I have held some vivid memories close since age two, which I understand is unusual. They are few and far between, but have been confirmed by my mother, who was charged by society with keeping me caged up in this bizarre construct for my first years.

My first recollection is a warm one, of standing before a screen door next to my mother, looking out into the face of my adopted brother, who was standing next to another woman who remains a shadow to this day. Until the competing fraternities of society separated us, Tony and I devoted our best times to defying the world as a guerilla army of two, beginning with making our mother’s life a living hell. It was empowering indeed to have an ally against the grownups, even if you were just throwing your own excrement at the large female human charged with circumscribing your existence [in that particular case I believe it was with a play pen].

Most of the recollections I have from before puberty are of school and the coming and going from these institutions of acculturated compliance. Since the very earliest age I have held teachers and their sterile echoing lairs in deepest suspicion and antipathy. Looking for a moment in my young life when I first decided that the grownups were insane, I cast my memory line all the way back to the beginning, kindergarten—which I suspect is a survival of some Prussian child-beating tradition.

However, of kindergarten I have no recollection of a teacher, only a woman’s voice from the side and behind, reminding us to stay in line, in our group, not communicate with one another, and not worry about what the older students were up to. This does make perfect sense, that I would recall the foundation for my mental molestation.

A chef would not want the lobsters in his holding tank to get a look at the cook pot and thereby become emotionally stressed. For the internal discharge of hormones and acids related to fight, flight and fright does spoil the taste. Indeed pork has the widest quality of taste range of all meats based on slaughter conditions as the pig is our smartest food animal. If you ever get a pork chop that smells a little like urine, well, that was a pissed off pig that knew what was coming.

So, what made me a pissed off pig?

Sometimes my mother drove myself and other children to kindergarten. Mom would play word games and try and teach us benign things. Sometimes another woman transported us. I have clear though darkly lined recollections of this lady driver as seen from behind the front passenger seat, my position of low status. You see, her child sat next to her up front. To my left sat the friend of her child, perhaps a neighbor or family relation. From my position I had the most obscured view of oncoming traffic, indeed, almost completely obscured, buried as I was in the back right side of a large 1960s boat of a car, with a larger child to my left.

Then came the call, “Punchbuggy red!” and I was punched in the arm.

‘What is this,’ I thought, looking around in confusion.

‘What have I done to make this other boy hit me, and why is the adult congratulating him? Why is her boy looking back at me laughing?’

The boy in front of me then looked past his mother and yelled, “Punchbuggy green!” and I was punched in the front. I forget the location of the blow, just the confusion and pain of disapproval, the aloneness of being picked on and punched and not understanding why.

I do not know what I said to question my plight, or even if I used words. I may have just cried. It is all very hazy at this remote distance and was hazy at that time as well. I also do not remember which of my three tormentors filled me in.

I was first informed that this was the driving game played by all civilized people. When one saw a punchbuggy, one was duty bound to announce the sighting of this reviled vehicle as the nearest non-driving human was punched. It was not permitted to involve the driver, as they were driving.

‘What on earth is a punchbuggy,’ I remember wondering.

I was informed that a punchbuggy was what I called a ‘Herbie car’ after a Disney movie featuring the adventures of a speaking Volkswagon beetle. When I saw one of these cars I was supposed to shout out and punch, but not to the face.

I quickly saw that this game was rigged against me. For starters the adult was immune due to her driving position. Secondly, I could not possibly be the first to see a car. And so I suffered through my year of kindergarten with a sore arm, in full knowledge that I was at the base of some cruelly childish pecking order, enabled and overseen by an adult. Grownups were clearly the evil force behind the cruel children who would assail me over the next half-decade of life. I thank them all for my enlightenment, for their sacrifice, for they opened my eyes even as they blinded themselves.

My low status was confirmed the very next year when I was immediately attacked by a group of older children as soon as I set foot on the grounds of Immaculate Heart of Mary catholic school. As the attacks continued in doors and I began to defend myself I was also attacked by adult teachers. By adults I was struck, had my hair grabbed and used to carry me across the classroom, little feet dangling in the air. I was even stolen from by a tall blonde teacher, whose rancid womb certainly spewed forth some cruel spawn of her own to continue these traditions.

Observing how the older, the larger, and the more numerous were generally encouraged to abuse the younger, the smaller and the singular, I was at that point formerly gifted with a cynical view of an evil world designed to crush my spirit. I decided at that point at which the teacher attacked and robbed me that my life would be one long range plot to undermine the adult order, and that when natural forces and my own diligent effort had resulted in a dangerous body, that I would declare open war and counterattack ruthlessly.

In the short run this course completely alienated me from humanity [which I quickly came to despise], especially my family as I withdrew into TV, books and a lurid fantasy life in which I dressed as an Indian by night and roamed the neighborhood killing men with my sling shot and burning their cruel wives at the stake that glowed in the back of my darkly lit mind. I remember sitting on my mother’s porch at 11 years of age as puberty had just begun to converge with my weight lifting and dark fantasies in the form of a brooding state. I had no desire to socialize with my enemies.

Mom came outside in tears, asking me what she had done wrong, why I would not play with the other children. I had not the articulation to lie and did not have the heart to speak the truth, “Mom, because I am done being a child and am not quite ready to kill men.”

She became panicked by my silence and tried to push me from the porch unsuccessfully.

She then began crying audibly, terrified that her son was already a recluse and began kicking me in the back, which brought on laughter and a swell of confidence, as I became acutely aware that the towering monstrous race of women who had once ruled my world with an iron fist were but puny laughable things entirely beneath my consideration, for she could not hurt my hard back with her soft little feet and her shrill voice signaled her self-defeat dissolving into tears as it did.

That was in important lesson, when the woman who had never beaten me like her peers did their children, like her ancestors had their young, finally resorted to that venerable stratagem too late, and empowered the budding psychopath within. After she tired of her efforts and returned whimpering to her decorative den, I began my hunt, walking off into the alley that I had once feared, hoping to be attacked by a teenager who I could gouge, bite, stomp and terrify into oblivion.

By age 13 I was knocking the snot out of some big thief at the door to the Principal’s office at Loch Raven Junior High the very day I was to fly to Pittsburgh, PA with my post operative mother as Dad drove my brother and sister to our new home. When the policeman visited me and Mom smoothed things over with him I was thrilled to find out that Brian had begged his parents not to press charges, for it meant that my whispered promise to kill him had had the desired effect. I was also pleased when the officer measured my teeth-dented fist and assured me it was the kind of fist that knocked men out.

For the next five years I would vent my fury against the adult world through attacks on their sons—weaklings and tough guys alike—until one of the tough guys nearly died and I found myself a man now, facing attempted murder charges. At that point, which forced a move back to my old spawning ground of Baltimore, I decided that the evil world of adults would be best undermined through thought rather than direct violence, and settled in for another much longer period of observation and considered dissident incubation, from which I have emerged periodically to express my observations concerning our mutual enemy; those who would claim ownership over our bodies, minds and souls, among them parents, teachers, and politicians.

Not being a remarkably intelligent creature I have accessed many a mind to help inform my resistance to the World Order, small and large. Now that I have exposed my seething devolution into an enemy of human society, which has led me to the study of its coercive aspects, I shall devote the next segment of this chapter to a review of those authors from whom I have borrowed and adapted the tools of reason for my own antisocial cause. It is a memoir of a predatory mind; a literary expression of one ape’s search for the roots of the dysfunction of his kind and the means to their dissolution.

Before continuing, let me state unequivocally that I believe in very few things, but of those, my strongest belief is that there is no higher good than the hunting of predatory humans.