are some in for all day - that's life, to the innocent. If you can be in prison all day and stay mild-crazy, you're doing okay.

Mild-crazies are harder to define because everyone has a different perception of normal. For instance, there was a pair of lovebirds in the cell next to mine, Bubbles and Carol. Bubbles was a huge white gorilla, dumb as a brick but gentle. Carol - formerly Carl - was his bitch. Now that I think about it, I guess Bubbles might have been closer to cool. Carol was definitely mild-crazy, though; she screamed at anyone who came near Bubbles; he was her property. And God help you if you called her Carl or referred to her as a him.

The last level - the bad one - was dead-crazy. Those fuckers are the ones in for really dangerous crimes: the armed robbers, murderers, rapists, baby-rapers, shit like that. Most of them are doing all day, and most of them have no one on the outside who gives a shit about them. Dead-crazies have nothing to lose and they don't care about anything.

There are exceptions to every rule, of course. I knew a guy called Eyeball, because he had only one; he was a murderer, doing all day, but he got religion and turned into the biggest softie. Genuinely nice guy. Then you had guys like the Big Bopper; he was some corporate big-wig who was in for embezzlement. A pussy crime, you might say. Hell, no. The Bopper was a psycho. You fuck with him, you'll get cut. Scary fucker.

When Can Opener came to our cell block, I was on my third year. I got my jailhouse religion early on in my prison career, and I was serious: I took correspondence courses from a Bible college the whole time I was inside. I studied with a couple guys; Stickers, Pineapple Pie (don't ask), Don Juan, and Fred. Yes, Fred; he steadfastly refused to answer to any nickname. I thought it was funny as hell.

We were studying together in the chapel one night when Stickers mentioned our new blockmate.

Hear about the new guy? Calls himself Can Opener. Won't say why, but I heard he's in for something really nasty.

He flipped his Bible open and shut as he talked. The inside covers were covered with his namesake - mostly stickers of cartoon characters, but he'd take anything, even colorful stamps. Collecting stickers was a nervous habit; so was opening and closing his Bible. Stickers had a lot of nervous habits; he was a twitchy, a former junkie, now born again and trying to get clean. He said it had been six months since he'd had anything smuggled in.

Do we know anything else about this new guy? I asked. It never hurts to know who your neighbors are; after all, one of them might decide to slit your throat for no reason.

I heard about him, said Pineapple. I think he's a baby-raper. He's really weird, Dazzle. That was me. He'd be number four on your shit list.

It's not a shit list, I said. It's a crazy list. There's a difference.

Pineapple shrugged. Whatever, man. All I know is, we best be watching our backs around this crazy.

I didn't think too much about this Can Opener fella until the next week, when he showed up in my group.

If you don't know, therapy in prison is voluntary, but only kind of. If you're a sex offender, for example, and you don't complete their little sex offender therapy course, it can delay your release. That's not official and they'll deny it up and down, and whine and bitch about how disturbed we are to even suggest such a thing, yada yada. But we know. You participate if you want to emancipate.

Me? Oh, Dazzle was a good boy. I wrote every week about how sorry I was, how guilty I felt, how Jesus had changed my life forever. The Jesus part was true, but the rest of it was pure bullshit. I didn't actually do the crime, you see. My girlfriend had lured me into a kinky sex session, then claimed I'd raped her. I had her blood and skin under my nails. I plea bargained. I was just a kid and I was scared.

Okay. So my journal was full of crap. I couldn't even proclaim my innocence in therapy, because they don't want to hear that shit. There's a lot of shit they don't want to hear, actually. They don't want to hear that we're improving with therapy, for example. Now, in the real world, the normal world, therapists want to heal their patients. But prison is not the real world. Prison is an anti-world. It has a dimension all its own. It has its own god and its own rules and they often have very little connection to the outside.

Prison therapy is that way; it's diametrically opposed to reality. I learned words like that in prison; I never knew them before. I could barely spell before, but I'm teaching myself. I have a lot of time to kill.

