Chapter 1

Once, a long time ago, I asked myself what kind of man I wanted to be. Maybe I would make a good husband or a good father; maybe I would make an excellent banker or even an astronaut; and maybe, just maybe, I would be a happy man that brings happiness to those that he loves. That question answered itself many years later when I realized that I was many things: husband, father, successful business owner, good friend, a family man and a man's man, the kind that does in fact make those around him happy while himself being happy. You get the idea. But there comes a time in every man's life when he must choose what type of man to become once he's reached the end of his progression, when he thought he was finished being and growing, when there's nothing left but to plow a new road or pitch his tent at the end of the current dead end. Every spectrum has a range, a predetermined point of extremes; the human condition, apparently, does not. I suppose this simple idea of limitations and boundaries can only be expressed and applied in science, for I understand now that my world has no limitations or boundaries because while science explains me, my mind and body, I am not science. I am a man.

Keep in mind, please, that I say such with no ego. I speak only in facts that I know to be true for experience is every man's teacher. To help you understand what I mean – I know it will not make much sense now – think about your parents. Unless you're one of the lucky few in the world with perfect parents, and I do believe they exist though mine weren't, then you will surely understand that your parents taught you as much about who you wanted to be as they taught you about who you refuse to be. My father was a drunk, an abuser and a general scumbag. My mother, well ... my mother was an angel sent from whatever higher power may exist to make the world brighter, which she did every day she smiled, laughed or cried. Her emotions were infectious and her beauty stunning. She held me enough, told me she loved me enough; my childhood was a happy time. My father taught me many things such as how to be tough and take a hit, cope with pain; taught me how to work with my hands, till the soil and make things grow, work with wood and drywall and paint; taught me how to work on cars and small engines alike. But he also taught me that hurting people is generally wrong – you'll see why I say generally later – and that alcohol, drugs and women not wearing your ring are probably not good outlets for your energies. Again you'll see why I say 'probably' later.

The end of my childhood came early when I reached one of several periods of my life where I needed to decide what type of man to become. My angel, my mother, was taken from this world by my father in a drunken rage. He only hit her once, but it was enough to compound a frailty in her body, a weak heart. The Story of an Hour told me the truth – "of love that kills." I hope you can understand the reference even though I imagine you might be offended by tainting classic literature by including it, even as an afterthought, in this tale. I'm an honest man, as well, so I should tell you now that I care very little what you have to say about me or my life. If you need an excuse to hate me as the story goes on, remember this: my life both ended and began the day my mother was taken from me by a drunken, murderous piece of shit. I became a murderous piece of shit because of him, among other things. There. Now you can psychoanalyze me as an abused child and get on with your life.

As a note before continuing, you may want to know that the moment my mother collapsed, so did my father. At fourteen, I was smart enough to know where a heart is and how to plunge a knife into it. I learned later in my chain of foster homes that quick reflexes can both save and take a life, the latter being only a connection made years later, a connection between how quickly my father's life ended and, at the time, how quickly mine continued because of quick reflexes, instinct. I don't know if rendering my father lifeless on the blade of the knife used to neatly cut his medium-rare steak into tiny, edible cubes can be considered reflexive, but it was quick. Clumsy children find their way into grace and self-control; I found my way via hate born of love.

The next years of my life will be delivered without detail because you'll piece together the meaning of the relevant parts. After high school and my thirteenth foster hell, I joined the military. I can't tell you much about those years because much of it is classified. I went from Basic Training in the Marine Corps directly to Navy SEAL training. From there ... wouldn't you like to know? The government denies most of it, and so do I.

After government work, life was a little less fun for a while. I enjoyed killing, and as a civilian I didn't have the honor of murdering my father repeatedly. The police tend not to like that. The government prefers employing unbalanced, borderline psychopaths for certain work; they'll deny it, of course. But I wanted work that at least involved the possibility of violence to sate my angry hunger to cause pain. What did I do? This may make you laugh. I worked as a private security consultant for a very rich family of some rock starlet I never bothered to hear on the radio. I didn't learn to appreciate music for another few years, and you'll learn more about how a little later.

