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When I was eight, I was sent to live on the melon farm of an uncle- a sixth-grade dropout who attributed his IQ of 70 to sniffing gasoline and glue from the age of five, and whose manner of compulsively clawing at the skin behind his neck was a characteristic sign of amphetamine toxicity. One morning, he served me a cereal that consisted of sweetened corn puffs and marshmallow, hook-nosed, beareded "Jews." I asked him to never serve that cereal to me again. The next morning, he set a heaping bowl of the same cereal on my place mat. I killed him with a 12-gauge shotgun blast before lunch. That night, I buried him in the cyclone cellar. I stole his pickup truck and drove to a huge, diesel-run electric turbine plant near the outskirts of the city and I had my first sexual experience. Afterward, I lit a cigarette and looked up into the sky-there was God, wearing a pink polo shirt, khaki pants and brown Top-Siders with no socks, his blond hair blowing in the powerful wind of charged particles and intense ultraviolet radiation from the galactic center. I hated him. And he hated me.
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