Iceman

Amarillo, 1948

Daddy hated the sound of baby crying, so he began punishing baby in unusual ways. He liked using the youngster's bottom as an ashtray, for example.

The sadism would have accelerated and the boy would have been a poor candidate for survival, but fate intervened. A kindly neighbor called the police one time too often and investigating officers found the little boy alone, in a shit-filled cage, and he was rescued from Dad's loving care in time.

His foster mommy, on the other hand, adored her new baby boy. It was her habit to cover the child's rear, a scarred lunar landscape of cicatrices from cigarette burns, with loving kisses.

Soon the kisses took another turn and she found other ways of showing this strange child her deep adoration in these frequent moments of intimacy. But if the only parental contact you have known was a Camel to the buttocks, you can put these things in perspective.

So, baby boy was content, and inside the scarred and twisted soul of the child a dark, bitter seed of evil took root, and was nurtured by Mommy's attentions, and by the cruel pinpricks of his flowering destiny. And puberty came early, and found the boy waiting.