Poets & Poems (by D. L. Siluk)) Part XIV) The Lima Horror
Poets & Poems
Globetrotter Poet
(By D.L. Siluk)) Part XIX))
(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)
[10-23-2006]
The Lima Horror [Revised]
Based on actual happenings, a startling story of intrigue,
From Lima, Peru
Chapter One
Like twilight, creeping over the countryside, so the insidious truth was revealed—but should it have been? Some levelheaded person would say ‘No! Murder is Murder!’ Many said yes.
It is true, that I strangled my patient to death, a client I should say, and yet I hope to show by what I got to say, I am not—in the true sense—a murderer, because I murdered. You might even say I’m someone’s savior, or hero. I have been called a madman, more so, than my dear client, whom I strangled at the prison sanitarium. In due time, I’m sure some of my readers will put fact on top of reality and come to the conclusion I am not a murderer, or executioner, as some have called me. They will even ask themselves: that thing he killed was a horror to our city (Lima) thank god it is gone; yet, up to now, I have seen nothing but mislead statements to the contrary; the rights of the criminal upheld, and of course our great and faithful ‘Human Rights Watch,’ groups take sides with the Butcher the demon.
I am not a psychopath, rather I am a licensed psychologist, or was before this happened; I am not sure—but let others tell it how they feel, I will tell it how I think—he was known as the “Butcher of Lima,” for a good reason too, a man ghastly fitting the name, for the many citizens he butchered, dismembered their bodies; even the police were at their minds end, trying to find and capture this killer, find out whom he really was; once found, they remained in doubt, for he would not confess to it, it was my job to open Pandora’s box—and I did; that is why, the police and the good citizens of Lima know in their hearts the truth of the matter—which of course is more infinitely terrifying than my getting rid of the menace, that is, had he lived.
So in all honesty, I protest the verdict of my sentence of ten-years in prison, and denounce the crime of murder; the murder of the Butcher, that is, I deplore it on the grounds I did the city a civil-service, purge the city clean—of this atrocious beast; now they put me behind bars, it is a blunt message to criminals, they can strike at will, and let the reckoning go on. In a way I sold my soul and career for a bowl of soup. Had I not done what done, what block of untold terrors would be haunting the city today. We shall never know.
Chapter Two
I had known the ‘Butcher,’ for but a short time, he was about my age, taller and stronger. He had a most phenomenal mind, one that shifted back and forth, like a yo-yo, from a child to a scholar; it was at times fantastic and then morbid, but always cast in iron, and it astonished me, until the day, that most impossible day, I cracked the cast and he verbally told me, “I am the Butcher!”
There I stood behind him—he sat in a chair (with thin wooden legs, in the middle of the room, they looked thin anyhow compared to his body, a blackboard behind me, he was facing the window). I coddled him into telling me I suppose—I flowered him with praises, plus his seclusion helped, I’m sure. He was an only child, with a private education. He had his moments, so I learned, with bursts that terrified his parents. Yes indeed, he had quite the inner life; one he could shut down in a minutes notice, or open up if he had the edge. But that, the day I strangled him with my belt, he did not have the edge, unless he felt he did because he was four inches taller than I, and one hundred pounds heavier. This most likely fostered some kind of freedom, but did he not have the imagination, that I would, or could try to kill him, he was vulnerable you know. Oh well, I will never know. Now will I.
His childhood development pattern was for the most part, hideous, he‘d tare apart wooden dressers, under fits of anger, wait for his parents, or babysitters, and try to strike them with the objects. Until he was put into Juvenile custody, and locked up in a child center for behavior modification; consequently, that is when he learned he needed an edge, lest he find himself back in the institution.
At any rate, here he was, and here I was, he sitting in a chair, myself behind him and he says, “Yes, sir, I killed them all….” About that time I had leaned forward on the chair—my weight on its wooden back, my hands gripped tightly—I got, a grotesque feeling in my lower abdomen, I found his spirit, it was now connected to mine, his evil one that is (I visualized his tongue sagging out of his mouth, like a dead bull), then my nerves started crumbling—as time went on and we continued to talk, I created (in minutes I would think) a plan, design like a poem, to do away with him. Our comradeship, as he thought we had, which was really a client-ship, suffered at that moment, my genius developed a scheme to kill him, the lyrics were real sensational: “…kill his will, and you kill the madness of the bull (inside of him).”
