Murder For Revenge

Marina stared at the boy’s aggrieved, tearstained face. Mucus leaked alarmingly from his nose. What had he said? He had said… what?

Yet even now a part of Marina’s mind remained detached, calculating. She was shocked by Derek’s confession, but was she surprised? A lawyer is never surprised.

She said, quickly, “Your mother Lucille was a strong, domineering woman. I know, I knew her. As a girl, twenty-five years ago, she’d rush into a room and all the oxygen was sucked up. She’d rush into a room and it was like a wind had blown out all the windows!” Marina hardly knew what she was saying, only that words tumbled from her; radiance played about her face like a flame. “Lucille was a smothering presence in your life. She wasn’t a normal mother. What you’ve told me only confirms what I’d suspected. I’ve seen other victims of psychic incest-I know! She hypnotised you, you were fighting for your life. It was your own life you were defending.” Derek remained kneeling on the carpet, staring vacantly at Marina. Tight little beads of blood had formed on his reddened forehead, his snaky-greasy hair dropped into his eyes. All his energy was spent. He looked to Marina now, like an animal who hears, not words from his mistress, but sounds; the consolation of certain cadences, rhythms. Marina was saying, urgently, “That night, you lost control. Whatever happened, Derek, it wasn’t you. You are the victim. She drove you to it! Your father, too, abrogated his responsibility to you-left you with her, alone with her, at the age of thirteen. Thirteen! That’s what you’ve been denying all these months. That’s the secret you haven’t acknowledged. You had no thoughts of your own, did you? For years? Your thoughts were hers, in her voice.” Derek nodded mutely. Marina had taken a tissue from the burnished-leather box on her desk and tenderly dabbed at his face. He lifted his face to her, shutting his eyes. As if this sudden closeness, this intimacy, was not new to them but somehow familiar. Marina saw the boy in the courtroom, her Derek: transformed: his face fresh scrubbed and his hair neatly cut, gleaming with health; his head uplifted, without guile or subterfuge. It was the only way to stop her loving me. He wore a navy-blue blazer bearing the elegant understated monogram of the Mayhew Academy. A white shirt, blue-striped tie. His hands clasped together in an attitude of Buddhistic calm. A boy, immature for his age. Emotional, susceptible. Not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. It was a transcendent vision and Marina knew she would realise it and that all who gazed upon Derek Peck, Jr., and heard him testify would realise it.

Derek leaned against Marina, who crouched over him, he’d hidden his wet, hot face against her legs as she held him, comforted him. What a rank animal heat quivered from him, what animal terror, urgency. He was sobbing, babbling incoherently, “-save me? Don’t let them hurt me? Can I have immunity, if I confess? If I say what happened, if I tell the truth-“

Marina embraced him, her fingers at the nape of his neck. She said, “Of course I’ll save you, Derek. That’s why you came to me.”

Shel Silverstein

The phrase ‘Renaissance Man’ tends to get a bit overworked these days, but apply it to Shel Silverstein and it practically begins to seem inadequate. Not only has he produced with seeming ease country music hits and popular songs, but he’s been equally successful at turning his hand to poetry, short stories, plays, and children’s books. Moreover, his whimsically hip fables, beloved by readers of all ages, have made him a stalwart of the best-seller lists. ‘A Light in the Attic’, most remarkably, showed the kind of staying power on the New York Times chart-two years, to be precise-that most of the biggest names (John Grisham, Stephen King, and Michael Crichton) have never equalled for their own blockbusters.

And there’s still more: his unmistakable illustrative style is another crucial element to his appeal. Just as no writer sounds like Shel, no other artist’s vision is as delightfully, sophisticatedly cockeyed.

One can only marvel that he makes the time to respond so generously to his friends’ requests. In the following work, let’s be glad he did. Drawing on his characteristic passion for list making, he shows how the deed is not just in the wish but in the sublimation.

The Enemy

A man had an enemy

Whom he loathed, hated, and despised beyond words

And so he plotted and planned his revenge

Every morning he would wake and make lists

And every afternoon he would add to them

And every evening he would sit with his shoes off

And have a nice cup of tea

While he honed and polished them

And, oh, his dreams, his richly vengeful dreams

Of shooting him

And watching him die quickly-ha ha

Or poisoning him

And watching him die slow-ooh

And hearing him beg-ho-ho-ho

Or crushing him

Under a cement steamroller-squish-splish

Or knifing him

And seeing his blood spatter-mmm-mmm

Or bludgeoning him

And seeing his brains scatter-oh, yes-oh, yes

Or snapping his neck-crrrack

Or tearing out his heart-rrrip

Or puncturing him to death

With a very small pin-he-he-he

Or impaling him

On a jagged, rusted, faeces-encrusted iron fence-yeow

Or setting him on fire

And hearing him sizzle-sssss

Or injecting him with rare and excruciating diseases-oh, yeah

Or imprisoning him in a sewer-starving him

Until he ate raw sewage

Until his stomach exploded-ka-boom

Or electrocuting him

And seeing him jump-jerk-sparkle-ahhh, beautiful

Or cutting his throat

With a butter knife-yuck-a dull one-yuck-yuck

Or disembowelling him-oh

With a garden trowel-oh-oh-a dirty one-oh-oh-oh-a dirty rusty one-ahhh

Or dropping him from a plane-whoosh

Into a sea of vomit-splat-glub-glub

Or amputating his body an inch at a time

Starting from his toes up-hey-hey

Or a centimetre at a time

From his head down-yep, yep, yep

Or a millimetre at a time

From his fingertips in-wheee

Or sewing a hungry rat up

Inside his belly-uh-huh

Or choking him to death with a giant slimy boa constrictor

Until his neck squished to putty

And his face turned purple-and his eyes popped out

And his bodily fluids squirted, gushed and geysered

From every orifice

He began matching the deed to the day of the week

Sunday-stabbing

Monday-mauling

Tuesday-throttling

Wednesday-whipping

Thursday-tarantula

Could a live tarantula fit into a man’s ear?

Would a transplanted shark foetus grow

Inside a human being?

And what about pinching?

Can one be pinched to death?

Prodded? Poked? Scratched?

These were possibilities worth considering

And tickled-to watch him expire while

That mouth laughed uncontrollably-ha ha ha

But the eyes-the eyes wouldn’t be laughing-oh, no, no

On special occasions he thought of skinning him-alive

Then rolling his body-not gently-in rock salt and honey

Then suspending him-by a barbed-wire rope

Over an anthill under a hive of killer bees

With a sex-crazed syphilitic gorilla sodomizing him-ha ha

And if he moved forward a giant crocodile

Would snap his head off

And if he lay flat the ants would gnaw him

And if he raised up he would hit the hive

And the bees-the angry bees-would get him

And if he stayed still, the panting drooling gorilla

Would love him to pieces

And if he screamed he would wake the hungry hibernating Kodiak bear

Who slept fitfully at his feet-ha ha ha

Oh, what thoughts he had.

And time went by

And then one pleasant evening

While he luxuriated in thought