Prison therapy is a joke. I keep dancing around the subject because it angers me to remember it. The therapist didn't even make eye contact with us. We went around in a circle talking about feelings that we pretended to have, we went around in a circle jerk wondering what song the asshole wanted us to sing this week. Dance, monkey, dance. Say you're an evil, deviant, disgusting pig. Say you deserve to be drawn and quartered. Say you wish you could give your victim a million dollars and lick their toes and beg for forgiveness.

The whole dance pissed me off royally. But I had to be good and act guilty and do whatever, because I was cool, because I only had three and a half years left, maybe; and because I still had people on the outside. I wanted out. So I sang and I danced. We all did.

Can Opener did.

The therapists love to hear all the gory details of our crimes. I think they go home and jack off at night when they get a really juicy crime. They loved mine. They asked over and over how it felt when I raped my girl; how it felt to slice open her flesh with my fingernails; what I was thinking when I ejaculated. And they wrote it all down, scribbling furiously in notebooks of their own, no doubt to read over later and masturbate. And you have to tell them. If you don't talk about your crime in intricate detail, they get really pissed off and say you aren't cooperating and threaten to throw you out of group.

You don't want to be thrown out of group.

That means you're a really sick bastard and maybe they should keep you longer. If you aren't willing to discuss the exact sensation of sliding a knife into someone's guts, you can't get better, apparently, and should be locked up until you're bitter and insane and ready to kill anyone who looks at you wrong.

Can Opener didn't talk about his crime, and they were very disgruntled with him. But he fed them just enough crazy shit to keep them from kicking his ass out. Also, they knew what his crime was, and it was really juicy, so juicy they were salivating to hear about it. They weren't going to kick him out. They were too horny for his dirt.

The first time I met him in group, he talked about cats.

When I was a teenager, he said, I went to a Christian school. It was halfway across the country from my parents. They sent me away because they were afraid of me.

The expected drone from the therapist: And how did that make you feel?

It made me feel like they were afraid of me. You idiot implied. "How was it supposed to make me feel? Can I please continue, or are you going to jump in and ask about my feelings every fifteen seconds?"

That woke the asshole up. Uhhh ... no, please continue.

Okay. My parents were afraid I was going to kill them in their sleep, so they sent me to a little Christian school in the middle of nowhere. It was right outside this little podunk cornfield town. It was an hour from the nearest McDonald's. I was supposed to get reformed and find religion and make everybody happy again. I really don't care for religion.

Can Opener was smart. Better, he was educated. I started listening to him just hoping to learn some new words.

"I did not fit in, unfortunately. I did well in my classes, but the teachers weren't too fond of me. They looked at me as though I were a nasty specimen of germ on the other end of a microscope. Rather like you're looking at me right now, doctor."

The doc was looking right at him, and it was just like that, like Can Opener was a new species of deadly spider. See, I can match synonyms with Can Opener. He taught me that, actually; he taught me a lot of things, most of which I wish I’d never learned.

The other students, he continued, "tolerated me, but only because they were all hoods, too. It was supposed to be a mission or something, but it had turned into an unofficial juvie hall. Minimum security. I take it back, the other kids weren't hoods; their families just suspected them of being hoods. If you have a meth habit at fourteen, you go to juvie, a real juvie. But if your folks think you have a meth habit, they send you to Grace Baptist School."

Oh, wasn't the therapist scribbling in his little jerk-off book.

"So we were all fucked-up, I suppose. There was a fat redheaded girl who had a sexual obsession. She was revoltingly homely, obese and prone to acne; but I think when she got fucked, she could pretend to be pretty. There were two boys who were lovers but had to hide their relationship from the independent-fundamental-we're-better-than-you-Baptist leadership.

Then there were the Asian kids. Korean, I think; it doesn't matter. They ate cats.

He paused and scanned the room, touching briefly on each face. What he saw must have pleased him, because he smiled thinly and continued.

