Please Stop Talking, I Have to Use the Bathroom
It's happened to you. You're backing away slowly. But their story isn't finished. You nod your head quickly, as if to say, yes, fascinating. Yes, but please let me go. They don't get the cue and keep talking. You smile and force an appropriate expression onto your face. You pride yourself on how adept you have become at choosing the right expression. But all the while, you can hear the voice inside your head saying, "My God, do you ever stop talking?"
by Lisa Lutz
In The Killer Inside Me, Jim Thompson's 1952 noir classic, Sheriff Lou Ford, the novel's sociopath antihero, ostensibly bores his victims to death. Then he kills them. I read the novel close to 15 years ago and, for a 17-year-old, the parallel of a verbal and physical assault seems appropriate. At that age, authority figures seem to pop up at every turn, foisting their well-worn wisdom upon you. But there was another element at work. Ford was deliberate in talking his victims into a corner. He knew his audience was truly captive, and it amused him to watch them squirm as he rambled on.