The War Against Sociopaths
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Dealing With Sociopaths free porn video
I must confess something. If I could blow up the entire planet, with everyone and everything in it, me included, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Am I insane? Did someone do something to make me mad? Nope. This is just how I feel on a perfectly normal, mundane day. In case you’re wondering who this is, the name is Cal Thompson, short for Caleb. I was born in the City of Toronto, Ontario, to a Jamaican father and French Canadian mother. These days, I attend Seneca College, where I study police foundations. When I’m not on campus, I do what it is I do, and what I do isn’t very nice.
There are a lot of things in the world out there which most people don’t even realize. There is a grand battle being fought out there between good and evil. I haven’t decided which side I’m on yet, other than my own, I mean. When you are what I am, life isn’t easy. I’m not going to bore you with the same old oh-my-Gosh-I-am-a-mixed-person in a racially divided society kind of crap. That’s not what this is all about. My father, Carl Thompson is a constable with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. In the eyes of the community, he’s an upstanding citizen. University of Toronto alumnus, federal policeman, devoted husband and father. Well, he’s a lot more than that. You see, there are people out there born with no conscience whatsoever and they love to torment others. They’re called sociopaths and while psychiatrists and crime shows are obsessed with them, they’re really nothing new.
My dad is one of them, and my mom is a normal person as far as I can tell. Most of the time, the offspring of sociopaths fall into two categories. They’re either sociopaths themselves or they’re what I call mundane folk, the sheep and other indicators of what I consider normal people. Me? I’m not a sociopath and I’m not a mundane. I don’t know what in hell I am. I can spot sociopaths easily enough, and they know me when they see me. Well, they don’t know what I am specifically but they can tell that I am more like them than not. All it takes is for me to look in their eyes and for them to look into mine. It’s the predator’s gaze, I guess.
I remember exactly when I discovered this ability of mine. I’ve always been somewhat of an adventurous lad, and sometimes my adventures got me in trouble. My parents felt that a change of scenery would do me good, so during the summer after my junior year of high school, they sent me to stay at my aunt Gamina’s house in the City of Atlanta, Georgia. Aunt Gamina is a forty-something Jamaican woman, short, round and jovial. She seemed like the nicest person in the world, always smiling and friendly. For the longest time, just like the rest of the family, I thought she was exactly what she appeared to be. Until that magical summer when I went to stay with her, and came face to face with true evil for the first time in my existence.
Aunt Gamina lived with her husband Lowell and her daughter, my cousin Katharine in the west side of Atlanta. She works as a nurse and he’s a corrections officer. Their daughter Katharine is in high school. On the surface, they seemed to be just another happy African-American family in metropolitan Atlanta. Well, it didn’t take me long to realize that underneath their smiles and pleasant exteriors, this family had major issues. Uncle Lowell spent all his time at work and when he got home, he seemed to stay away from his wife, beyond saluting her and exchanging a few pleasantries before retiring to his basement. As for my cousin Katharine, she spent all her free time at work or hanging out with her friends. It seemed that neither daddy nor daughter wanted to spend much time around mommy dearest. Why, you may ask? I had to find out the hard way. Aunt Gamina, the ever-smiling, polite and friendly, church-going Jamaican-American matriarch was really a domestic tyrant. At home, everything had to be done her way and her way alone. Cross her and she’ll be the death of you, my uncle Lowell warned me.
I thought my uncle Lowell was joking, and in hindsight, I should have known better and heeded the old man’s warning. I guess my attitude in those days could be considered the ignorance and overconfidence of youth. One day, I went to the basement and found my clothes, which I left in the dryer, on a heap on the floor. After asking everyone from uncle Lowell to Katharine whodunit, I resolved to confront my aunt about it. She was coming down to the basement soon. I’d talk to her then, I thought. Had to be a logical explanation as to why she would do such a thing, I reasoned, before going to talk to her. Bad idea. In a flash this seemingly harmless lady I had come to consider one of my favorite relatives morphed into a frightening creature.
Her face turned into a mask of rage, and her eyes went cold and predatory. I’d seen eyes like that before, on Discovery Channel documentaries of giant snakes in Florida who fed on alligators and other big game. I recoiled from aunty dearest, feeling truly frightened for the first time in ages. What followed surprised me and at the time, played with my mind. In a flash aunt Gamina’s anger was gone, replaced by her pleasant smile. The coldness never left her eyes, though. She told me that if I challenged her again, something bad would happen to me. All of a sudden I wanted out, of the basement, and out of the house. I wanted to get away from aunt Gamina the way you want to be away from radiation and the electric chair.
The rest of the summer proved to be quite eventful. I wanted to get away from this evil woman who smacked her husband around, terrorized her daughter and seemed hell-bent on dominating everything and everyone around her. I’d always been somewhat of a troublemaker, and I swore to myself that I’d make her pay. When I complained to my parents on the phone that aunt Gamina was mean as well and that uncle Lowell and my cousin Katharine were terrified of her, my parents laughed it up. When my aunt Gamina found out I’d tattled on her, she designed a special punishment for me. I went to play basketball at the YMCA with Scott and Haywood, a couple of guys my age who lived nearby. When I came back, it was raining and the doors were locked. I tried my key but it wouldn’t work. Someone had changed the locks while I was out!
I saw aunt Gamina’s car in the driveway, and knew she had to be home. I stood there banging on the door for half an hour and saw her inside, smiling wickedly. She was home alright and she’d seen me but she wouldn’t open the door. Filled with rage, I went to get a big rock and smashed a window. I went inside, ran up the stairs and confronted the evil bitch. As I approached her, she did her best impersonation of a victim, shouting her help as she grabbed her phone, presumably to dial 911. I knew that American cops were the type to shoot a black man just because it’s Monday. They’re even worse than Canadian police, who are notorious for mistreating minorities. I ran out of there, and went back to the now closed YMCA to hide. I hid there until nightfall, and came back when my uncle Lowell came home from work. I explained to him what happened, and he told me he’d talk to my aunt. I was scared of going back into that house, man.
After this incident, I decided that I would find out as much as I could about my aunt and use it against her. To punish her, I wrote a letter of complaint to the nursing home where she worked. I pretended to be the family member of a nursing home resident and accused my aunt of abusing one of the people in her care. I wrote a letter to the nursing home administration and another one to the state-run agency that oversaw various nursing homes. I figured that someone somewhere would make her pay. I felt a slight bit of guilt about making a false accusation but I ignored it. This woman was evil and had to be stopped. Fight fire with fire, that’s my motto. When necessary, fight evil with evil. I bet you dollars to pesos that if those in charge of administering justice molested the molesters, raped the rapists and killed the killers, crooks would think twice about doi
ng the shit they do. I support the death penalty by the way. I just wish they’d execute evil white guys and the more notorious women criminals as often as they executed minority males. I don’t discriminate. I hate everyone equally.
The summer ended, and I returned to Toronto a bit wiser and a lot meaner. I’m happy to say that a week after I got home, my aunt Gamina called my dad and spent an hour whining to her little bro about how she got fired from her job at the nursing home. Talk about poetic justice, I thought. Cry me a river, you evil bitch. And that’s how it began. My life definitely changed that summer. I have a purpose now. My ongoing war against all creatures sociopathic. I am drawn to them and they are drawn to me. I’ve come to realize just how powerful these things are. I call them things because that’s what they are. If you don’t have a conscience inside your skull, you have no soul. If you have no soul, you’re not human in my eyes. I find these things, and I make them have a bad day. That’s all I will say on the subject. Stay tuned for more.
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