He had followed all the rules in high school when he was a teenager. His life was impeccably clean. His academic record was exemplary. His IQ was in the Mensa range. But he had a dark side that he kept scrupulously hidden. He loved torturing dogs. And he captured, tortured, and killed them in his cellar of horrors.
To those who knew him, he was a straight arrow. He worked as an accountant for a prestigious accounting firm, attended church every Sunday, delivered meals to elderly shut in church members, and volunteered for the Red Cross.
He caught his prey dogs under the cover of the night. He tempted them with dog treats and render them unconscious. He bound and gagged them, and toss them in his car’s trunk. He always picked small dogs rather than take risks with bigger dogs that could harm him like pit bulls that he was phobic about. He drove the dogs back to his isolated country home, hauled them down his cellar and did unspeakable tortures on them for hours before slicing them to death with a machete.
Maybe it was a twist of fate. Maybe it was his bad karma. One overcast night when he got out of his car, three snarling dark shapes sprang out of the darkness. Pit bulls, he screamed, before the dogs attacked him, and according to the police, appeared to torture him for hours before they bit off his head.
Bob Boyd