Oh, yes, the will, the will, the will, I said to myself, gazing over his shoulders, the notorious will, its door (his door) will never close to murder; and for myself, this ill-regarded poem made sense to me. In all practicality, I had to kill him; at the moment his pampered childish state was acting out, he was dependent on me for the most part, at this instant, though I had to be over careful: next, I made a decision knowing he would not assume responsibility—never would he, I mean.
Chapter Three
So it was at this moment I quickly seized my opportunity. I had studied at all the best universities in Peru—all which is, that Peru had to offer in higher education. Studied with American as well as with European scholars; we talked a lot in those days, discussions on behavior development, modification, decadence, sensitiveness, social comparison, Operant Conditioning, discernment, changing formal reasoning, hypnosis, psychosis, neuroses, depression: you name it we talked about it, if it was in our professional area. Yes, I quickly seized the moment, knowing nothing would work in the long run for my client, this architect of destruction—I say nothing, therefore, our society would feed him, cloth him, and in ten-years, set him free to slaughter again, he was better off deed, than a burden to the tax payers. Yes, yes, I came to regard him as a carp, scavenger of sorts, and Satan’s invisible hand.
With a few brisk strokes, I found my leather belt un-clipped, and in my hands, and then I looked, —I mean, I stared at his thick obscure bronze neck. It would take me three minutes—that is all, just three long, very long minutes, I did not know at the time, but a lot of images would flash into my subconscious during those long, long minutes. He talked very little towards the end of the session, or last session, almost daring me, yes, that is what he was doing, daring me—boldly, and silently daring me: he was like a dead ape in that chair—a smart bold childish dead ape, that sat up straight—erect, in an ironic pose—
I suppose what he did become was a devotee of mine, he sat in a liberated way, and I put the belt around his thick neck quickly, and hung on for dear life, like a wild bull ride I thought we’d have (I was ready), strange he was, puzzlement, his eyes popped out, his face thinned to an assortment of dim colors, his tongue hung loose after it all, like the dead bull I talked about before. The child was gone now, my poet instinct also. I may have been his closest, if not only, friend, so he thought; a product and residue of prolonged psychotherapy—a conjecture.
He remained in the chair, perhaps by inertia—I don’t know, but he did not have my protectiveness anymore, nor did I balance him after my pursuit with my hands; when this war was over, it was simply over, or call it psychological difficulty, in any case, I felt an exhilaration; to this day, this very day, his presence still haunts me, extremely at times, as if he had some kind of black magic spell cast upon me, before he died.
Conclusion:
There are tales of horrible about this strange fellow, tales such I dare not repeat, he was easily aggravated by the fact he knew he’d die insane, under rather queer circumstances, perhaps; even, conceivably me killing him was his so-called expected future ritual I do believe—we provoke people to such stages you know, provoke them to kill is, in fear, we have to do it ourselves, although he did not say anything to that affect, he never would. That is to say, he did it, now he wanted to experience the other side of it, a speculation of course, but perhaps a good one. I mean all he had was facial rumors and whispers from his dying victims to stop, but he never asked me to stop, and he never stopped for them. Fiendishly done to his liking, curious things like this is of course baffling to me, but it marvels the mind, especially when one finds out it is more truthful than thought. On the other hand, bad reality for some I expect: idealism for others. What can I say? He was most unusual, but I had never had a case like his before, He was, beyond question, a genuine psychopath. Consciously I did the right thing, but I question: was it worth only a bowl of soup [?]
Notes: Dennis Siluk has had many discussions with the actual psychologist whom was accused of murdering the Butcher of Lima, whom served his prison time and now is out free, and sells his books in the parks of Lima, Peru. The Psychologist has been to his house for breakfast as they’ve talked on such matters, and here he produces in historical fiction form, how he sees the events unfolding to a horror that took place in Lima. Written in Lima, Peru, 10-23-2006. Conjecture, and facts are mixed.
