Perhaps I had merely learned to enjoy the act of killing. The television shows and the movies all say that—you kill a person or two and you get a “taste for it,” as if murder were caviar or fugu, sophisticated gastronomical experiences whose enjoyment requires inculcation into a cult. Or as if killing were like potato chips; one leads to another in an endless orgy of mindless indulgence. Before you know it, the whole bag is gone, and you’re sitting there with gritty fingers, grease on your lips, and bathed in blood.