"They turned up their nose at American food. After hours, they went out to the barn and caught cats. Roasted them and ate them, then sneaked back to bed. The barn wasn't used for anything, except storing a lawnmower. It was next to a cornfield, so it was full of mice; and the cats followed. The Korean kids started breeding them. They even kept the fat ones in cages, so they wouldn't have to spend a lot of time chasing their dinner.

One night I followed them out there. To gain their trust, I professed an interest in Asian cuisine. I wasn't hungry, though. I had another interest in the cats.

Paused again, and again with the thin smile.

I wanted to fuck them, you see.

The therapist stopped writing and looked up slowly. Can Opener was just looking at him, silently inviting him to ask.

Tell us about ... the cats, he said very quietly.

Why, thank you for your permission, said Can Opener. "I'll just go ahead and do that. When I discovered the cats, I’d just turned sixteen; but I’d been experimenting with sex since the tender age of thirteen. What I learned is that I have to dominate in sex. If I can’t play the dominant role, I can’t get off; and really, what’s the point of fucking if you don’t get off? Now, as you can see, I'm not a large person; I only weigh about a hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet. And that’s now. Then, I was just a kid, probably topping the scales at eighty pounds or so. At that point, I’d never yet found a partner small enough for me to totally submit.

But I realized my mistake: limiting sex to humans.

There was some murmuring in the group at this statement; we were some pretty sick motherfuckers, but most of us weren’t nearly that sick. Except the therapist. There was a thin gleam of greasy sweat on his forehead and he was leaning forward in his chair, his eyes riveted on Can Opener, who pretended not to notice.

"I dined with the Korean kids that night. Cat is … well, I don’t much care for it. Cats aren’t meant to be eaten. The meat is dry, stringy, and tough. Not very pleasant. The Korean kids professed to love it; but I noticed that they didn’t eat it every day. No, probably only three or four times a week could you find a small firepit in the barn with roasted catmeat on a spit. Usually Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday; it was like a long-weekend thing with them, for whatever reason. Anyway, my observation was that on Tuesdays and Wednesdays for sure, the barn was empty.

"So, on a Tuesday night, I performed my first experiment. I was fairly sure I’d have to kill the animal once I was done with it; my teenage dick wasn’t terribly large, but it was certainly larger than anything meant to be inserted into a small cat. I had a feeling I would be messing about pretty noticeably with the animal’s intestines. So I took a condom and a butcher knife out to the barn for my first feline lover.

"It was surprisingly gratifying. It was obviously small enough so that I could do anything I wanted to it. I had to end up making some … adjustments … with my knife before I could penetrate the animal, however. Its blood made a satisfying lubrication. During the act, something in the back of my head was screaming like a prisoner in a cage that what I was doing was beyond wrong, beyond sinful, in fact to the point of absolute depravity. I ignored the voice, because you see, that’s what crazy people do: they ignore the voice of reason, no matter how loudly it screams. And when you finally succeed in silencing that voice for good, why, all kinds of other voices come out of the woodwork; and these voices are very twisted, and they have all kinds of nasty ideas about how to spend your time.

Those voices – the replacement voices, the crazy ones – are why I’m here. And I think, good doctor, that I’ve shared quite enough for one day.

The therapist looked around as though in a daze. His pencil hovered above his notebook, but he’d been so engrossed in Can Opener’s story that he’d neglected to write it down. He muttered something – just a moment, please, let me write down this sick and twisted tale of debauchery so I can yank off to it later – and commenced scribbling in his book for a full ten minutes, maybe a little more.

That was the end of group for that day. We filed out, each careful not to walk next to Can Opener. Sure, we were rapists, murderers, thieves, and liars; but fucking cats? No, first slicing open their petite reproductive holes and then fucking cats? That was beyond us. We were afraid of Can Opener. He wasn’t part of any gang; he had no affiliates; he probably didn’t have the power to put out a hit on anyone. But we feared him. Because he was more wicked than we were, and we knew it. He was capable of anything, and besides, he was doing all day; he didn’t care what happened to him.