Globetrotter Poet
(By D.L. Siluk)) Part XIX))
(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)
[10-23-2006]
The Lima Horror [Revised]
Based on actual happenings, a startling story of intrigue,
From Lima, Peru
Chapter One
Like twilight, creeping over the countryside, so the insidious truth was revealed—but should it have been? Some levelheaded person would say ‘No! Murder is Murder!’ Many said yes.
It is true, that I strangled my patient to death, a client I should say, and yet I hope to show by what I got to say, I am not—in the true sense—a murderer, because I murdered. You might even say I’m someone’s savior, or hero. I have been called a madman, more so, than my dear client, whom I strangled at the prison sanitarium. In due time, I’m sure some of my readers will put fact on top of reality and come to the conclusion I am not a murderer, or executioner, as some have called me. They will even ask themselves: that thing he killed was a horror to our city (Lima) thank god it is gone; yet, up to now, I have seen nothing but mislead statements to the contrary; the rights of the criminal upheld, and of course our great and faithful ‘Human Rights Watch,’ groups take sides with the Butcher the demon.
I am not a psychopath, rather I am a licensed psychologist, or was before this happened; I am not sure—but let others tell it how they feel, I will tell it how I think—he was known as the “Butcher of Lima,” for a good reason too, a man ghastly fitting the name, for the many citizens he butchered, dismembered their bodies; even the police were at their minds end, trying to find and capture this killer, find out whom he really was; once found, they remained in doubt, for he would not confess to it, it was my job to open Pandora’s box—and I did; that is why, the police and the good citizens of Lima know in their hearts the truth of the matter—which of course is more infinitely terrifying than my getting rid of the menace, that is, had he lived.
So in all honesty, I protest the verdict of my sentence of ten-years in prison, and denounce the crime of murder; the murder of the Butcher, that is, I deplore it on the grounds I did the city a civil-service, purge the city clean—of this atrocious beast; now they put me behind bars, it is a blunt message to criminals, they can strike at will, and let the reckoning go on. In a way I sold my soul and career for a bowl of soup. Had I not done what done, what block of untold terrors would be haunting the city today. We shall never know.
Chapter Two
I had known the ‘Butcher,’ for but a short time, he was about my age, taller and stronger. He had a most phenomenal mind, one that shifted back and forth, like a yo-yo, from a child to a scholar; it was at times fantastic and then morbid, but always cast in iron, and it astonished me, until the day, that most impossible day, I cracked the cast and he verbally told me, “I am the Butcher!”
There I stood behind him—he sat in a chair (with thin wooden legs, in the middle of the room, they looked thin anyhow compared to his body, a blackboard behind me, he was facing the window). I coddled him into telling me I suppose—I flowered him with praises, plus his seclusion helped, I’m sure. He was an only child, with a private education. He had his moments, so I learned, with bursts that terrified his parents. Yes indeed, he had quite the inner life; one he could shut down in a minutes notice, or open up if he had the edge. But that, the day I strangled him with my belt, he did not have the edge, unless he felt he did because he was four inches taller than I, and one hundred pounds heavier. This most likely fostered some kind of freedom, but did he not have the imagination, that I would, or could try to kill him, he was vulnerable you know. Oh well, I will never know. Now will I.
His childhood development pattern was for the most part, hideous, he‘d tare apart wooden dressers, under fits of anger, wait for his parents, or babysitters, and try to strike them with the objects. Until he was put into Juvenile custody, and locked up in a child center for behavior modification; consequently, that is when he learned he needed an edge, lest he find himself back in the institution.
At any rate, here he was, and here I was, he sitting in a chair, myself behind him and he says, “Yes, sir, I killed them all….” About that time I had leaned forward on the chair—my weight on its wooden back, my hands gripped tightly—I got, a grotesque feeling in my lower abdomen, I found his spirit, it was now connected to mine, his evil one that is (I visualized his tongue sagging out of his mouth, like a dead bull), then my nerves started crumbling—as time went on and we continued to talk, I created (in minutes I would think) a plan, design like a poem, to do away with him. Our comradeship, as he thought we had, which was really a client-ship, suffered at that moment, my genius developed a scheme to kill him, the lyrics were real sensational: “…kill his will, and you kill the madness of the bull (inside of him).”
