Killing a Killer Without Ending His Life: A Syringe, a Revelation and a Happy Ending

Let's say I'm a serial killer. I like to kill people, and I have friends who like to hunt in a group and rape, torture and kill, and we don't have a type. Big, small, pretty, ugly, man, woman, adult or child, it doesn't matter. And, in this group I am truly happy. I have friends, people I relate to and enjoy being around, and who watch my back---we're like brothers cut from the same cloth, the cloth of death. We enjoy what we do, immensely. It gets our blood pumping, gets us money, unites us in camaraderie and the purpose, and the sense of power has given us all a sense of efficacy that has lifted us up from the gutter. We're motivated to do better and now feel like we can. Murder is our therapy; murder is our life. We have seen our genius that all the test told us we had; we've seen our predatory nature which we're too clever to reveal; and, we know we will never get caught---we only hunt in a nation where one of our group is the son of a homicidal dictator. It's like we have the Ring of Gyges. There is no law for us, we have no empathy and we crave the high of the kill.