Knowing I am a violent man, when I tell you I adhibited him to my house you may wonder if I welcomed him inside to endure unspeakable tortures or if I simply nailed him to one of my walls. Language is a slippery vein whose wet whimsy is not simply read. It throbs within us, saturates our comings and goings, and beats us to our dreams in a tangle. When we grope for the proper word we circulate all those moments as carried the forgotten figment. When a phrase follows us it dictates the rhythm of the day. I will pump my memory for the words he said and amidst my fond wishes for how our dialogue unfolded somewhere in my bloody recollections the truth hides. Yet to reveal all I find the memory congealing, opaque, scabrous. How could I torture him with simple talk? A tongue lashing is near to butchery if it is biting enough. True, a tongue has no tooth but it can lick, whip, and taste. And after tasting a man’s mettle I’ve seldom ceased sawing. I can hiss, I can pontificate and I can slay via speechifying.

Knowing I am a violent man, when I say anything trust it is to wound. Knowing I am dangerous, trust my prevarication is merely bedevilment whilst I plot to overpower. Knowing I am a sucker for homonyms, understand that however your partner ended up, Detective, I am eager to redefine you.