I learned something that day in therapy: there was a fifth level to my crazy-list, one beyond the dead-crazies, and it had only one term, and only one member: Can Opener.

My fear of him became a deadly fascination after the cat-session. I watched him, but from a safe distance, trying to figure out just how someone like him could even exist. I also wondered why he was here, and not in some mental hospital.

For the most part, he was quiet enough. He didn’t associate with anyone, and he didn’t participate in anything besides group. I could understand that, even respect it; after all, I mostly kept to myself, too. The only people I associated with were my Christian brothers; otherwise, my time was spent in quiet Bible study, lifting weights, or teaching myself chess.

The latter activity was how I learned a bit more about Can Opener.

Stickers and Fred were playing a game of chess one day, and they’d drawn a small crowd of onlookers. I was watching, along with Don Juan and Eyeball; about halfway through the opening Pineapple Pie pulled up a chair, and a few other guys dropped by; I didn’t know all of them, though I recognized a she-bitch who called herself Roberta.

It was an interesting game, because Stickers – twitchy little ex-junkie that he was – preferred speed-chess. We called his type blitzers. He liked fast moves and time limits, ticking clocks. Not Fred. He refused to play speed-chess. He was an older guy, in the system for most of his life, and a born-again Christian for most of that time. He was gentle and soft-spoken, a prisonyard gentleman. And quite brilliant on the chess-board. He was easily the best player on our cell block, maybe in the whole place. He won prison chess tournaments. You had to pay him to play him, he was that good. I watched him whenever I could, learning from his moves.

So that day, he’d agreed to play Stickers for a can of pop and a bag of chips. He liked Stickers, said the kid had real potential if he could just learn to slow down. Stickers was doing his best to think through his moves and not go nuts, but he was still moving way too fast. Fred was taking twice the time to move, and his moves were much better.

Stickers had just gotten his queenside bishop into a rather compromising position when Can Opener showed up.

I know it will sound silly, but I swear a draft of cold air followed that man wherever he went. He wasn’t a very imposing figure; slight build, only about five-foot-seven, gray-blond hair thinning back from a wide, pale forehead. Non-descript, even mild-looking. At the time, I didn’t even know what his crime was. Still, his monologue about the cats had rattled me, and I gave him a wide berth.

He stood over the chess board and regarded it in a knowing way. And I could tell that his look wasn’t full of bullshit. You get to know when someone really knows something, and when they’re just pretending to know. There’s a lot of pretending to know in prison, and old Can Opener wasn’t faking. Watching him watching the board, I suddenly had a feeling that he could mop the chess board with old Fred’s ass.

Stickers became extremely nervous with Can Opener analyzing his every move; he began to get reckless, and quickly lost himself a knight. Fred told him to slow down; but Stickers was just too twitchy. He forged ahead stupidly, trying to push a passed pawn to the end, not even realizing the trap Fred had set for his king.

Checkmate, said Fred.

Sticker’s eyes wildly scanned the board, hoping against hope that it was merely check; but no, he’d fallen into the trap. He smiled dolefully and shook Fred’s hand.

Good game, buddy, he said. I gotta learn to slow down. Maybe blitz chess is just my game.

Fred chuckled and started putting his pieces away; but as soon as Stickers had risen from his chair, Can Opener sank into it. He fixed his light-gray eyes on Fred and quietly requested a game.

I’m the reigning champ around here, said Fred mildly. You gotta pay to play.

Can Opener favored him with a thin-lipped smile. "I should tell you that I recently transferred from Fort Mason; there, I was the reigning champ. They pay to play me. However, I understand that this is your turf. Thus I propose a wager: I wager that I can checkmate you in fifteen moves. If not, I will pay any price you like."

Fred leaned back in his chair, raising his bushy white eyebrows. Fifteen moves, he repeated slowly. "Well boy, that’s quite a wager, isn’t it? And if you win? Do I have to pay you, then?"

Can Opener spread his hands and a slow, false smile spread across his face. He looked less like a man than like a shark with that smile.