Oh, yes, the will, the will, the will, I said to myself, gazing over his shoulders, the notorious will, its door (his door) will never close to murder; and for myself, this ill-regarded poem made sense to me. In all practicality, I had to kill him; at the moment his pampered childish state was acting out, he was dependent on me for the most part, at this instant, though I had to be over careful: next, I made a decision knowing he would not assume responsibility—never would he, I mean.
Chapter Three
So it was at this moment I quickly seized my opportunity. I had studied at all the best universities in Peru—all which is, that Peru had to offer in higher education. Studied with American as well as with European scholars; we talked a lot in those days, discussions on behavior development, modification, decadence, sensitiveness, social comparison, Operant Conditioning, discernment, changing formal reasoning, hypnosis, psychosis, neuroses, depression: you name it we talked about it, if it was in our professional area. Yes, I quickly seized the moment, knowing nothing would work in the long run for my client, this architect of destruction—I say nothing, therefore, our society would feed him, cloth him, and in ten-years, set him free to slaughter again, he was better off deed, than a burden to the tax payers. Yes, yes, I came to regard him as a carp, scavenger of sorts, and Satan’s invisible hand.
With a few brisk strokes, I found my leather belt un-clipped, and in my hands, and then I looked, —I mean, I stared at his thick obscure bronze neck. It would take me three minutes—that is all, just three long, very long minutes, I did not know at the time, but a lot of images would flash into my subconscious during those long, long minutes. He talked very little towards the end of the session, or last session, almost daring me, yes, that is what he was doing, daring me—boldly, and silently daring me: he was like a dead ape in that chair—a smart bold childish dead ape, that sat up straight—erect, in an ironic pose—
I suppose what he did become was a devotee of mine, he sat in a liberated way, and I put the belt around his thick neck quickly, and hung on for dear life, like a wild bull ride I thought we’d have (I was ready), strange he was, puzzlement, his eyes popped out, his face thinned to an assortment of dim colors, his tongue hung loose after it all, like the dead bull I talked about before. The child was gone now, my poet instinct also. I may have been his closest, if not only, friend, so he thought; a product and residue of prolonged psychotherapy—a conjecture.
He remained in the chair, perhaps by inertia—I don’t know, but he did not have my protectiveness anymore, nor did I balance him after my pursuit with my hands; when this war was over, it was simply over, or call it psychological difficulty, in any case, I felt an exhilaration; to this day, this very day, his presence still haunts me, extremely at times, as if he had some kind of black magic spell cast upon me, before he died.
Conclusion:
There are tales of horrible about this strange fellow, tales such I dare not repeat, he was easily aggravated by the fact he knew he’d die insane, under rather queer circumstances, perhaps; even, conceivably me killing him was his so-called expected future ritual I do believe—we provoke people to such stages you know, provoke them to kill is, in fear, we have to do it ourselves, although he did not say anything to that affect, he never would. That is to say, he did it, now he wanted to experience the other side of it, a speculation of course, but perhaps a good one. I mean all he had was facial rumors and whispers from his dying victims to stop, but he never asked me to stop, and he never stopped for them. Fiendishly done to his liking, curious things like this is of course baffling to me, but it marvels the mind, especially when one finds out it is more truthful than thought. On the other hand, bad reality for some I expect: idealism for others. What can I say? He was most unusual, but I had never had a case like his before, He was, beyond question, a genuine psychopath. Consciously I did the right thing, but I question: was it worth only a bowl of soup [?]
Notes: Dennis Siluk has had many discussions with the actual psychologist whom was accused of murdering the Butcher of Lima, whom served his prison time and now is out free, and sells his books in the parks of Lima, Peru. The Psychologist has been to his house for breakfast as they’ve talked on such matters, and here he produces in historical fiction form, how he sees the events unfolding to a horror that took place in Lima. Written in Lima, Peru, 10-23-2006. Conjecture, and facts are mixed.
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 7:43 PM
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