Beauty is what it takes. Victory always belongs to beauty. Perfect skill is truly beautiful. Beautiful skill. Complete surrender. Perfect victory.

Don’t get so flustered. Each and every movement must be made with economy, with utmost care. No gesture or look must be left to chance. Everything must be carried out for one purpose. One purpose only. Fear. Surrender can be obtained only by extracting the root of fear. Violence without skill breeds nothing more than hatred and resistance. Drawing out fear involves a process, and principles. Once in possession of a perfect skill, you can bring them to surrender with a pen, not an iron bar.

Let me explain what beautiful skill is.

First, take off his clothes. Don’t touch him. Let him take them off himself. Till he’s stark naked. When all his clothes have come off, leave him like that for a while. Make him endure the shame of being naked. Make him see that he has nowhere to turn. Leave him like that till his flushed face turns pale, till his hunched shoulders start shaking, till his drooping balls shrivel.

Then shed a light on him. Flash it on his face and make him close his eyes, then let it spread all over his body. Make him feel its intensity not with his eyes but with his skin. Make sure that his skin reacts, the veins turning a deeper blue, and the pores expanding. Don’t let it drag too long. Shut off the light before the pricking rays turn into a warm caress. No warmth should be allowed. Eliminate any warmth there is.

There’s nothing like cold water to eliminate warmth. Blast water at him. Make him feel the sting of water that’s as cold as ice. He’ll come to know the fear that lacerates the flesh. The water will spread like a flame. Its light will be darker than darkness itself. A state in which you can’t tell if water is water, flame, light, or darkness, a state in which there’s nowhere for you to turn and nothing makes sense. That’s the beginning of fear. Only a rugged body that has undergone the awakening of fear is ready for subjection to true skill.

Now leave him alone for half a day. After that, time will take care of things. Half a day is enough. He could give you a viewing of his entire life in half a day. In that time, he could think of all the crimes he’s committed, even ones he hasn’t yet committed. He could call to his mind the happiness he’s experienced, and the hope he’d wished for. And his last meal will be digested and gone in that time. He has nothing to throw up, so nothing will block his airways.

So he won’t go and die on you.

Everything’s ready, so you can flaunt your skill now. Now’s the moment to lay him down on the death bed. What’s a death bed? It’s the sky you carry on your back on your last journey. The sky where the North Star shines in serenity. Beautiful, isn’t it? I made it myself with a board from a birch tree.

Lay him down on the death bed. Make him comfortable, with his ankles strapped and his neck propped up. Cover his pathetic body with a blanket. It’ll keep his skin from scarring. Leave no traces of assault, only bruises on the inside of his bones. Fasten him with four straps, and let him revel in the honor of being one with my beautiful death bed.

Isn’t he lovely? Lying on the death bed, he’s as mild as a newborn baby swaddled in a blanket. So lovely that you want to put him to the breast. You should put him to the sweet breast, then. But first, cover his face with wet gauze so that the air won’t block his airways.

Pour the water. Slowly, in a small stream. It must enter the throat and the nose at the same time. Don’t cut off the stream of water until it’s filled his throat. It’s no use for him to close his mouth, and he can hold his breath for only so long. The mouth opens, the water goes in. The more he resists, the more he suffers. Do you hear him gasping for breath? Do you see his chest swelling? Pour more water. There’s more that leaks than goes in, but no matter. Keep pouring until the water comes out of his eyes. Don’t stop till his mouth stops twitching.

Is his mouth still? Now it’s time for the North Star to move toward heaven. Flip over the death bed. Flip it over, and make him throw up water with the North Star at his back. He’ll come to his senses after that. When he does, flip over the death bed again. And pour water. Simple, isn’t it? What a beautiful device. You don’t need to exert yourself, thrusting his head into the tub; you don’t need to make an effort to lift up his limp body. You just need to flip over the death bed. The water comes pouring out with no effort on your part.

He’ll be drenched all over. All sorts of liquids will come oozing out of every pore in his body. He’ll have pissed himself. And shit himself wet. Spit, sweat, piss. Make them all come pouring out of him. The more that comes out, the more that goes in. Pour water. And some red pepper powder. Raise the death bed. Pour water.

Don’t hesitate. You can’t turn back. Don’t think of him as a human being. He’s a rock. A tree, grass, a donkey gone mad, a dog, a goat. Nothing more than a rock. Wring out tears from the rock. Don’t lose control. Don’t betray your emotions. Stay cool. Don’t lose your head. Put on a mask of ice. Let your boiling blood cool. Try not to breathe, even. Keep yourself from sweating. And groaning.

It’s a war. A struggle for your life. Subdue the enemy, or the enemy attacks you. What we’re fighting is the force of evil. Minions of evil who indulge in lies, intrigue, injustice. A mob of evil that dreams of violence, fight, overthrow. We are the good warriors fighting the force of evil.

Let him down. Undo the straps, and lift the blanket. Handle him with care. He’s fully prepared to take in every sensation in existence. His beautiful body will shiver at the tiniest breath of air, and quiver at the gentlest touch. Static will seem to him a flash of lightning. Stars will shine and the sun will rise on his body. Waves will crash, tidal waves will strike. Flowers will blossom and birds will sing. His body will experience a marvelous new act of creation.

Are you awake? Let me see. What a mess you are. Did you cry? Did you wet yourself? No need to worry. Soon I’ll wipe away all the little drops. What makes you sad, what makes you bitter? Blame yourself for taking part in the works of darkness. Do you wish to confess your sins? It’s not time yet. It won’t be too late, after you’ve had a taste of the essence of my perfect skill. Are you in pain? Heaven is near. I’ll reveal heaven to you. You’ll hear the song of angels. When it’s over, you’ll revere me.

