The sky was dark. I was waiting. Waiting for Man-Cop, my 'nemesis'. How long has it been since we first fought? How long since he ruined my first few schemes? I used to hate him. I used to twist his words in my mind, to give myself any semblance of an excuse, but there was none. Man-cop never killed my men. He never tried to kill me, but he has always succeeded. Eventually, I came to terms that I was a bad person, and he was the good one who kept me at bay.

     It's raining now. He should be here soon. How will this end? I've been sent to prison, I've been abandoned in the wilderness, I've escaped through tunnels, and yet, each time I had planned for it. Today, my last plan, my final ace in the hole, was overcome. Now, Man-cop approaches, once and for all. I am trapped, for the first time in decades, I have no way out. I think somewhere in the back of my mind I know how to beat him, to escape, and to make this city suffer. But I do not plan. I do not try to escape. I am tired. I know that whatever Man-cop does, I deserve more.

Screeech! There he is. Man-cop. There you are. My nemesis, my enemy, and someone I can count on. Splash.. Splash.. Splash. He walks up to me.

"Is this it?" he says to me, disbelieving, "Don't you have some scheme to concoct, some angle to utilize, some caper to escape? Why now, after a decade, do you stop?"

"It is," I reply, "This is the end. You've caught me. Load me into the car, ship me off, get a family. I care not for your life, but I think. I think I'm ready to step off this train."

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"That's really it, then. I've spent 30 years searching, training, and fighting. All for this moment. For you to give up. For my tireless labor, to be erased. Because you give up."

I watch the rain fall. "Sometimes I wish I was absolutely crazy, you know. I don't want to be crazy because I think it'll make my life any better. I just wish that when all my layers and disguises and lies are washed away, that when someone looks at me, the true me who hides nothing, that they will say, 'It was not his fault. It was how he was born. This is not a bad man, but a sick one.'"

"I don't have that. I felt the pain and loss that I inflicted. I don't pretend that I am suffering more than my victims, but I know the depth of the hold I've dug. I know all the horrible things I've done. I know what people think of me. I know how people will remember me. And when I think of it, I feel a great constricting pain, and I wish that I had an excuse. Something that will make people think that maybe, just maybe, that I was innocent. " A tear falls from my cheek.

He replies, "You truly have no motive, no excuse for what you've done?"

I answer, "No. I did not do it because I could. I didn't do it because I was greedy, or because life forced me to. I have no excuse. I have been searching so long for it myself, that I sometimes wonder if I'm truly sane. For who would magnify the pain and agony across the globe, but for a reason as monumental as the struggle. But no, if I did have such a reason, it is long forgotten. I am a man who did countless horrible things, and yet had no motive. Do you wish to know how that feels? Then, every day from now on, kick a cat. Not because I told you to, but because at some past time, you decided that you shall. I do not fear death. I fear the remembrance of my cruelty. Of my way of thinking. Of my overwhelmingly obvious guilt. That is why I turn myself in. Because I do not know why I act the way I do, the way I think, know, I must, and I do not wish to act such."