By Colin Wilson
Colin Wilson tells the tale of human violence from Peking guy to the Mafia - taking into consideration the calculated sadism of the Assyrians, the opportunism of the Greek pirates, the brutality that made Rome the ‘razor king of the Mediterranean’, the senseless destruction of the Vandals, the mass slaughter of Genghis Khan, Tamurlane, Ivan the negative, Vlad the Impaler and extra. each one age has a special attribute trend of crime. long ago 3 centuries crime has replaced and developed until eventually the intercourse killer and the mass assassin became symbols of all that's worst approximately our civilization. yet this isn't only a examine in human depravity; it's an try and position crime in viewpoint opposed to human discovery, exploration and invention. the result's a totally new method of the background and psychology of human violence.
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Extra resources for A Criminal History of Mankind
When he saw me he got up and took a Sig Sauer pistol from the table, stuffing it into his waistband, the grip hanging over the lip of his drawstring pants. We shook hands and he walked me over to my bike. He straddled it, started it up, and rode the throttle in neutral. He yelled over the engine, “That Spectre pistol Core's selling you? ” “Mommy. That's too much for a pistol, Bird. It was me I'd charge you three hundy” “That's cool of you, dude, but he ain't budging. ” I stuck my chin at the bike.
Or get shot here and let my partners waste him? Or hope one of them gets a clean line on him right this second? Or lie down and try to stay out of the way of everyone's bullets that were sure to puncture the Monte Carlo any second? Or, or, or … drop the keys? Yes, drop the keys. If I was going to die, then he was going to die too. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and let them fall into the footwell. ” “Motherfucker—” I leaned forward and Provestgaard did too. Mellor, who was closest to the passenger's side of the car, stuck his revolver in the rear window gap and emptied it.
Shoot, in that year, 1987, he probably even had his own computer. It didn't appeal to me. The bullet put the rush of the streets in me and through me. It guaranteed I'd never direct anything but myself, and convinced me that large desks were for castrated dummies. I thought, Fuck that, I'm gonna be an undercover. ” AUGUST 2001—JANUARY 2002 IF ANYTHING, THE shooting proved that my job, and therefore my life, was not glamorous in any way. Pathetically, I'd imagined that undercover life would be like Miami Vice—full of cigarette boats, fast cars, expensive clothes, and perfect tens in bikinis sitting in my lap while I negotiated with drug kingpins.