Feed him some salt. The electrolytes need replenishing. Keep him from dehydrating, and adjust the salt concentration in his body. Hook up his little toes, the right to negative, the left to positive. That’s the way of heaven and earth. Now turn on the power. And listen. Listen to the bray of a mad donkey. Watch his tongue roll up, watch his throat swell. Cover his mouth. Gag the mad donkey. See his red lips turn purple, and the whites of his eyes turn red. Turn up the current. Watch the power of electricity instantly drying everything up. When the moisture is gone, pour water on him again. Pour salt water for easy transmission. Check for residual salt on his dry, naked body. Witness the profound moment when white goose bumps give way to soft, downy hair.

Look at the electrified hair. See the beauty of the hair, all standing in one direction. Isn’t it breathtaking? That is true beauty. The perfect proof of the perfect skill. Soft downy hair charged with electricity.

“Sir!”

Who is it? Who dares get in my way at this beautiful moment? This thrilling moment of complete surrender, this moment of perfect victory. Who?

“Sir!”

“What!”

“I think you should stop. There’s been a problem.”

“What problem?”

“A casualty.”

“Where?”

“Room 201.”

“Team 3?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Damned rookies...What now?”

“We’ve been ordered to stop all interrogations.”

“Stop?”

I turn my head to get a look at him. His mouth is slack, his neck bent back. His dry white lips are twitching. The lips that were ready to confess. It was nearly finished. All I had to do was get an affidavit. I clench my fist. The back of my hand trembles.

*

The king was beheaded, and a world of dogs has dawned. In this new world, dogs that had kept their tails hidden have begun to bare their teeth. Fawning dogs with wagging tails and the dogs behind bars have joined in. Packs of mad dogs are running amuck.

It’s all because of the damned mad dogs. What they need is a stick. We should’ve wiped them out before they started going mad. That’s what we should’ve done. I should’ve gagged that son of a bitch.

I’m stuck in this absurd situation all because of that son of a bitch. That son of a bitch who wanted to be the leader of the dog gang. That bastard, who pleaded for his life, weeping like a girl, and licked the floor and shit like a dog, has gone and done it. He got my picture in the morning paper for the dogs, and blabbed about my beautiful skill.

No, it’s because of the rookies. If not for the way they did things, no one would’ve died; without that useless death, the dogs in hiding wouldn’t have gone mad; and if the dogs hadn’t gone mad, the king wouldn’t have been beheaded. If the king hadn’t been beheaded, that bastard I threw into prison wouldn’t have been released on special pardon, and if he hadn’t been released, my face wouldn’t have been disclosed to the whole world. Rookies. It’s always sloppiness that causes problems.

No, it’s all because of the eyes. They should’ve read the eyes. They should’ve forced the eyelids open and taken a look at the eyes. They should’ve noticed the faint light lingering in the pupils. And they should’ve stopped. They should’ve put brakes on their hands, propelled by inertia. They should’ve distinguished between the faint light at the moment of sleep, and the faint light at the moment of death. And they should’ve stopped. Damned rookies.

You have to read the eyes. Reading the eyes is a skill of identifying boundaries. It’s a skill of finding the point between continuing and stopping. It’s a skill of grasping the moment of parting. A skill of seizing the climax, the moment when resistance gives way to surrender, the moment when they let go and break free from all oppression, the moment when anxiety and relief switch places, the moment when the eyes, full of hostility, become full of respect.

You must not cross boundaries. There are moments when capillaries break, like a taut string, in the white of the eye that’s fraught with tension. There are moments when everything is bright and clear, then become obscure, like fluorescent lights that brighten and darken in a flash before going completely out. In moments like that, the cornea dries out and becomes enveloped in smoke. The gap between the moments when moisture leaves and smoke enters, the gap between the moments when expansion and contraction hold hands then let go—that gap is the apex of life and death. You must stop before you reach that point. True skill is knowing when to stop.

Yes, everything is because of the eyes. The eyes reveal the truth. By reading the eyes, you read everything about the person. Everything is determined by the eyes. No other part of the body can be relied upon. The tongue indulges in lies, and the body likes to exaggerate. The eyes are honest. The eyes cannot lie. The eyes couldn’t deceive, even if they wanted to. By reading the eyes, you come nearer to the truth. You must read the eyes.

I take out my gun from its case. It’s a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver. This classic gun has the beauty of simplicity and conciseness to it. The best thing about it is the feeling of anticipation you get when you load ammunition into the revolving cylinder, and the refreshing feeling you get when you’re done shooting and you remove the empty cartridges all at once. The gridded grip is a bit too small for my hands, but I like how I can wrap my hand around it completely.

My .38 caliber revolver is loaded with ammunition. I rotate the cylinder and remove the blank ammunition. I pull the hammer back. The sound of the cylinder rotating is pleasing to the ear. I pull the trigger. I hear the sound of the lever being pulled, kicking back the spring. Again, hammer, cylinder, and trigger. And again, hammer, cylinder, trigger. I aim the muzzle at the wall facing me, and pull the trigger. I aim for the incandescent lamp and pull the trigger. And one shot at my temple. Bang. The hollow ringing of the hammer reaches my temple. I stay still as if dead. I feel as if a hot, thick liquid is running down my cheek. I put the gun down. I put the blanks back in the cylinder. I raise the gun. I point the gun at the stain on the wall. What I need to aim at is not my temple, but the dogs’ heads. I cock the gun. I’ll fight the crazy sons of bitches whenever it’s necessary. I close one eye and pretend to pull the trigger. Bang. 

* Translated by Jung Yewon.