Not at all, old man. All I want is a challenge. Surely you’re good enough to provide me with that.

Was Fred sweating just a little? Fair enough, he said. Fifteen move checkmate, or you owe me fifty tokens.

We all started whispering to each other. This was a high-stakes game. Fifty tokens equaled out to about twenty-five bucks’ worth of shit at the commissary. But Can Opener didn’t bat an eye. He just widened that terrible shark-smile and agreed.

I’ll even take black, he added, and that – well, gentlemen, that just sealed the deal for Fred. He couldn’t resist a challenge like that, so he set up the board and off they went.

Fred opened with his king’s pawn to E4, favorite move of the late, great Bobby Fischer, who always said the E4 move was the best, tried and true. Can Opener countered by mirroring the move with his king’s pawn. Then Fred brought his knight to F3, putting pressure on the black king’s pawn; a respectable move. Can Opener took his most logical multi-purpose move, bringing his knight up front and center, to C6.

With move three, Fred centralized his white bishop, transposing his opening into the very sharp Giuoco Piano. Can Opener did the same: bishop to C5. Now both opponents were targeting each other’s weakest square. Next Fred pulled out a brilliant bishop sacrifice by moving it to F7: he took a pawn and put Can Opener into check. Now Can Opener was stuck wasting one of his precious moves to save his king. He took the bishop with his king.

Fred glanced up from the board, a light smile playing about his lips. Four moves down, sonny. Hope you plan to pull something out of your ass.

Can Opener looked up to meet his gaze, but he said nothing. Trash talk is common in prison; but his eerie silence was strange and disconcerting.

Fred visibly tightened up. He moved his knight up to check the black king yet again. Can Opener took the knight with his own. Fred pulled out the aggressive okeydoke move: use the queen to first check the king, then take the knight. At this, Can Opener gave him an approving grin; then he moved his queen’s pawn to D6 to threaten the white queen.

Fred raised his eyebrows. Thanks for the free rook. He moved his queen to safety and snagged the rook.

Can Opener did not even appear perturbed, though this was move eight; the game was over half done, and white was up by four points. He moved his queen to H4. He wanted a scholar’s mate: both his bishop and his queen were aiming at the F2 pawn, white’s weakest square. Fred shrugged this off and castled.

Can Opener brought his other knight out to the middle, trapping the white queen. Fred brought his B pawn up to threaten the black bishop and nudge it off the A7-G1 diagonal. Can Opener didn’t take the bait. He moved his knight to G4, more interested in attack than defense. Fred caught him and brought up his H pawn to counter.

Knowing he had two pieces hanging, Can Opener checked the king with his bishop. The white king escaped to H1.

Getting desperate, aren’t you? asked Fred. Only three moves left.

Can Opener did not respond. He brought his other bishop out; but this move left his queenside rook wide open. Fred took it in disbelief.

You just wasted a move, he said. I’m up eight points, sonny. Not sure what your strategy is, but it ain’t working.

Guess you’re right, Can Opener replied, and promptly sacrificed his queen.

Fred stared at the board. Surely there was something he wasn’t seeing here; but ego took over and he took the sac, thinking that his opponent had a lot to learn.

Thank you, said Can Opener, and moved his bishop. Checkmate.

Fred laughed; what a clever jest. Checkmate, indeed. Then he looked a bit closer and stopped laughing.

With no rooks and no queen, Can Opener had cornered the white king with a knight and two bishops. Checkmate it was.

With a move to spare, said Can Opener. Thank you for the game, old man.

Without another word, he got up and walked away, leaving Fred puzzling over the board. Can Opener had certainly won our respect; and for me, at least, he’d won himself just that much more fear. Because a crazy guy is dangerous; but a guy who’s crazy and that fucking brilliant – that’s deadly.

But I wasn’t scared enough to leave it alone. A few days later I came across Can Opener in the library, reading a book of poetry. I didn’t recognize the author at the time; it was Coleridge. I know vaguely who that is now, because my wife reads Coleridge. I know now that Coleridge was crazy himself, writing shit when he was high on opium. So I guess it doesn’t surprise me that he was Can Opener’s favorite poet.

