Dear Betsy

Each time that I met with Georgie my memories of previous nights were fresh in my mind. Hannigan's bar in a private corner two nights after the Roundhouse, where she slipped beneath the table and took the full length of my hardness to the back of her throat and later asked if I had enjoyed it as much as she had when I'd done the same with her. When we rode home in a cab and she took it upon herself to raise her skirts and impale herself upon me remarking that she enjoyed this as much as when she did me. These remarks and utterances both confused and shocked me. One night when she recalled being had whilst poking some nubile thing I questioned her closely and she declared that she had been sleepy and dreaming I had no recollection of these events and now I know that she was remembering days to come.

In that park, on that spring afternoon, when her full intent and the minuscule detail with which her plan had been drawn finally sank in I acted at once. In the final analysis it wasn't the impending wars which horrified me, nor the planned privation that disgusted me, it wasn't the needless deaths nor unthinking cruelty by which power is granted that embittered me. It was Georgie's nonchalance and utter arrogance in her manipulation of millions with one small act that stultified my spirit and so I stopped her dead.

In this act, all was changed. I cannot know the future outcome Betsy and like any madman I cannot with certainty know if I am not insane. But these things I do know Betsy. At the Roundhouse on the twentieth, you were not with George sewing, you were opposite my station at that table. When your fingers were flying with needle and thread that was not you, your fingers were in Virginia. This I do know, I have pinched off that loop in time. George is no longer our king. Paine is no longer a reviled communist but a liberal thinker. I have delivered our selves and our future as pat. And I am for the gallows.