Being an American I had to kill. No self-respecting Dice Man could honestly write down options day after day without including a murder or a real rape. I did, in fact, begin to include as a long shot the rape of some randomly selected female, but the dice ignored it. Reluctantly, timidly, with my old friend dread reborn and moiling in my guts, I
also created a long-shot option of `murdering someone.'
I gave it only one chance in thirty-six (snake eyes) and three, four times spread out over a year the Die ignored it, but
then, one lovely Indian Summer day, with the birds twittering outside in the bushes of my newly rented Catskill
farmhouse, the autumn leaves blowing and blinding in the sun and a little beagle puppy I'd just been given wagging
his tail at my feet, the Die, given ten different options of varying probabilities dropped double ones snake eyes: `I will
try to murder someone.'
I felt acute anxiety and excitement combined, but not the doubt in the world that I would do it. Leaving Lil had been
hard (although I sneer at my anxieties now), but killing 'someone' seemed no more difficult than holding up a drugstore
or robbing a bank. There was a bit of anxiety because my life was being put in jeopardy; there was the excitement of
the chase; and there was curiosity: what person shall I kill? The great advantage of being brought up in a culture of
violence is that it doesn't really matter who you kill: Negroes, Vietnamese or your mother - as long as you can make a
reason for it, the killing will feel good. As the Dice Man, however, I felt obligated to let the Die choose the victim. I
flipped a die saying `odd' I would murder someone I knew, `even' it would be a stranger. I assumed for some reason
that the Die would prefer a stranger, but the die showed a `one'; odd - someone I knew.
I decided that in all fairness one of the people I might kill was myself and that my name should take its chances with
the rest. Although I `knew' hundreds of people, I didn't think the Die intended me to spend days trying to remember all
my friends so that I wouldn't deny any of them the option of being murdered. I created six lists each with six places for
the names of people I knew, I put Lil, Larry, Evie, Jake, my mother and myself at the top of each of the six different
lists. For second names on each list I added Arlene, Fred Boyd, Terry Tracy, Joseph Fineman, Elaine Wright (a new
friend of that period) and Dr. Mann. For number threes: Linda Reichman, Professor Boggles, Dr. Krum, Miss
Reingold, Jim Frisby (my new landlord in the Catskills) and Frank Osterflood. And so on. I won't give you the whole
thirty-six, but to show I tried my best to include everyone, I should note that for the last six on each list I made six
general categories: a business acquaintance, someone I had met first at a party, someone I knew only through letters or
through reading (e.g. famous people), someone I haven't seen in at least five years, a CETRE student or staff member
not previously listed and someone wealthy enough to justify robbing and killing.
I then casually cast a die to see from which of the six lists the die would choose a victim. The die chose list number
two: Larry, Fred Boyd, Frank Osterflood, Miss Welish, H. J. Wipple (philanthropic benefactor of the Dice Centers) or
someone I had first met at a party.
Anxiety flushed through my system like a poison, primarily at the thought of killing my son. I had only seen him once
since leaving so suddenly fifteen months before and he had been distant and embarrassed after a first leap into my
arms of genuine affection. He was also the first dice-boy in world history and it would be a shame .. . No, no, not
Larry. Or at least let's hope not. And Fred Boyd, my right arm, one of the leading practitioners and advocates of dice
therapy and a man I liked very much. His in-and-out relationship with Lil made the murder of either him or Larry
particularly unpleasant; to murder Fred seemed motivated and was thus doubly disturbing.
Anxiety is a difficult emotion to describe. The colorful leaves outside the window no longer seemed vibrant; they
seemed glossy as if being revealed in an overexposed Technicolor film. The twitter of the birds sounded like a radio
commercial. My new beagle puppy snored in a corner as if she were a debauched old bitch. The day seemed overcast
even as the sun reflecting off a white tablecloth in the dining room blinded my eyes.
Still, there was a Die to be served. I prayed
`Oh Holy Die,
Thy hand is raised to fall and I thy simple sword.
Wield me.
Your Way is beyond our comprehension.
If I must sacrifice my son in thy Name, my son shall die:
lesser Gods than Thee have demanded thus of their followers.
If I must cut off my right arm to show the
Greatness of Thy Accidental Power, my arm shall fall.
You have made me great by thy commands, you have made me joyful and free. You have chosen that I kill, I shall