A situation arose where the eventual outcome forced me to remind Igor that though I had trouble during the rising drama of the situation seeking the anesthesia tool when it was most needed I found myself recalling quite well where the bullwhip was hanging in it's spot on the wall.
I felt ridiculous saying it to him. Over these past two hundred years it has grown fruitless in attempting to instruct Igor by means of corporal discipline. He has obviously grown immune to such a degree that the last time I whipped him I discovered that he was merely engaging in some silly pantomime of agony at each stroke of the lash. Either through excessive scarring or sheer endurance of will he had become immune to the sting of the whip. He was in fact mocking the ritual. He wasn't mocking me, he belittled the ritual of corporal punishment by placing it in the scope of absurdity where it belongs. It made me look foolish instead of feeling guilty.
We had both become anesthetized within the necessary suspension of dignity required when one person tries to inflict his will upon another by means of disciplinary brutality.
We had both become anesthetized within the necessary suspension of dignity required when one person tries to inflict his will upon another by means of disciplinary brutality.