The first person I killed was a plumber who worked at our house. My family home was a secluded estate in the northeast. When there was a problem with the plumbing we called Mr. Trent. This wasn’t his real name but it will do for the purposes of the story. I saw him maybe half a dozen times before the event. Often his wife would be left sitting in the truck that was parked in our driveway, sometimes with a couple of children in the back.
My parents were away a great deal, especially as I grew older. As I grew older and more capable, when something needed to be done around the house, it was often me who arranged for it from a list that my father had placed on the wall by the phone in the kitchen. When it was a plumbing matter I called Mr. Trent. It never occurred to me to call someone else. His was the number by the phone. I was ten years old when I first saw Mr. Trent and sixteen when I killed him.
My parents loved to travel, also on inherited money. Our family had originally migrated to America on one of the early Pilgrim ships. There was a good amount of money that came available through assorted trusts of long standing. Once I became able to handle the ordinary responsibilities of the home my parents took it as a sign that they might travel at will. I would say that a good portion of my life from the age of fourteen onward was spent alone. There were initial checks from associates of my father but afterwards these became increasingly less frequent.
During his visits Mr. Trent would share with me his insights on life; The World According to Mr. Trent. You can go into any neighborhood in the world and find you a Mr. Trent. They come in all shapes and sizes and represent all economic classes. The Mr. Trents of the world know all there is to know about the niggers and the Jews and the spics and the slants and an awful lot about faggots and dykes. Mr. Trent had a master’s degree in the subject of a woman’s place and knew the necessary steps to take in order to maintain it. Mr. Trent also had a clear and definite knowledge and command of the subject and application of child rearing; simple, direct and effective. While sharing his views with me he would often add in conclusion, “Well, you’re young and haven’t seen anything yet but later you’ll see what I’m talking about.”
Amidst the clanging of wrenches, Mr. Trent would punctuate his tales and teachings with regular sips from an old metal thermos whose contents were referred to as ‘Trent’s Blend’. The occasional wafting aroma indicated that Trend’s Blend was composed of whiskey and coffee. I had these occasions to be with Mr. Trent (or whomever might be doing work at the house) as a defense against theft. Our home was filled with many precious things that my parents valued. I suspect Mr. Trent might have known why I was present during his visits but it never became the subject of conversation.
On most of the occasions when I saw Mr. Trent he was in some stage of intoxication. He was a short, squat, burly man with a round, flat face. He possessed a broken nose and mean little eyes that were always darting about. They mostly looked toward you but seldom at you. He had powerful shoulders and arms. His head sat like an off balanced pumpkin on very little neck. He had dark curly hair crawling everywhere except on his head.
When I saw Mrs. Trent I saw a sad, disappointed woman with downcast frightened eyes. Once I took her something to drink and found that half her face was a purple bruise. On another occasion I saw a young boy with angry welts traced up his arms and bloodstains on his Snoopy shirt. Mr. Trent had obviously been about his instructions.
Trent would often observe me when he was sure that my attention was elsewhere. Even at that age I always knew when someone was looking at me. I could feel it the way you could feel someone touch you on the shoulder. He had that sly cunning of the emboldened alcoholic. He was a man false to the core, offering a fraudulent aura of kinship although he resented and despised you. I could see him as a classic footpad from some centuries past, always quick with a “Yes your worship.” bound by a certainty of ways and incidents toward the gaol and the gallows.
I know what Trent thought of me. He thought of me as a rich kid faggot. I dressed too well. I was always alone. “How come you don’t have any girlfriends around this place? This place is a guaranteed pussy magnet. You like girls no?”
“My girlfriend is away at school. Sometimes she comes home for the weekend.” In fact I had no girlfriend at the time but I wasn’t going to tell Mr. Trent that. My solitary nature made the act of having a girlfriend a difficult venture. I did not socialize much. I read books. I didn’t know at that time that I was a telepath. I just felt uneasy around people. Later a great deal was clarified in that regard and once I had perceived what was taking place I was able to tune this power quite a bit.
At that time I would often be filled with an insane rage that would overtake me like a sandstorm in the desert, blinding me while it howled through my body. I remember standing in the train station in Baltimore. I was standing in line, waiting to purchase my ticket. My suitcase was in my hand. Suddenly a red haze enveloped me. It felt as if my body had caught fire. I recall that the old woman who had been standing behind me asked if I was all right. I am very grateful that, until I gained control of this feeling, there had never been a public acting out. I’m grateful that in the first events I was unobserved and left no trail. Later when I was storing my suitcase in the overhead rack I saw the imprint of my grip, deep and clear upon the metal handle.