I approached him and carefully cleared my throat. Excuse me, I saw your game against Fred the other day. Mighty impressive.

He lowered his book and looked me up and down. They call you Dazzle, I believe. They all think you’re a fag, but you’re not, are you?

"I let them think what they want, as long as they leave me alone. But you’re right. I’m no fag. What I am, though, is a rookie chess player. I’d be very interested in purchasing a game with you; maybe learn a thing or two."

Or three, he agreed jovially. Well, I could hardly bear to charge you for a game, young Dazzle. You’re such a pretty boy. Perhaps an exchange of information would be more lucrative? I’ll play you a little game, and you tell me the worst thing you ever did.

In therapy – I started, but he cut me off.

None of that drivel, he snapped. "In therapy we tell the doc exactly what he wants to hear. We embellish our minor shit and hide our major shit. Why? Because we can’t stand ourselves. We can’t stand to hear our own true evil. I talk about the cats I fucked, I talk about the Satanic rituals I performed on small birds, I talk about the girlfriend I used to smack around a bit. What I don’t talk about is what brought me here. And they’ll go on waiting, because I won’t be discussing it in group anytime soon. Eventually they’ll kick me out of therapy; it may take years, but it’ll happen. And who cares? I’ll never be up for parole, and I know it. Why should I unearth my secrets to my captors?"

I’m not sure what I could tell you, I said. You already know the worst thing I ever did, and I didn’t even do it.

"Now that, he said, is interesting. I had a feeling you were hiding something in group, something the doc doesn’t want to hear. You can tell me all about it; and in return, I’ll give you a hot bit of gossip: I’ll tell you about my crime."

At that he smiled that terrible slow shark-grin, and I felt cold all over. I wanted to refuse but I was already in too deep. I wanted to know. Had to know. And I wanted to tell someone the truth, that I wasn’t a rapist, that I’d been framed by that bitch Mona. I had a feeling Can Opener would believe me, would believe every word.

We left the library and walked silently side-by-side back to my cell, where I had a battered chess board. We set it up; he generously gave me white, and we began to play. But I quickly realized that the game was just an excuse for his exchange of information; he was playing me, all right; even stopping occasionally to explain a move; but the purpose of the exercise was communication. For whatever reason, he wanted to spill his guts to an appropriately frightened listener, and I was it.

I began.

My girlfriend is a psycho, I said. "Well, now my ex. She gave me some dirty acid one night; well, okay, I bought it, but I let her split it up. There was enough for three trips each, but she tricked me into taking way too much. We started … hearing things. We were in my grandmother’s trailer; it was a weird place, always something not quite right. Anyway, Mona seduces me, demands that I scratch her, bite her; I do what she wants, I’m tripping, I think she’s just being kinky.

Anyway, after we fucked, I heard noises in the kitchen again. I went to check; when I came back, she was – she was possessed by something. She told me a ghost or a demon was talking to her, told her how to kill me. I ran. She accused me of assault and rape.

Can Opener was looking at me with great interest. You’re Jack Farley. I read about your trial in the papers. What an unfortunate situation. I wonder that your lawyer didn’t think to plead insanity.

I shrugged. Public defenders, man.

That made him laugh, high and shrill, for several minutes. I didn’t see what was so damned funny, but I didn’t want to interrupt him to ask.

He finally calmed himself, breathing in long gasps and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. That was good. That was very good. Public defenders, indeed. Well, I suppose it’s my turn now, isn’t it?

I said nothing, just watched him.

"I graduated from that shitty little Baptist school, but I didn’t go home. There was nothing for me in Maryland, except a pair of parents who couldn’t care less whether they ever saw me again or not. I hitchhiked to Toledo, Ohio. I don’t know why I picked Ohio, I just did. I got work as a janitor and found a tiny efficiency apartment. I got some student loans and worked my way through the local community college, graduated with a degree in criminal justice, minor in psychology. Isn’t that just hilarious? And I didn’t even have anything on my record that would suggest I was a ‘disturbed individual’.

