The psychopath will reject this title, for starters.
“Your premise is bullshit. There’s no need to calm a psychopath, a psychopath is already calm. Plus, who the fuck are you to call me a psychopath, meat? How bout I just bite your plump, tender fucking face off? Plus, shut the fuck up. Plus, you will keep my secrets because I said you will. Plus, shut up.
“Fine, I once threatened to lock my wife and kids in the house, set it on fire and kill all of them. That was after I got back from slaughtering her parents. Then I threatened to kill myself, when it was all over. That last part was the genius part: I have nothing to lose, I’m going to be dead, but just after the rest of you. Oh, yeah, like you’ve never in a moment of desperation threatened to burn two little children alive, prig. And, of course, because you’re so mentally healthy, you miss the most important part, the only important part: I didn’t do any of that! A threat is just a threat, mere words, and if you don’t know the difference between a threat and an action, you are one sad, ignorant asshole.
“And while we’re talking about you, Mr. Stable Genius, who the fuck are you to look down your long, hooked nose at somebody who hasn’t worked in years? Last I checked you were last in court a couple of years ago, doing a fucking inquest in some seedy Bronx courtroom on behalf of some guy with a cane who provoked a dentist to call him a homo and a cabron and throw some business cards in his face. Real important case, though it was the last time you got paid for anything. Oh, wait, I forgot, you’re a writer now, that’s right! You write, everyday, essential crap like this. Setting down your precious insights like you’ve learned something deep about the workings of the world of humans.
“Brilliant insights like it’s morally wrong to lie to your children, a real rare million dollar gem you got there, professor. Except that EVERYBODY lies to their children, on some level. At least I know I’m lying to my children, and I do it mostly by omission anyway, so it’s not like I’m force feeding them a lot of actual lies. Plus, I defy you to show me any way my lying has had a negative effect on either of my wonderful kids. Both kids love me, trust me, know they can always depend on me. You have no kids, know nothing about the responsibilities of parenthood. Easy for you to fucking pontificate, bring up every little long ago mistake I ever made. Like you never made a mistake in your high and mighty philosopher king life.
“I understand you’re working on a letter to me and my wife, to lay out all the so-called moral issues involved. You call it a letter, I call it your death warrant. You always whine about Hitler, ‘Oh, Hitler killed my maternal grandparents’ 12 siblings, Oh, Hitler wiped out my father’s people… the shithole they came from literally wiped from the map…’ Yeah. Blame Hitler for you being an asshole. Hitler made you a righteous asshole, I understand.
“Here’s something you should understand: I will not be attacked, by you or anyone else. Your catalogue of things I supposedly did is a dead letter, motherfucker. This war has long been over. You lost. You don’t want to talk to me because I am a compulsive liar? Fine with me. Just don’t expect my kids to reciprocate your attempts to stay in touch. They know what you are, just as they know what I am. You want to call me a psychopath? Fine, I’m a psychopath. Being a psychopath means never having to say you’re sorry.
“You got time? I could go on this way all day, don’t even need a break to piss. I piss on you, asshole. You see, the thing you’re missing is that gamblers who make a losing bet usually double down. I know a thing or two about doubling down, about not being a fucking loser, like you, Mr. American Dream. You can’t win it all back if you ain’t in it. Life is a roll of the dice. You never accepted this, think that you are in charge, somehow, that the ‘truth’ is some kind of magic shield against the randomness of life. You’re powerless, with your pompous integrity and hyperbolic sense of fairness, you’re not in charge of shit. You think your long laundry list of ‘facts’ is more persuasive than my hugs and kisses, and promises (whether sincere or made for dramatic effect)? Think again, asswipe. Possession is nine tenths of the law, counselor. You can’t take what’s mine. You can try, if you want to be crushed, in fact, I invite you to come right on.”
I brought this on myself, clearly. The psychopath makes a good point — the indisputable facts of the case only make things worse for me. The more reason for shame, the deeper the resolve to fight that shame by any means necessary. I’m not holding any cards here, except for facts nobody wants to know, and there is no price too high to pay for not knowing those terrible things.