As time passed I learned that these fits came about through telepathic invasion. The airwaves of the world are filled with hateful messages and energies moving through the slipstreams of consciousness. Our minds are like airports from which planes arrive and depart twenty-four hours a day. Before I had an air traffic controller in place I was subject to anything that wanted to land. I should go into this a little. First, there are all the thoughts that are moving about at any one time. Some of these are old thoughts and some are quite large and have the energy of a great many people attached to them. This energy is supplied from the subconscious where our racial, national and sexual fears are located. They feed our prejudices and apprehensions; often we are unaware of them. Even though they do not originate with us we can make them our own through identifying with them. They are always around.
There are the thoughts that are generated each day by aggregate humanity; judgments made on appearances, reactions to situations, personal attractions and repulsions, thoughts generated by appetite as well as daydreams.
There are high and noble thoughts that radiate from an archetypal location in the human psyche. I believe these are the result of beings from a higher plane or the results of inspiring art, philosophy and religion.
There are agenda driven thoughts that are broadcast consciously toward the control of humanity by certain cabals. These thoughts are also mirrored in the media controlled by these cabals. I have been very general and brief here. There is a great deal more to all of this but I plan to return to the subject now and again.
Before I had control of what came into my mind certain thoughts would enter at will and set off a terrifying reaction. That is how I understand it. Once I became aware of what was happening, some amount of discipline came into play. The thing I cannot control is my reaction to this high thin whine; the astral dental drill that tells me someone is causing Suffering. When I capitalize ‘Suffering’ I am referring to something more specific than the ‘suffering’ in which everyone has a part. ‘Suffering’ is the result of one individual’s efforts to make one, or many people, suffer as much as is possible. I mentioned ‘the cabals’ who broadcast specific thoughts to specific ends. The whine caused by them is greater than any other. One of the chief proponents of this is a New York banker who is associated with a former high-level politician. I’m going to get them. But it won’t happen until the whine tells me to.
Early on I was often the victim of violent thought. A great many of the violent actions that occur in the day-to-day are caused by these thoughts entering the unwitting and provoking them toward an end. This is amplified when that person is drunk, otherwise aberrated or already in the mood from some prior event. You would be most surprised to learn how often this ‘hijacking’ occurs.
Finally, by an intuition, I obtained a Navy watch cap. I made a composition from pencil lead and aluminum solution. I soaked the cap in it and when I put it on my head, the loud rush of voices, as perceptible to me as the sounds of a subway station at rush hour, were diminished by a factor of ten. This was a great help to me until I was able to insulate my mind from the inside. It was the practice of certain meditations taken from Eastern thought that have made my journey more bearable. Even so, some places are always hard for me to enter. In this regard, The Whine always prevails.
The cry of Suffering transforms me into a homing pigeon. I cannot fight it. I have no control over this driving instinct. I will suddenly find myself on some beltway outside of a large metropolitan area being drawn into the cauldron or on a country road following my personal GPS. I will often not remember how I came to be there or the steps through which I passed.
It is fascinating to me how I can be steered through thousands of voices, some of whom I can feel are also worthy of a visit. But I am drawn past them all to the door of my appointed client. By now it seems increasingly clear that there must be an intelligence that routes my way. Why these specific individuals? I have happened upon some who are surely deserving of a transition from this plane but the whine that I hear does not speak of them. Within this sound that I hear is a video-like stream of images that tell me what has been and what should be. I have found myself stopping at a hardware store, or a sporting goods shop to procure the tools necessary for the particular client, doing it all without calculation or thought.
I call it a ‘whine’. It is like a hum too. It begins at a low register. I feel warmth in the area of my groin. As it moves up my body to the back of my head the pitch steadily increases. It is like a police siren winding up, with the exception that when it reaches its height it remains. I know that place well by now. It is at that point that I park my car, or get off the bus, or pause in my stride to look about me, knowing that I am there.
Perhaps you have thought at this point that it seems careless of me to purchase a weapon in the area where I do my work. When I am inside The Whine, when The Whine is inside of me, it seems to affect my appearance. It makes it hard for people to look at me. It scrambles ordinary memory. It alters perception. I have seen the composites that went around after I had finished with someone. No, I don’t need to worry about that. I’m on a mission for a higher good. Someone has got to take out the trash. Whoever it is that made me the way I am has got some ‘juice’ at the level I need it. My papers are in order so to speak.
On the day that I saw Mrs. Trent’s face I experienced one of my fits. I had no reaction when I saw the little boy, though it was this latter event that triggered my visit with Mr. Trent. I should clarify at this point that rarely have I been motivated by outrage or compassion for the victims, even though my work would indeed remove the cause of their unhappiness. I don’t care about the victims per se. Until recently I’ve never really felt compassion, or pity, or empathy. I have an idea of what they are but I don’t understand the need for them. They seem to be an unnecessary luxury (if you want to call it that) that inevitably leads to entanglement and vulnerability; just like Love and a generous nature. All of these feminine emotions seem to wind up costing more than I would ever want to give. Just the exposure they would create seems suicidal. Life is chemical science and no skilled practitioner will grow attached to what guarantees a loss of objectivity. In this regard I have been a strict empiricist.
