HIS WHEELS GRIND SLOWLY
It is hard to describe the moment that I think that I first knew that Charles Cosimano was pure evil incarnate, a living embodiment of Satan. It happened at a small party at his house just before the first Nutmeg gathering, when he was dubbed "Uncle Chuckie" by the Chicago magick community, in the summer of 1995.
There were about five of us, Cosimano, his then girlfriend, a tall, gorgeous brunette who for some reason never wore clothes and spent a lot of time tied to the post in the basement, and the other three of us. We had just finished a pizza and were passing around a bottle wine when he got up and told us that there was something he wanted us to look at. He went to a drawer in the hutch that held a large part of his video collection and took out an Express Mail envelope, which he opened to remove a long, handwritten letter. He passed it around, explaining that the writer was an ex-girlfriend of his from many years ago and he wanted our opinion of her.
By the second sentence it was obvious that the writer was, if not clinically insane, then clearly not firing on all her cylinders and as we passed it around laughing at her, one of us asked Cosimano how he was going to kill her, because knowing him that seemed to be what was coming.
He said nothing, but took the letter and placed it back in its envelope to return it to its drawer and then sat down, leaning back in his chair and peaking his fingers. After a few seconds he uttered a slight chuckle, a tone that I, at least had never heard before, and said, calmly, quietly, almost a monotone whisper, in words that I will never forget as long as I live.
"I'm not. Oh no, no quick death for her. I have something far more prolonged and entertaining planned for this one."
And that was all that he said. No elaboration, no other comment, then or ever, except for one line. "The wheels of Chuck grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small."
The rest of us sat stunned. We had seen laughter, temper and the madness of creation, but none of us had ever seen this.
Then we went back to talking about his newest projects and other things but that image of pure, unhuman malice is one that will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my days.
At that moment I beheld the soul of Charles Cosimano and truly, terrifyingly, looked into the Eye of Sauron.
As far as the writer of the letter, I don't know what has happened to her over the years but may God have mercy on her, for Cosimano will not.