"I got a job as a social worker of sorts; I drove around to the homes of people who were mentally ill but most self-sufficient. It was my job to make sure they took their meds, filled out paperwork, went grocery shopping, etc. Among these clients, I found my easiest victims. I didn’t even have to outweigh them: their mental deficiencies made them easy to dominate. There was one boy about twenty, big and stupid as a moose. I tied him up with duct tape and raped his ass for two hours. He never even cried boo. There was an old woman that I used razors on.

It was a rush, but I was always looking for more. I was fascinated by the concept of pain and possibilities. Just how much can the human body stand? This is what I asked myself. I was fair, too: I practiced on myself from time to time.

At this he whipped up his tee-shirt and showed me a network of scars crisscrossing his torso; he swiveled in his chair and I saw long burn marks on his back, as well.

Pain is relative, he said, pulling his shirt down. "And so is suffering. Everyone has a different threshold; some people can withstand extraordinary amounts of pain. For some people, it’s actually an art form. I’m thinking of Gina Pane, Marina Abramovic, Chris Burden – I find Burden’s work particularly interesting. He had one performance piece where his assistant would actually shoot him in the arm. In another piece, he was crucified – nailed to a car. Absolutely fascinating creature. He inspires me.

One day I was helping a client go grocery shopping and I saw the little girl. That, I think, was my turning point.

At the words little girl something turned over in my stomach. I wanted to stop him. I didn’t want to hear any more.

"She was two years old and she was lovely, a little Goldilocks, with big blue eyes and blonde curls. Just a little slip of a thing, toddling after her mama in the store. She seemed to me the absolute personification of angelic beauty. I became obsessed. I dragged my retarded client through the door, surreptitiously following the woman and her child, until they left. I marked down the license plate number of their car. I tracked them down and kidnapped the child.

"Once I had her back at my apartment, I wasn’t sure exactly what I meant to do with her. She was crying nonstop, of course; I couldn’t think straight. I gave her a cookie. That shut her up for a little while and gave me time to think.

"Well, I figured that as I’d already descended this far into debauchery, I may as well pull no punches. I undressed her, took a huge number of lewd photos. I was turned on, but not really by the fact that she was a child; it was her smallness that got me going. She was small like a cat but looked like a human. Granted, a very small human. Perhaps I should have just gone clean and married a midget or something. But that wasn’t me. I had this pretty little doll to play with, and I meant to have some fun.

I decided to have sex with her.

At this point he chose to study the chess board fiercely for a moment, and I thought that perhaps the remaining shreds of his conscience were eating at him. Then he looked up with his horrid glittering eyes and I knew better.

This man was born without a conscience.

I ran into the same problem I had with the cats, he said. "She was just too small. I couldn’t get in. I thought about widening the canal with a knife; but that had been done. It wasn’t original, you see. So I left her tied up in the bedroom and went rooting around in the kitchen. I wanted something … unique. Something memorable. I had a feeling down in my gut that this might be my last caper; my boss had been asking an awful lot of questions lately, and I’d gotten perhaps a bit too energetic with my clients.

I found a can opener in a kitchen drawer. I used it on her. It worked like a charm.

The edges of my vision turned gray as I unwillingly pictured the scene; the small child, tied up on a bed, her chubby baby’s legs spread open in a gruesome mockery of sensuality. Can Opener, bearing the weapon that would become his nickname. I couldn’t think beyond that; my mind simply hadn’t degenerated enough. I pray to God it never does.

I shoved back from the table and picked up my chess pieces with shaking fingers. Maybe I heard enough, I said. Thanks for the game, but I think that’s probably all I need to learn for right now.