They paid very well, and on a rare occasion I got to rough up an unruly fan or intimidate lovelorn courtiers. What is it with famous people only searching for love with other famous people? I never understood that nonsense. At any rate, she was a darling of a girl once she let go of her rocker personality and allowed herself to be the young lady hidden beneath layers of punk clothing, fake tattoos and rainbow hair. But there came a time when her family, and more importantly her agent, felt I was no longer needed, so again I found myself in search of work and again hoping to take a position with violent prospects.

This is where I became the man I desired to be when I was young. I met Kali. My final employment venture before the chapters of my life that sparked this biography was at a small, dingy strip club, and my sweet Kali was one of the dancers. She called herself a professional clothing removal artist. We met, dated, fell in love and married. She continued to dance, and I continued to make sure she – and all the other girls – were safe. I legally carried at least one weapon at all times, usually my favorite .45 that I lovingly named Mrs. Jones. Yes, I know Travolta's character in that ridiculous spy movie named his gun Mrs. Jones, and frankly, I don't care. I had my Mrs. Jones before that movie was even an itch in its writer's pants. We had a thing goin' on before Travolta learned how to play a bad guy, if you exclude that insane alien movie or whatever it was ... something Earth.

It wasn't long before Kali gave birth to Jenny, my first girl and the only fruit of my looms, and as with all heavens, its hell is waiting on the other bank of a river of pain. My Kali died of breast cancer not long after Jenny finished breastfeeding around the age of three. We believed in the health of breast milk; science today believes in it, also. One of my fondest recurring memories is that of Jenny nestled in her mother's arms, nursing quietly as she napped. My girls cuddled together in harmony as often as possible, though Jenny only got to nurse a couple times a day. Kali regulated the breastfeeding not because she was ready to let Jenny grow up, but because we needed our baby to be independent. I know it doesn't make much sense, but it worked for us.

After Kali died, it was just me and Jenny. She mitigated my rage, my need to hurt and kill, much better than I ever could. Precocious little girls take more energy than planning and executing an assassination. I was just too damned tired to bother with anger. I say that because she likes knowing that she keeps Daddy in line, and she does. She could have been her mother's twin. Raising her alone was easier than I thought it would be, but then I had trusted friends, energetic teachers and wonderful after-school programs to keep her out of my hair while I put food on the table. Thankfully I had no mortgage to suck up my meager paychecks.

Ironically, I ended up working in a bank, but not as a banker. I was the head of security, the right hand of God – as he called himself, Dick to the rest of us – but it didn't pay as well as I would have liked. When Jenny hit sixteen, she volunteered to get a job and help pay for her first car. I worried for months about how I could afford to buy her a shiny new automobile, something like the newest model of Ford Mustang so she could be the envy of her high school, but no such funding was available. My eyes misted when she told me her plan to find work. A father's love is undeniable and unwavering; a father's pride is a thing of its own.

The next few years were uneventful. Jenny grew up fast, discovered boys and treated her 1987 Chevrolet S-10 as if it were a Bentley. I don't need to tell you that the birds and the bees talk was required, as was birth control and, in an extreme lesson to be learned, a trip to an abortion clinic. I was that type of parent – show her the worst and let her decide where to go. I taught her to ask me, without fear of consequence, about anything she wanted to try. When she was fifteen, she asked about alcohol, and I bought some beer for her to try. I became the cool Daddy that let his little girl drink at home with the understanding that I would paint her back porch red if I found out she was imbibing such beverages away from home. She asked about sex when she was seventeen, so I bought her condoms and birth control, and yes, she was seventeen. I believe her even today that she either had no interest, or at least no experience, with sex prior. She asked about marijuana when she was eighteen, and I told her if she ever touched the stuff, she'd see a new side of me. She's never touched the stuff.

