There was a strip club out in Scarborough, a suburb just east of Toronto, where Mr. LeFevre would bring his seventeen-year-old son Martin.

Martin was a shy young man. Too shy is what Mr. LeFevre thought. He'd refer to the boy using any number of names ranging from the benign "wuss" or "girly man," to the more cutting, "faggety motherfucker" or "gimpy fuck." Mr. LeFevre called him everything but Martin. He brought his shy young son to the strip club to teach him how to be a man.

Martin promptly fell in love with one of the house girls at the club. Her name was Roxy, only her mother called her Sylvia-Louise.

At first Mr. LeFevre was pleased, throwing wads of cash at Roxy like she was some powerful witch who could pull the gayness out of his faggety son's dick with the mojo hidden in her guileful cleavage. Though his fatherly pride was short-lived when he came to realize Martin would have no one else dance for him. He only wanted Sylvia and she was all he talked about.

"Sylvia goes to college Dad. She studies marine biology. Sylvia wants to find cures for cancer by grinding up sponges. She talks about why she thinks hammerhead sharks always come back to the same seamount and she wonders if the ocean could be soaking up the missing carbon dioxide that industries are producing. She's so smart and beautiful and funny...she makes the ocean sound like paradise and sharks sound like lovers and you almost want to run away to the fathomless depths at the bottom of the sea with her..."

"Jeezus Christ, I don't know what's worse, a faggety son or a pussy-whipped motherfucker!" said Mr. LeFevre as he palmed Martin's head and slammed it into the wall behind him. "Are you retarded wuss? Don't you know strippers only sweet-talk you for money? She doesn't give a shit about you, and why would she you gimpy fuck, she's probably got a boyfriend."

Martin looked down at his sneakers fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie. "Right." He said, suddenly embarrassed by his lovesick gushing. "I forgot who I was talkin' to."

"Now I don't wanna hear another word about the bitch, you're not seeing her again, end of discussion."

Martin wouldn't hear it. He knew Sylvia-Louise felt something for him. He knew there was something between them.

That night Martin told Sylvia-Louise how he felt. He spilled his guts. Professing his undying love for her and asking her to be his angel.

Not surprisingly, Sylvia, very gently, turned him down. She was older, in college and Mr. LeFevre was correct in assuming she had a boyfriend.

Martin was destroyed. He was consumed with the kind of hurt and humiliation that quickly grew into rage and hate.

He spent several nights following Sylvia-Louise until he'd become familiar with her routine and when he felt ready, ready to be a man, he waited in the back seat of her car.

Sylvia-Louise said goodnight to the bouncer who'd walked her out to the parking lot, tossed her gym bag into the passenger seat and then got in and started her car.

That's when Martin took her.

He wrapped his arm around her throat in a sleeper-hold position and squeezed until she lost consciousness. Then he climbed into the front seat and removed most of her clothing. As she lay there still and half-naked, Martin hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment, and then he raped her.

During mid-rape, Sylvia-Louise regained consciousness and when she opened her eyes and saw Martin on top of her, fucking her awkwardly in the front seat of her car, she began to kick and scream.

Martin panicked, jammed his wrist hard against her throat and covered her mouth with his free hand.

He was still fucking her.

As he choked the life out of her.

And with her last breath, Martin would come inside her.

He lay on top of her sweating, his pants down around his knees and his face buried in Sylvia's pulse-less neck when he burst into tears all-at-once.

Several hours had passed when Martin finally regained his composure and took control of the situation. He dressed himself, clothed Sylvia-Louise, placed her gently in the passenger seat and proceeded to drive her car down Lakeshore Boulevard until he reached the Leslie Street Spit, a rocky point of land on the Toronto shoreline.

"I'm a fucken man." he said and he drove the car over the cliff and plunged it into the bottom of Lake Ontario.