Haphazard Explorations & Experiments In Fiction
From my prison cell I replay the interview in my head over and over again. It wasn’t a bad experience, but I wish they’d sent someone smarter, or at least had someone with enough brains to put together a decent set of questions. Still, it got my face and my words into that most insidious of syringes, the one that only a few condemn. Half-heartedly too, ’cause even the critics lap that shit up. I’ve always been fascinated with it, how it injects its contents right into the brain of its users without ever having touched them. And how, in this day and age, so many people are shamelessly addicted to all of it.
♦ ≡ ♦
Sitting across from me, shifting her posture every few seconds, legs, the tilt of her body, she asks her first question with the camera rolling… “Mr. Sanders, do you feel any remorse for the crimes you’ve committed? Any guilt or regret whatsoever?”
That was her first question, to which I answered, “No. There’s a very important question you’ve got to consider here: by whose standards are these crimes considered crimes?”
I don’t know if it was the sincerity of my answer that started to wind her up, or if it was the implications of the question I had furnished – though it could have been either one, I can only assume she found my disregard and mocking of societal laws to be offensive. And this was fine. The more ruffled she got, the more enjoyment for me, and the more there would be for an audience to become engrossed in as they watched this.
Wide-eyes looking at me as though I were crazy she asked, “you don’t consider the things you’ve done to be crimes? I doubt the families and friends of your victims would feel the same way. I know I don’t.”
Looking into the camera, I said, “Well you, and the people touched by my actions, can feel however the fuck you want. I’m in prison lady, not out and about having to worry about one of ’em killing me, so I don’t give a damn what they feel. It’s not relevant. The fact is, as far as I’m concerned those weren’t crimes. They were explorations on the path I was meant to walk. I kill people because it’s my calling, because it’s one of two things I’ve ever been great at. I take the same pleasure in it that any animal takes in acting according to its nature and succeeding in the game of life…”
♦ ≡ ♦
That was just the first dose I shot straight into the arm of my country, my proud christian nation. And they fucking reveled in it. You see, I gave them just enough to get people hooked, and not enough to satisfy their hunger for more. I had left so many questions unanswered, and shocked everyone from the fat ass watching television at home on the other side of the continent to the reporter sitting across from me.
That was just the beginning too, and it was all shot live. Kind of tells you how fucked up people are that they’re so horrified by a guy like me that they can’t look away. That they demand to see more. How do you think I got a live interview? Popular demand baby.
Up until then I’d been so civil and polite to Beth. Stupid, stupid girl… she probably felt a simple human connection to me, what with our soft spoken back and forth banter before we got to work. Probably fooled herself into thinking I was a little like her. Human enough to care. I can only shake my head at that. They still don’t get it, do they?
I care plenty, but not about what people want me to care about. They can’t seem to figure out what I care about, or why, and maybe that scares ’em a little.
All in all though, I think this was a good start to pushing my own brand of intellectual narcotics. They’ll only want more from here on out.