I should explain something at this point. I am a law abiding man to the point that if the government saw fit to outlaw M&Ms tomorrow, I'd stop eating my favorite candy. I don't speed; I don't steal; I don't park in handicap spaces. But, as you'll soon find out, vengeance ... well vengeance will overcome. Also, while buying beer for my teenage daughter is illegal, does it really make much sense to forbid it all together when the outcome will most likely be rebellion? You may also ask yourself how I can allow alcohol in the home after my childhood. If you ask yourself that question, you may have forgotten that I'm a Marine, a SEAL and a government agent. You think we don't drink?

It's also important to note that my Jenny was very well behaved, obedient but independent. Daddy's word was law, and if she disagreed then we discussed it. She had the opportunity to state her case in an attempt to sway me. She did many times, which leads me to my current profession. I'll revisit Jenny's childhood periodically because the next chapter of her young life guided me to this chair today, comfortably reclined with laptop and beer, surrounded by my girls cuddled in the warmth of each other's arms as they talk about their days, study and practice or nap peacefully in a quiet corner while Micah and Shelly make love to each other on a rug of silky fur near the fireplace.

Before I continue, I want it known that I never have and never will make love to, have sex with or fuck Jenny. She will never know what it feels like to have any part of my body inside her in any way. The boundary of blood is one of few that I will not cross.

Now that we have that out of the way...

I remember it was warm outside, rainfall drizzling onto anything below the grey skies, car tires splashing through puddles as drivers heading toward their futures and an annoying tin can on the fire escape pinging incessantly underneath a source of droplets. My cock was agonizingly hard as I heard Jenny scream her third orgasm while I counted the money for the hundredth time. During that hour, I replayed the conversation that led us here in my mind at least ten times.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked Jenny as she sat down at the dinner table to share a meal with me on our weekly reunion. She was living on campus while she studied Business Law, and I knew how tight money was for both of us. The item in question was a stunning heart pendant of platinum, a hole drilled through the center only to be filled with a diamond that must be a full karat and a thick, sturdy chain hanging delicately around her neck so that the pendant rested perfectly between her collar bones.

"Bill bought it for me, Daddy," she responded nonchalantly.

"Jenny, that has to cost thousands of dollars, and this guy you've been dating for a few weeks bought it for you?" I asked. I wasn't angry, far from it, but I was concerned about my middle-class daughter wearing jewelry typically reserved for the rich and gutless.

"You weren't supposed to see this. I knew you'd be upset," she retorted quickly.

"I'm not upset, but I do want to understand how a broke college student's boyfriend can afford a necklace worth more than your truck," I said calmly. And I was calm. I'm not the angry type, not with my Jenny.

"Daddy, Bill is rich, and he's not my boyfriend. He's..." she started, but never finished. It was several moments before I spoke again, gathering my thoughts and trying to understand.

"He's what, Jenny? Buying you things for sex?" I offered. I'm a blunt man by nature, and my daughter knows it. She simply nodded, and, for the first time I could remember, she left the table in embarrassment, her meal untouched. I studiously cleaned the dishes, having lost my own appetite, and settled onto the sofa to watch the news. It must have been 2 a.m. when I headed up the stairs to bed.

"Mmmmmmmm, Daddy, fuck your baby girl's tight little cunthole. Yessssss," she groaned as I passed by her bedroom door. I continued on my path to bed, my cock stiffening in my boxers and my head spinning with the possibilities of that statement of passion.

The following morning I blushed when Jenny entered the kitchen to cheerfully pour herself a bowl of cereal. She noticed my reaction to her presence but didn't say anything immediately. Instead, she sat across from me, locked her gorgeous baby blues on my deep browns and smiled. I was confused by her actions, but I didn't say anything. I wanted to see what happened next.

What happened next was a detailed explanation of her Junior year of college...