The human animal has this innate weakness, a need for companionship. Biological needs I can deal with and companionship is always available. People exist as types. Once you know the type that works for you, you can pick them out of a crowd. Any one of them is more or less like all of the rest. Have your companionship, talk about the big game, the political situation, compare backgrounds (I have any number of them on call) and become intimate if the need is there and then go your way. The more time you spend with anyone, the more your subconscious mind interweaves with theirs. Eventually they gain, or insist on the freedom to make demands, require assurances of comfort and generally come to see you as an extension of them, thereby becoming both a liability and a pain in the ass at the same time.
I’ve learned that you must gain detachment from yourself and needless empathy for others; become totally objective. Look at everything. I’ve been through Freud and Reich and the rest. I’ve got enough forensic background and psychiatric inquiry to teach the subject. I’ve seen what would satisfy the present day practitioner for an explanation, while realizing those explanations do not apply here. On the other hand there is the telepathy, The Whine, and the physical power. I’ve checked them out, rigorously field-stripped and reassembled them (metaphorically speaking) and they are just what they are. They are not ‘hearing voices’, they are not auditory hallucinations and they are not a hormonal anomaly. They just are. I’m open to the truth. I believe I will find it one day. I think it is in the resolution of my tasks.
There is this enormous pressure that builds and builds. I wouldn’t say that it is entirely unpleasant but I have no choice except to relieve it just like a schoolboy must masturbate to free his mind of the memory of a girl’s pretty legs and the awesome, imagined mystery at their joining. Unlike the schoolboy, I don’t feel any following guilt. If anything, I feel mystically cleansed and deliciously empty. Emptiness is as close to complete happiness as I have ever been. I don’t seek happiness; I just act. I am seldom happy or unhappy. I am generally ‘somewhere’ in the process of the events. But after an event, not only is the whine of the beacon stilled but all of the other voices and the background hum as well. Usually my mind has the continuous resonance of a low-key cocktail party or a theater lobby; the county fair as heard from a distant parking lot. Aside from the occasional brief distinctive voice, it is mostly unintelligible chatter.
I often carry a small antenna in my hand that I constructed myself. This has proved very useful for gathering the energy that buffets about me. I have a technique that winds the energy around the antenna the way a diner spins his forkful of pasta in a spoon. Then I can discharge it into the ground, or process it for another application. The background hum, after this brief respite, returns again and sits at its waiting level, until it begins to build again, until the cycle is complete once more.
When I saw the little boy with the welts I had an epiphany. I was struck down on the road to Damascus. I saw that if I should remove the source of this boy’s pain that the rage in me would leave or be transformed. I knew that this would be so. When I saw the boy was the first time that The Whine came to me. I had no idea of its origin. A door opened in my mind and I saw through and into a place that I had not seen before. Trent was there, vibrating as a form of energy. I could clearly make him out even though there were these muddy colors flashing and pulsing all around him. I knew then that this terrible whine was coming from Trent. Trent and The Whine were inseparable and to silence The Whine, Trent must be silenced too. Early on, the experience of The Whine was very uncomfortable. It caused me an almost unbearable dis-ease and I was often barely in control of myself. It took some doing to bring it all into a manageable state.
I remember running to my mothers’ bathroom and grabbing a bottle of morphine tablets that she kept there along with a host of other analgesic exotica. My mother had a friendly doctor. I think it very possible that she was sleeping with him. He provided her with all that was possible for him; Tylox, Demerol, Percocets and other things. I expect that she was addicted to some or all of them but since she managed never to over-medicate herself and since supply was never a problem she never had to deal with its absence. There wasn’t a problem, unless you count the sense of distance that showed itself in her manner and communications. I didn’t. Distance for me was always a good thing and I am grateful that my mother’s emotional and chemical state and my father’s preoccupation with finance precluded the usual intimacies.
My parents and I seemed to be moving in different directions at all times. Yet none of us ever seemed concerned by it or even remarked upon it. If was as if we were on entirely different planets but due to a dimensional warp we were able to see and to speak across the distance. Ninety percent of everything I remember my mother ever saying to me consisted of some variation of, “How are you?” “That sounds wonderful, I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Or “now if you need anything or if anything comes up you call us at this number.” We never once had a discussion of any depth.
My father would ask about school or sports. He might ask if I had enough money. On rare occasions, emboldened by a quantity of unblended Scotch he would share certain mysteries of the world of money, until a phone call, or a visitor or my mother took the space.
I am certain now that my parents were grateful for my independent ways, grateful that I seldom had any questions and for the distance in me that matched their own. Because I was never inconvenient for them they were more than content to leave well enough alone.