He watched me with amusement. His cheeks were flushed a dark brick red; a flush of remembered lust, I thought, and shuddered. I was afraid to turn my back to him, but I walked away as quick as I could. I never told anyone; but he must have, because a week later the entire prison was burning with gossip about Can Opener. Shortly after that he got attacked; we don’t think too much of baby rapers. Even among the scumbags of the world, baby rapers are the bottom of the totem pole. After that was protective custody and a transfer for old Can Opener.

I didn’t hear about him anymore, and I was glad. Some people really push the envelope for evil. I’m not one of them.

I never forgot his story, though. And I never forgot that crazy chess game where he beat Fred in twelve moves. I went on to improve my own game, and in time, I became the reigning chess champ of the prison. By that time, there was no one left who remembered Can Opener; they’d all been released or transferred. No one recognized that I was using his moves. And I never told, because telling would mean remembering. This is the first and last time I’ve told his story, and I’m half-thinking about burning the fucking manuscript. Such a thing doesn’t really need to be known.

Or does it?

look at me

So you had Chicken, maybe; we played a similar game when we were kids, and it was called Look At Me.

My older brother Joe made it up. Joe made up the best games. He wouldn't always let me play, though; he was eight years older than me, and I was just a little kid to him. For instance, he wouldn't let me play Special Places. Only he and my sister played that, and always in his room. Joe was the only one of us kids with a lock on his door, because he was the oldest, and he always locked it during Special Places, so I couldn't play Peek on them.

That was my special game, Peek, and I only played it by myself. I pretended I was a spy or secret agent. I was the Peeker, and I Peeked on anybody I wanted. I Peeked on my dad when he was in the basement; I saw him drink a whole bottle of Wild Turkey one day. I didn't know what Wild Turkey was, because at the time I was just six, or just little, as everyone said. You're just little, you-can't-this or you-can't-that. I thought Wild Turkey sounded like an exotic perfume, so I sneaked downstairs and put some on my neck one day. It smelled awful, like a gas station, and didn't I get spanked for that - you bet!

I Peeked on my mom one day when I was home sick from school; the doorbell rang in the middle of the afternoon, and I wanted to see who it was, because my mom was always telling my dad that no one visits me in the afternoon, I don't know what you're talking about. I Peeked to see who No One was. It was the next-door neighbor, Mr. Hortsack. I don't know if that's spelled right, but I was just little. Mom said Jack is home, you have to leave and that was pretty much it. Except she kissed him before he left, and that was crazy, because my Sunday school teacher said that Mommies can only kiss Daddies and no one else.

I never told what I Peeked. Joe said I was a brat, but he said at least you're not a tattletale, Jack, thank God for small favors.

God. I'm regressing. This always happens.

All righty, back like Jack, that's me, as they say - well, I say, anyway. Maybe I didn't know what Wild Turkey was then, but by hell I know now, and thank God for small favors.

So Joe made up the game Look At Me, and Jamie - my sister - helped him make up the rules. That was the one game they always let me play; I think now because it was the most dangerous of our games, and they really were trying to get rid of me. I know that sounds crazy, but considering how the last game ended, I'm not so sure.

It started on a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon in March, and like many things that go awry, it started off innocently enough.

Innocent for our family, anyway.

Joe and Jamie had been locked in Joe's room placing Special Places for about an hour. I was pissed as hell at being excluded, because our parents were out grocery shopping and I had nothing to do, and no one to play with. We weren't allowed out in the rain because my mother knew someone who knew someone who had died years ago from the common cold, and no one thought to point out to Mom that it was now 1978, not the Stone Age, and people don't die from colds anymore.

Finally they came out, quiet and looking guilty as always. I was busting at the seams to ask them what happened, but they were stringent about keeping Secret Places just that, a secret.

When I think about it now I want to throw up.

But I was eight, and clueless, and pretty much all I cared about was having someone to play with. So I begged Joe to make up a new game for us. He agreed, if I would swap weekend chores with him. No problem, I said, you bet. He didn't know that I privately hated my weekend chore, which was vacuuming; I was afraid of the vacuum. I thought it would suck my toes into its innards and crush them. Of course I didn't tell anyone, because I didn't want to be called a baby; they