THE DICHOTOMIST: The Accidental Visitor (Chapter 8, the final chapter)


It was Spring in the Dolomites of Italy. I was able to supplement my meager meals of hare and pine nuts with some fresh trout from a nearby stream. It was a delicious change.

During one of those meals I heard the crack of twigs somewhere near me. It was the unmistakable sound of footsteps. How could anyone have traced me to this specific location? My train trips, bus routes and hiking should have confused anyone looking for me; even the international police.

It was too late to run. I sat there finishing a mouthful of pine nuts when he appeared. He was a small man with a backpack and a few days of growth on his face. He seemed startled to see me. He spoke first.

“Hello” he said with a clear Bostonian accent.

I became very agitated inside when I realized he was an American. I swallowed and attempted to hide my concern about being discovered.

“Hello” I answered back. “Are you lost?”

“No” he responded. “I am here doing research.”

We traded small talk as he eyed my fish and pine nut meal. I offered him some but he declined.

“You must have been here for quite some time” He noted.

He had finally said what I knew was obviously on his mind.

“Yes” I offered without any additional detail.

He knew that my terse response indicated that I would not appreciate additional questions.

“Research? What type of research are you conducting way up here?” I asked.

He proffered me a small lecture on the superb mental and physical condition of the population in the hamlet of Tiona. He was a physician with a master in psychology. I was about to offer him my background in psychology when a brilliant plan came to me.

I carried out this brilliant plan with a snare wire wrapped tightly about his neck.

I used his toiletries to shave, wash and look more presentable. My hair was finally clean after all those months. I imagined myself rather dashing with it tied back into a pony tail. The remainder of his gear and his body was placed in my stone lean-to. I replaced the door with more laid-up stone. Among his things I found, and saved, was a key to his hotel room in Tiona.

I departed and completed my several day trek to Tiona. Then I waited until nightfall to enter his room. It was my lucky evening. I found his passport and a general letter of introduction to “Whom it may Concern.” The letter not only introduced him (now me) but recommended my skills; psychologist and research physician. Well, it really recommended him but now I was he. I took all of his documentation and cash. With a new plan I headed for Germany.

From there you already know most of the story. My assumed identity and actual skill as a psychologist were just what I needed to obtain my position as the Boeblingen Panzerkoncern psychologist with part time work at Patch U.S. Army headquarters in Stuttgart. After spending some time there I found a better position with the financial business in Zurich and Bern.

What you do not know is that I obtained, for my son, a minor teaching position in a local two year community college. His lectures were abysmal because he could not connect intellectual facts with reality. He confused inanimate and animate objects. He mixed organic and inorganic objects. He confused pain and pleasure.

And so that night, the night that I let myself into Gabriella’s room, it all came roaring back. When I saw Gabriella naked in bed with another person I just lost it. Gabriella with Crazy Jazz Buff Girl – – – – it was just too much.

The flash-back was hideous. Pictures of my wife with my mother flowed through my mind as painful memories.

Were Gabriella and Crazy Jazz Girl conspiring against me like my mother and wife had done? Were they engaged in an intellectual relationship or an instinctive one? Or did, as often happens, an intellectual pursuit take on emotional overtones? Why did these things always end up as instinctive situations which in turn made me use instinctive actions?

The images of my bedroom at home and now this hotel room were too gruesome. I had to kill Gabriella and Crazy Jazz Girl exactly as I had killed my mother and wife. I beat them unconscious with the hand set of the phone on the nightstand. I set the hotel room on fire. The two sexually confused females were consumed in the Hotel Henn funeral pyre. It was very satisfying; almost as satisfying as the funeral pyre at my home in Vestal, New York. The only difference was that in addition to two sexually confused women in Vestal I also included one sexually ignorant son.

It is quite possible that he could not separate his nuts from his bolts.


About Waldo "Wally" Tomosky

I am proud of my work life (not the jobs, just the work).  Bait monger  Lawn mower  Paper boy  Windshield cleaner in a drive-in theater (if you don't know what a drive-in theater is there is no sense in you reading any farther)  Snack shack janitor in a drive in theater (ditto for drive-in theater)  Milling machine clean-up boy in a tool and die shop  Plastic injection press operator  Centurion in the US Army  Factory hand  Apprentice boy  Tool and die maker  Software user manual writer  Computer programmer  Ex-patriate par excellence  Engineering manager  Software test manager  Retiree  University administrator  System analyst  Retiree (2nd try)  Licensed amateur paleontologist  Retiree (3rd try)  Shovel bum (archaeology)  Retiree (4th try)  Delivery driver  Retiree (5th try)  Graduate student (skipped AA and BA due to the level of difficulty)  Retiree (finally got the drift of it) I have been writing for fourteen years and have fifteen books on Amazon/Kindle. Some horror, some twisted, some experimental, some essay and a few historical. I think that now I will really, really, really retire and just write. Lets see if I can do retirement correctly this time!
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4 Responses to THE DICHOTOMIST: The Accidental Visitor (Chapter 8, the final chapter)

  1. Not the type of fellow to have a beer with.

  2. Oooops. Ended with preposition. Should be “Not the type of fellow with whom to have a beer.

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