Bishman's left hand, the one that had been pointing backwards. He let out a prolonged, blood-curdling scream of terror. Bishman had ripped into his gut with the bread-knife and twisted it. He was wailing like a mental patient. As the hard man released Bishman's right hand, the marine knife in that hand came flailing down too. A ghastly smell permeated the air as his bladder and bowels simultaneously released, as they often do in violent death.
Bishman left him for dead with thirty-seven knife wounds. He would arrive in the Bronx Hospital as a D.O.A. The newspapers wrote up the murder, calling it a cowardly, frenzied attack. No mention was made of why the victim was in the middle of Central Park at four o'clock in the morning. At the age of twenty-nine, the guy had owned and controlled a computer company operating out of Queens, with a turnover in excess of fifty million dollars. But he still enjoyed being in Central Park around the time of the full moon.
His name has been withheld to protect his family, who are still in the process of squabbling over his estate.
Bishman retraced his footsteps that led him to the edge of the park, he didn't want to go any further. Not with all those fuckin' whackos, weirdos and psychos out there, no way, boogaloo , he thought.
Ju st before the exit, he slipped the plastic bags off his sneakers and took off the old tracksuit top and mismatching bottoms that had streaks of blood splattered over them and stuck them deep inside a trash can. Bishman knew the trash would be emptied before seven o'clock that morning.
On the way out of the park, at the exit by West 72nd Street, Bishman noticed a terrible itching on his left wrist, right by his scar. Of all things he'd been bitten by a mosquito and it itched like hell. Bishman dug his thumbnail deep into the insect bite and then dug it in again, at right angles, to form the sign of a cross. 'Well it always worked before,' thought Bishman as he dug his thumbnail in again to reinforce the sign.
Bishman tried hard to remember who told him that little trick but he couldn't, so he started humming Mack the Knife . He was halfway through his tune when he remembered, Yeah, it must have been that cretin, Michael Shwartz. Same guy who told me dragon flies would zip up my eyes and I'd attract rattle snakes to me if I meditated in the forest ...Yeah! Michael Shwartz, my ass! Fuckin' cretin!
Bishman spat a groobly on the ground. He couldn't tell whether it bounced or not ... it probably did.
Harvey would give Bishman feedback at opportune moments. This was one of them:
"Good stuff, Bob. I know we've talked a lot, with you both in the trance state and in the conscious state. The important thing to realize about the feedback that I give you is, that it's no biggie. Don't try to find answers in it, just let your subconscious mind assimilate it. Like I say, just relax. You don't even have to listen to me, because I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to your subconscious mind.
"The thing about drinking is this: All the counselors have been asking you why you drink. I don't think that's important. I would like you to ask yourself the question: What would I do if I didn't drink? S imple as that, no biggie."
Many times Bishman would ramble for many hours, all recorded by Harvey, only to come up with one coherent experience right at the end of a regression. This is one of those many sessions:
Chicago is known as Windy City, and for good reason too. The biting North wind comes sweeping right in over Lake Michigan and the towering skyscrapers, causing howling vortexes that are unknown anywhere else in America. In winter, the place gets bitterly cold. This particular day, there were plenty of dead umbrellas and plenty of dead rainbows too.
The dead umbrellas are obvious: the cheap flimsy things that are all too often made in China these days, just can't hack the pressure of Windy City. At the end of each windy day the streets are l ittered with
Bishman left him for dead with thirty-seven knife wounds. He would arrive in the Bronx Hospital as a D.O.A. The newspapers wrote up the murder, calling it a cowardly, frenzied attack. No mention was made of why the victim was in the middle of Central Park at four o'clock in the morning. At the age of twenty-nine, the guy had owned and controlled a computer company operating out of Queens, with a turnover in excess of fifty million dollars. But he still enjoyed being in Central Park around the time of the full moon.
His name has been withheld to protect his family, who are still in the process of squabbling over his estate.
Bishman retraced his footsteps that led him to the edge of the park, he didn't want to go any further. Not with all those fuckin' whackos, weirdos and psychos out there, no way, boogaloo , he thought.
Ju st before the exit, he slipped the plastic bags off his sneakers and took off the old tracksuit top and mismatching bottoms that had streaks of blood splattered over them and stuck them deep inside a trash can. Bishman knew the trash would be emptied before seven o'clock that morning.
On the way out of the park, at the exit by West 72nd Street, Bishman noticed a terrible itching on his left wrist, right by his scar. Of all things he'd been bitten by a mosquito and it itched like hell. Bishman dug his thumbnail deep into the insect bite and then dug it in again, at right angles, to form the sign of a cross. 'Well it always worked before,' thought Bishman as he dug his thumbnail in again to reinforce the sign.
Bishman tried hard to remember who told him that little trick but he couldn't, so he started humming Mack the Knife . He was halfway through his tune when he remembered, Yeah, it must have been that cretin, Michael Shwartz. Same guy who told me dragon flies would zip up my eyes and I'd attract rattle snakes to me if I meditated in the forest ...Yeah! Michael Shwartz, my ass! Fuckin' cretin!
Bishman spat a groobly on the ground. He couldn't tell whether it bounced or not ... it probably did.
Harvey would give Bishman feedback at opportune moments. This was one of them:
"Good stuff, Bob. I know we've talked a lot, with you both in the trance state and in the conscious state. The important thing to realize about the feedback that I give you is, that it's no biggie. Don't try to find answers in it, just let your subconscious mind assimilate it. Like I say, just relax. You don't even have to listen to me, because I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to your subconscious mind.
"The thing about drinking is this: All the counselors have been asking you why you drink. I don't think that's important. I would like you to ask yourself the question: What would I do if I didn't drink? S imple as that, no biggie."
Many times Bishman would ramble for many hours, all recorded by Harvey, only to come up with one coherent experience right at the end of a regression. This is one of those many sessions:
Chicago is known as Windy City, and for good reason too. The biting North wind comes sweeping right in over Lake Michigan and the towering skyscrapers, causing howling vortexes that are unknown anywhere else in America. In winter, the place gets bitterly cold. This particular day, there were plenty of dead umbrellas and plenty of dead rainbows too.
The dead umbrellas are obvious: the cheap flimsy things that are all too often made in China these days, just can't hack the pressure of Windy City. At the end of each windy day the streets are l ittered with
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