Calvin was a good boy. His mother had always told him so.

Now, Calvin slid the edge of a dulling kitchen-age chef's knife across the elbow of the man

that lay dead in a soap-scummed plastic bathtub.

Calvin was a big man.

The kids in high school called him Lenny for months.

After the class read of mice and men, Calvin liked the ending.

He had squeezed a rabbit to death after his teacher had finished reading it to him.

He sometimes liked to remember the shiver that warmed his body as the rabbit's eyes slowly popped from their sockets.

But he wasn't thinking of that now.

He stabbed the knife into the pit of the dead man's elbow and fished around beneath the skin.

He let out a low sound from the pit of his throat, a frustrated sound,

as the knife ground away at bone and stirred its way through

ripping flesh.

The guttural noise grew louder as he tore at the arm.

He'd done this so many times, and he still couldn't find the joint.

Why couldn't he get it right?

Why was he so stupid?

The sound was loud now, a monotonous groan that raised like the

revving of an engine. The knife slipped from the dead man's arm and buried itself handled deep in

blood-soaked ribs. Calvin released the knife and, still groaning terribly, brought his bloody hands

to his face.

He rocked gently as he stared at the dead man.

...