He was not the kind of a man who was interested in growth. He was a hunter, brutish, short, muscular and mean to the bone. That showed in his eyes which, a hard steel-blue color, so pale and hard, they almost looked like large ball bearings; as if they might at his whim be able to pass directly through you.

In his depressive moments his voice, low and raspy, formed words so slowly they tried the patience of even the kindest person.

More often than not if he spoke it was just to call out a name from the back of the house and anyone summoned was to come without hesitation...

Maybe part of the man's problem, aside from matters purely chemical was that he was such a short fucker.

I say he was a fucker simply because that, dear reader, is exactly what he was.

He had been violating his daughter as long as she could remember and she didn't get around to turning him in to the authorities until she was over 16 years of age.

We, his daughter and I, were initially acquaintances and then half-way friends who met at the public high school from which I later graduated after the fucker was jailed and following which I did divorce his son.

I knew that he was abusing his family because I could see how hushed their voices would become when he was on one of his manic climbs or, conversely, sliding into one of his cyclic lows.

All this happened way back in the late fifties that were so late they were about to spill into the sixties without even asking permission. This, too, was before medication was prescribed for schizophrenics who are now politely referred to as bi-polar.

You say it is not easy to read material containing such loaded words as "fucker?" Trust me, it is nothing but accurate and couching such behavior in the alternative word "incest perpetrator" is not only more time consuming it is also so direct as to dilute the unadulterated horror implicit in the situation. Also, if it is not easy to read, believe me, it is just short of impossible to write.