Having dispatched my father and mother under circumstances of singular dexterity, I was taken into custody and arraigned upon the charge, which (I do not wish to conceal) was one of double murder. The trial was protracted, lasting some months, and the jury, after a retirement of several minutes, returned a verdict of acquittal, the foreman adding, with praiseworthy explicitness, that it was one of the most ingenious and meritorious achievements in the annals of crime.

It may please the court to learn that my parents, Rob and Michele by name, were persons of considerable prominence in the moving-picture fraternity—my father a director of some note, my mother a photographer of indifferent skill. :lol: They dwelt in a commodious mansion in that salubrious quarter of Los Angeles known as Brentwood, where the air is redolent of eucalyptus and the inhabitants of money. I, their son Nick, had for some years resided in a modest guest-house upon the grounds, a concession to my delicate nerves and irregular habits.

The provocation, if provocation it may be called, was trifling enough. My father, a man of robust opinions and louder voice, had long entertained political notions at variance with the prevailing winds of the republic. My mother, ever the peacemaker, sought to reconcile these differences with gentle remonstrance and the occasional offering of herbal tea. For my part, I found their domestic harmony insufferable, particularly when seasoned with inquiries into my own prospects, which were, I confess, somewhat clouded by an acquaintance with certain pharmaceutical diversions.

On the evening in question—a Sunday, as I recall, though days blend one into another in such households—I repaired to the main dwelling with no fixed design beyond borrowing a volume from my father's library. Finding them in the drawing-room, engaged in one of their customary debates upon the merits of this or that public figure, I listened for a moment with exemplary patience. My father, gesticulating with a glass of spirits, declared that the world was going to perdition; my mother, smiling indulgently, suggested that a change of channel might prove restorative.

Perceiving that the conversation was unlikely to elevate my spirits, I withdrew to the kitchen and selected a knife of admirable keenness—intended, I believe, for the carving of holiday fowl. Returning unobserved, I approached my father from behind and, with a single economical thrust, introduced the blade between his shoulder-blades. He expired with surprising promptitude, emitting only a muffled exclamation, as though surprised by an unexpected plot twist in one of his own productions.

My mother, turning at the sound, regarded me with an expression of mild astonishment rather than terror. "Nick, dear," she began, "whatever are you—" But the sentence remained unfinished, for I had already applied the instrument to her person with equal dispatch. She subsided gracefully upon the Persian rug, her eyes retaining to the last that look of maternal solicitude which had so often proved irritating.

The affair concluded, I repaired to the guest-house to await developments. These arrived in the person of my sister Romy, who, discovering the tableau, summoned the authorities with commendable alacrity. The officers, upon arrival, found me reading a treatise on horticulture and expressed gratification at my cooperative demeanor.

Altogether, I cannot but feel that in point of neatness and economy my removal of Rob and Michele has seldom been surpassed. The motive was pure, the execution flawless, and the aftermath—though attended by certain inconveniences—rich in that serene satisfaction which attends the successful resolution of a family difficulty.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5810600&forum_id=2...#49511360)