This is something that I wrote for a school assignment. It talks about Paul Lazzaro and the dog that bit him when he was younger, and because of that then feed the dog a piece of meat with cut up bits of a spring from a clock mixed into it as an act of revenge against the dog.

You do not have to have read Slaughterhouse-Five to understand what is happening.

Paul Lazzaro and the Dog

By: Vixen Hood

Paul Lazzaro was a disturbed young man. He always had been, he always was, and he always would be.

So, sadly, it came as no real surprise to either of his parents when he killed the neighbor's dog. The neighbor, though upset and grieving over his lost companion, knew not to do anything that would cause Paul Lazzaro to come after him in five, ten, fifteen, twenty years. He rather liked his pecker and his life. And, because of this, he never answered the front door when the bell was rung ever again.

You see, Paul Lazzaro was only fifteen when the incident had occurred, but by then everyone from the gang of kids down the block and the little old lady who lived in her house across the street with tinfoil on the windows knew that Paul Lazzaro was not a kid to fuck with. Some speculated that young Paul had become this way after the unfortunate accident that had claimed his older brother's life when Paul was only eight, and still others argued that young Paul was simply deranged. It was both and neither.

Now Paul, as a young child, did not display the usual symptoms of being a psychopath, though at the time such a categorization was not well known. He was irritable and violent, but nothing that his parents couldn't just pass off as childish behavior. However, inside Paul was always seething, just waiting for the action that would eventually tip the mental war between good and bad to the dark side.

This action happened on a bright summer's day at the lake near Paul Lazzaro's home town when he was only eight years old. It was warm, the birds singing "Poo-tee-weet," and the bees buzzing. The lake was creeping along in ripples, lazy waves lapping at the shore as Paul and his older brother by two years sat at the edge of a drop off that was about five feet above the edge of the water. Paul was watching as his older brother laughed and joked about all the girls he had kissed and all the fish he had caught over the summer. Paul was silent, brooding.

Paul's brother turned to him, grinning and nudging his brother's shoulder. "How many girls have you kissed, Paul? I bet you that you've never kissed one!"

Paul, of course, had never kissed a girl, still secretly thinking they had cooties, but he would never tell his brother that. He would never let Paul live it down. "Of course I have!" Paul snapped, leaping to his feet in order to face his brother.

His brother smirked. "Who?" When Paul paused, unable to answer, he laughed. "Ooh, little Paul-y has never kissed a girl," he sang. "Little Paul-y has never kissed a girl!"

"Shut up!" yelled Paul, shoving his bother in the chest. His brother paid no heed to Paul's wish, still laughing and dancing and singing that embarrassing song. Paul wanted him to shut up more than he had ever wanted anything. So he did the only thing that would make his older brother shut his mouth. He pushed him.

Now, neither Paul nor his older brother knew how to swim. Each year during the summer, their father promised he would teach them both how to paddle in the lake without thrashing around in the water like a fish that was stranded on land, but each year the summer passed and neither had learned how to swim.

Paul watched with disinterest as his older brother yelled and fell off the edge of the drop-off. He watched as his brother landed with a loud splash that sent drops of white water flying through the air. He watched as his brother floundered, screaming, desperately trying to maneuver over to the edge of the drop-off so he could sink his fingers into the soft dirt and hold himself there until Paul went for help. However, even if he did manage this, Paul wouldn't have gone. He was too interested in the image of his brother thrashing around like a fish out of water. His brother's hands came up, grabbing at invisible ropes, and then down, up and then down, until finally his struggles subsided and Paul's older brother simply floated there in the lake, lips blue and eyes closed.

A smirk came to Paul Lazzaro's lips, and Paul decided that yes, death was an intriguing thing. And that he wanted to watch it steal another person's life again sometime in the future.

So, as that was the real turning point for young Paul Lazzaro, no one was really surprised when the dog died. Everyone knew that nobody ever got it from Lazzaro who didn't have it coming. And the dog, as naïve as it was, had bit Lazzaro when he came too close and didn't know that very soon, he, too, would have it coming.

Young Paul watched as the dog, his eyes wide and pleading, stared back at him as he coughed up blood as the little bits of cut up spring from the old grandfather clock in Paul's house ripped his insides to shreds painfully. Though Paul didn't know it and would never know it, the dog was asking Paul in his mind why Paul had done such a thing as to trick him with promises of friendship and steak, only to hurt him. The dog had given him a second chance after Paul had entered his domain twice now without permission. And, as the dog died, he thought to himself about how stupid and gullible he had been to believe this human. And Paul enjoyed it as the light finally left the dog's eyes and he stopped splattering the ground with the brilliant crimson.

Paul Lazzaro was a disturbed young man. He always had been, he always was, and he always would be.