Capital Question

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“The detective’s cabinet stood in the next room, all desperate to hear my story, all because they wanted another disturbingly satisfying tale for their book of serial killers, a new good boy gone bad. They wanted my tally. They wanted my methods. They wanted wanted wanted and I had given them nothing.
“I could feel that they spoke with one another with severity. I could taste their adrenaline in the air that I breathed so greedily. I could smell the sweat as it dripped from their clean, unsoiled bodies. I could hear it in their voices, firm and striking, resilient yet waning. Like a mask they wore their poker faces, but little did they know I could see past every one of their facades. I knew their tactics so well. Each move they made was bold, and unforgettable. Experts, I knew, would have applauded their efforts. But I am no expert. I am a God in this game.
“Their persuasion slid into threats. Threats into deals. Deals into feigned disinterest. Finally, their persistence amused me enough to give them a single sentence, one that could explain the entirety of the situation at hand.
“There is nothing so forced, yet so innately natural, as following the path to your darkes desires.’
“They sat on it for days, whispering to one another about hidden messages or my own lunacy.
“But I stand here now, looking at the people around me. Or should I call you that at all? You have gathered to witness a death, no? I pose a question for you then: “What makes your reason for causing a death any different than mine? Do you dare to say it is just? If you knew what my victims did, you would say it was just in my cases as well. And yet you sit before me, like a circus crowd, jeering and smiling at my remarks. Sure, Hell is real. But I will see you there.”






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