Little Timmy liked to set fires. He had burned down his mother’s gardening shed, his neighbor’s mailbox, and the family dog’s doghouse all by the age of 10. He was in therapy for his pyromania, but it didn’t seem to be working as today his activity of choice was the preparation of a tennis ball bomb. Timmy was not at the age yet where he was self-reflective enough to know whether or not he had a criminal mind, but that’s what he seemed to be developing, even before he hit puberty.

Where had Timmy’s parents gone wrong? Did they not love him enough, did they hit him too much, did they not set rigid enough boundaries? Sometimes the egg is cracked even before you open up the carton. Sometimes there’s a virus in the DNA.

Timmy was heading over to his friend John’s place, their activity today was smashing the head of John’s neighbor’s cat, and spreading the guts all over old man Marley’s driveway. This was not the first beast that Jimmy and John had mutilated, but it was one of the bloodiest. Life meant very little to Timmy and John, the beauty and miracle of it, just didn’t compute.

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