parable of the nighttime groper.

They were almost at a loss for words, a community at wit's end, an unusual reaction in proportion to a gross set of unusual circumstances.

Havelock, by his own diseased admission, had tried to get in a complex, rummaged around, messed with the trash dumpster, storm drains, and even got at electrical conduits and all, generally messing around and anticipating a flotsam little release of sperm, and that, out of proportion with the amount of tomfoolery that he was then engaged in, but such as it is in Umbria, so much of a day's malaise feeds a few moments of pleasure, in the interim, and even a cold beverage succors a whole day of nonsense in the western world.

He found an open apartment on the first floor, window up a few inches, and he worked it further, jutting in an arm, and found what he thought was gold.

Her bed was near the window, and she was covered in only a tee shirt, and old concert thing from Kiss or Boston or something, in the dark of night, and he reached in and found his gold in the form of her roundness via her bresticles.

When she at last stirred, realizing something untoward was elapsing, he put the steak blade through the window slit and did an energetic salad spinners motion, with his full force of intent, slicing flesh, bone, sinew, rendering the woman dying in a pool of her own blood.

Had he done it before?  Why it was too improbable, and databases and all seem to agree, if he had, it was surely under a different means, but the same motive power, to leave a small gleating of phlegm at the edge of the building, where the police would later see a dog eating what remained of Havelock's ejaculation in front of the window.