Chapter 423

"A lot of people would be very hesitant about it," Griffin said bluntly, "because it involves 'sex.' While the volunteers we've picked have little chance of having that kind of fun in prison...or having fun... It's not going to work out the way they want, but, well, let's just say, a lot of people don't even want to give up the right to masturbate."

The warden gave a well-timed laugh and quipped, "That's the only thing they have."

The hand landed on his throat, nails digging into his flesh.

The priest looked down at him, and the man took less than ten minutes before the slime ran down his legs, which seemed sadly short for a man. But as he grabbed the young boy by the throat, the sense of the other's submission to his control still made the priest's face glow.

"Everything in the world is about sex, except sex itself," Herstal said slowly. "Sex is about power."

The poor living conditions in his early years made him grow slowly, and he was much thinner than other children of the same age; obviously, his father was a parent who had exhausted his efforts to make his child eat three meals a day, and he had long been unable to care for him. In the end can not eat enough.

He was ridiculed a lot for being a head shorter than his classmates, and he kept a respectable silence when the boys whispered about girls in the class, sex, pornographic movies and wet dreams—there's enough in life Things annoyed him, and he wasn't ashamed that he hadn't soiled a ticket after he was thirteen.

Things finally changed. He strangled the deacon at St Anthony's Church with piano strings, and the "zealous parishioner" who spent too long on the choir boy. Even with gloves on, the piano strings left a deep, unbroken streak on his fingers; he fell asleep with the tingling of his fingers, then woke up at four in the morning, sweating. After soaking in the wet, the yīnjīng was so hard that it hurt.

- He was fourteen that year.

Sex has always been about power.

"Makes sense," Griffin said nervously, apparently not noticing who the quote was from, so not surprisingly, not everyone was Olga.

She swallowed and continued to ask, "So, what do you think?"

The difference between him and others is so striking. Most of the time, "sexuality" and "control" are mixed together, and he has left Kentucky when he killed the third person, but he has not come to Westland. The deceased lay on the ground lifelessly, his intestines ripped out messily, his skull shattered in half, like a blown watermelon.

And he had to change his standing position so as not to get his erection uncomfortably strangled in his trousers.

It wasn't the first time he realized that the abyss in his heart was so dark and twisted, but it didn't make him feel too surprised. If a person is already a murderer, it can be more or less ignored whether he will be sexually excited for the act of nüè killing itself.

He stared for a long time at the corpse with its head messed up on the ground, then knelt down slowly, his knees carefully avoiding the pool of blood on the ground. He knelt down beside the head of the corpse, reached out and put his hand into the whole torn skull of the deceased.

His fingers run over those brains, crushing them slowly; sticky, warm, juicy, warmer than a woman's body cavity; human beings carry wisdom with this core, but at this moment only in his hands, so fragile.

He loves "sex" in general from this angle, because they often stem from death. Only on this occasion, in this throbbing throbbing, will you realize that you really have everything in your hands, you will not be betrayed, you cannot be defeated, and you can still sleep in peace.

Herstal looked at Griffin, his lips pursed into a tense straight line: apparently the researcher didn't mind betting on whether he was a Westland pianist, and if he declined the offer, he obviously would. Very, very disappointed in Griffin.

"I took my shotgun and killed it at the back of my house, bullets went in through its snout and out behind its ears."

That was what Albarino said at the time, the voice was so sweet and the light in his eyes was dazzling. He described the slaughter, which he didn't know was real, as poetry, and he knew very well how Herstal would react.

"I've never cut open an animal like that, and I'm at a loss. I disemboweled it in front of my stove and put my hand in its belly to get the guts out--it was still steaming hot, Herstal, I feel like my hands are buried in a river of blood when I do that."

And at that moment Herstal only wanted to tear his throat, or grab him by the neck and make him kneel down and lick himself, the bloodthirsty urge between his fingers was as great as the more filthy thoughts.

"That's what happened to that suburban láng."

And Albarino was watching him, letting him know that his tone had been debunked and acquiesced, and that the Sunday gardener was offering him something he could reach if he wanted to.

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