History proves that men need to kill. Sorry if that blanket statement offends anyone. It’s in the genes, you see. Think about modern hunters. Millions of men venture into the great outdoors for the expressed purpose of sneaking up on defenseless beasts and killing them for sport. Often they don’t have to sneak or stalk. Weapons technology turns a mile into a few yards. But that’s not the point because hunting does take skill. The question is: why? Do men need the food? Are they such avid environmentalists, they feel compelled to thin out the population for the good of the animal kingdom? These excuses for killing camouflage the truth. Men simply want to kill things. It’s in man’s nature to actually enjoy killing. In fact, killing something is the ultimate achievement. It’s certainly more satisfying than sacking the quarterback, smashing a serve or pummeling the heavyweight champ. Sport, especially violent sport, is simply a way for civilized men to slake their hunger for the real thing. In remote societies, killing humans is a mark of distinction. Imagine these earthly neighbors proudly displaying skulls and other body parts. “Wow, Joe, that’s a magnificant specimen. You ought to be real proud.” “Better believe it, Jack. I tracked him for three days and nailed him from 30 yards with a #2 dumdum dart.” This scenario is not unlike that of “civilized” men who, cocktails in hand, gather round majestic heads poking out of rich paneled walls. Thankfully, serial killers operate alone. Unlike the rest of us, their natural killing instinct goes ungoverned and can’t be satisfied with the simple slaughter of dumb beasts. They don’t kill to live. They live to kill. They don’t work long distance, but up close and personal. They aren’t interested in the massacre of many, but the conquest of one… by one… by one. At the moment of truth, they feel euphoria, relief and power. Wonder what it feels like? Look through the cross-hairs, squeeze the trigger and feel elation as the elk staggers drunkenly and collapses. See the thrashing of a graceful mallard as it plummets to the earth. Feels good, admit it. Satisfies a genetic primordial urge. Now, just imagine what it must have been like for the Bundys, Dahmers and Gaceys. Sheer ecstasy. Ahh, the human race.