Listen to Raptor, mon vieux. Don’t take this life so seriously, you’ll never get out of it alive.
I kill. Oh, I know. You expect me to add, Therefore I am. But that is nonsense. I do not kill out of any inner compulsion to give what that fool Hemingway called the gift of death. If killing is a gift, it is a gift to the killer himself, during the ritual frenzy of the hunt. Whoever considers Proud Death a gift to a healthy animal has no imagination and is already half in love with his own finis.
I am not. I kill-without pity, compunction, emotion or moral qualms, to be sure-but not because killing obsesses me. Just because, well… it is what I do. Previously I have done other things, perhaps in future I will do other things again. But for at least a few hours more, I kill. After that…
After that, well, tonight Will Dalton plans to give a lecture. A lecture on the nature of man in hopes of exposing, no less, the roots of man’s endless violence, perhaps man’s evil, and to draw some sort of inane conclusions from it.
No, no, my dear women, lower your knitting needles. I am sure he will not exclude the Fair Sex, the Better Half, the Little Woman, from his overview. I would not. When I say Man I speak not of gender, but of my own kind sui generis, as a class by itself apart from all else in Nature.
Separate, let me hasten to add, only in the way that a dog is separate from a stork. Not separate as the fallen angel of Religion (with an immortal soul breathed into it by God) is separate from the beasts of the field. And not separate as the risen ape of Science (last best result of evolution’s efforts) is separate from those same angels set twirling by Aquinas on the head of a pin.
Rather, I speak of man as fallen ape, of whatever sex he might be. Baser than heaven, baser than our primate stock, baser even than the slime from which both Science and Religion insist all life springs.
I admit that I speak to you now out of my own base pride in my own base actions, because I am vain enough to want to give you my version of events-small things make base men proud, you can appreciate the reference. And also, by showing it in action, my version of man’s nature to set against Dalton’s pitiable attempts at exculpation and justification for mankind.
But I grant poor fool Will life enough to air at least some of his views. Grant? Of course- I kill, remember? Before this night is over, Dalton will have joined the other dead, and my work will be done. Or I will be.
Does that give you pause? The assassin facing his own assassination? The policeman Dante Stagnaro will be at the lecture, peeping behind the arras and beneath the chairs for that murderous wraith Raptor, that mocking evil fellow who has haunted his dreams for lo these many months, yea, verily and forsooth, even moi, your humble servant. Shoot-out at the O.K. Corral.
But you have seen through my facade already, haven’t you, carcajou mauvais? You know that despite the front I put up, the easy amiability and the desire to please, I am self-centered and selfish and self-righteous. That I love wrangling and the utter bleak tension that goes with it. That I love to pile lies upon lies, thus justifying and excusing my own actions. That the self-lie is always preferable to other lies, because when one lies to oneself one need never confront naked truth.
But if I lie to you tonight, mon brave, and then die, my truth will never be known. So contrary to my own dark na ture, I must be totally honest. I must make you privy to my thoughts, memories, feelings, and reactions to those other deaths, seething in the dark of my brain during these past fifteen months.
So my story-like any good fairy tale-begins with
Once upon a time…