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Contra Rationem

The uproar that followed Principalis Animula was both enlightening and comical. Of all these posts to date, my account of the taking of that first little soul has, far and away, generated the most controversy. It was a cat—a creature over which we supposedly have dominion. Yet suddenly, everyone pissed themselves at the candid revelation that there are those of us out there that could be so cruel and merciless as to kill a lesser animal. And he was but my first. I can only imagine the outcry if you knew how many more little beasties have died by my hands.

I’ve since shared with you the murder of the slut in the hotel room—ejaculating on her face and hair, and burning her to a mostly unidentifiable crisp. And, who could forget the poisoning of poor, pudgy Mandy? Yet, it’s the kitty that works you all up. Why is that, do you think? What sort of twisted logic makes you place more value on the life of an inferior mammal than on one of your own species? Is it because they are more helpless somehow? More innocent? Is it because man’s best friend isn’t man at all? Do you relate more to your pets than your neighbors? Your lovers? Your families?

I could pen books upon books about the unspeakable things I’ve done to the Non. How I’ve dismembered, eviscerated, beheaded, immolated, crushed, poisoned and otherwise destroyed them. How I’ve watched the life in their eyes abandon them and wink from existence. You’d probably find yourself uncomfortable and disturbed, maybe even a bit horrified—but you would read on. But to strangle a miserable feline that shits in a box of clay? That is somehow deplorable beyond comprehension. That tugs at your moral compass in a way that slitting a man from belly to chin just doesn’t.

That is absurd.

Do you believe that the monsters who kill your precious pets have somehow more fearsome teeth and talons than those that kill men and women for nothing more than their own entertainment? Do you not understand that we are one and the same? Do you not grasp that human life is more significant than that of the creatures you castrate, crate, leash and lock away? To a one of us, every single serial killer has practiced on animals before moving on to the Non. We’ve GRADUATED to taking the lives of human beings—starting small, then moving on to bigger, more challenging and more rewarding prey.

Since the killing of lesser organisms is apparently such an affront to your most noble sensibilities, I want you to remember something as we continue this journey together. For every corpse that I, or any other serial killer has ever left behind, there are almost certainly many small graves filled with little broken skulls and other shattered bones that represent our origins. We’ve torn the legs from toads and watched, amused, as they rocked in vain trying to jump away. We’ve ripped the wings from birds just to see how loud they shriek and how long it takes them to die. We’ve gutted Fido and Tabby both before and after we’ve snapped their brittle necks. There is a veritable menagerie of tiny deaths in our wakes.

So, remember that when you think of us—when you hear about the pretty blonde girls that were found with their throats cut, buried under piles of garbage at the landfill. Or when you read about the bloated, sodomized bodies of homosexual men fished from rivers throughout the Midwest.

Maybe their deaths don’t shake you to your core. But remember—remember the little creatures. The little creatures that came before.

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