It started almost immediately on the day he left home. An easy decision, given that he’d just shot his father in the guts with the old man’s Colt Paterson, a g*n which he had inherited from his father who had served in the Texas navy in the old days. Now, as Vernon Shapiro lay dying on the cabin floor, his son stepped away, the smoking g*n in a hand that shook uncontrollably. He felt a red-hot tear rolling down his face. It was to be the last time he cried.
Ever since he could remember, Paul Shapiro held nothing but fear and hatred for his father. It seemed to him that if he merely breathed at the wrong moment, the big old man would cuff him heavily across the ear. Beatings became something of a ritual whilst his mother watched and wailed but did nothing to halt the violence. Even now, as
