An Interview

The camera was set up, and the woman sat across from the convict. He wore an orange jumpsuit, his hair a greasy mass, his teeth yellow and sparse. His hands were calloused and his skin was tattooed heavily. The convict smiled evilly, and the woman was fully prepared for him to scream about how he was glad he’d done what he’d done. He’d killed his wife and children and dozens of others. He’d ejaculated into the shattered skulls of his victims. He was a monster.

The convict opened his mouth and promptly began to cry. “God, I feel so bad. Why did I do all that!? Why?! What is wrong with me?!”

The woman balked, and then her assistant entered the room and whispered into her ear that the prison had acquired a rather skilled staff of mental health professionals. The woman nodded, for she was indeed quite impressed.