I can tolerate drug lords, terrorists, thieves, and general jerks—just not braggarts. There is something about arrogance that brings out my darker side, my most intense feelings of hatred and disgust. I’ve done many things to arrogant animals that I’m not proud of. You wouldn’t expect that from a docile, 139-year-old tortoise, huh? To the other creatures of this land, I am Mr. T. I read stories to the neighborhood children and volunteer at the soup kitchen each Sunday. Yet, beneath my facade is a despicable past that I can no longer keep secret; I am not brave enough to share my story with another animal—that’s why you’re reading this. As an American human, you are immediately seen as the enemy. How could they trust you—with your shiny cars and big houses that trample the land that my fellow creatures once called home? The way I see it, a silent confidant is the best confidant. This is my confessional tale.
My reign of terror spans nine decades, so I’ll simplify things by sharing the tale that started it all: my race with Harriet Hare. I was an agile 29-year-old with a clean reputation. Everything was going well for me. I had a steady girlfriend, a Forest-Ivy degree under my belt, a beautiful rock in a prime neighborhood, and a good corporate job at the leaf-cutting plant. Still, there was one animal at the plant that I just couldn’t stand, and that was Ms. Harriet Hare.
Harriet was a demon lady. There’s no denying that she was a highly intelligent and agile animal, but she was also an unbearable show-off. Harriet and I had been friends in high school, back when she was still a sweet kid. We were even lab partners in AP Biology, and I invited her to my birthday party every year. The very first time Harriet irritated me was on Forest-Ivy decision day. I had been rejected by Kale University—my first choice. Nonetheless, I’d received a full scholarship to attend another Forest-Ivy: Corn-Dill University. Of course, I was disappointed by Kale’s rejection, but going to Corn-Dill for free was still a good reason to celebrate. I’d heard that Harriet had been admitted to Kale—this was expected, since the Hares were a powerful legacy family at the university—yet when I congratulated her later that week all that Harriet did was laugh at me. On College Sweatshirt Day, I proudly wore my red Corn-Dill hoodie. Predictably, Harriet showed up to AP Bio in her blue Kale letter sweater. She took a seat in the lab and giggled while checking her petri dish.
“What’s so funny?” I asked while examining her dish, thinking that she’d found some odd mold leftover from our last experiment.
She rolled her eyes and patted me on the shoulder. “I’m just so sorry that you, the most studious critter at Treemount High, have to attend a fake Forest-Ivy. I guess that hard work just doesn’t beat out natural talent.”
From that point onward, I vowed to take Harriet down one day.
There was only one other Hare working at the plant, and that was her father, the CFO Mr. Humble Hare. It was difficult to believe that Mr. Hare and Harriet were related. While she constantly bragged and reprimanded other employees for their “inferior intellects,” he graciously offered instruction to the newbie workers and made it a point to ask everyone about how their days were going. Sometimes, I think back to Mr. Hare and feel badly about causing him such pain. Well, I’m getting ahead of myself; let’s get back to my confession.
One day, Harriet came to work in a Kale t-shirt and running shorts instead of her usual skirt and blazer. Because Harriet and I were supposed to give a presentation to the board that morning, I politely asked her whether she had packed a change of work-appropriate clothing.
Moments after my inquiry, she pulled her ponytail tighter and took a gulp from her water bottle. “What’s the matter, Corn-Dill? Are you jealous that I’m a better athlete than you?” she jeered.
A year after graduating from Kale, Harriet had competed at the Animal Summer Olympics on the Women’s track and field team; she’d taken home a silver medal. Despite retiring from the sport, she was still one of the fastest runners in the country. Still, that was no reason for her to tease a slow tortoise like me, the kind of animal that wouldn’t even dream about being an Olympic athlete.
I don’t know what I was thinking when I said this next line. In fact, I wasn’t thinking. “You’re not faster than me, you jerky JERK!” I screamed. “And I’ll prove it to you.”
Seeing me upset only made her laugh harder. “Are you challenging me, tubby tortoise?” Her voice suddenly got softer and more volatile. “Then let’s compete,” she sneered.
I couldn’t imagine continuing to work at the leaf-cutting plant as long as Harriet was still there, but leaving the company after so many years of hard work simply wasn’t an option. If she weren’t a Hare, I could have sabotaged her work performance and gotten her fired, but the daughter of our CFO would never have been given the boot—even if she was a miserable, ungodly wretch. It was at that moment that I realized what I needed to do. Killing Harriet was the only way to end our rivalry.
I arranged for us to have a race on the local running trail that following Tuesday after work. We agreed that the first one to finish the three-mile course will have earned the right to ridicule and criticize his or her opponent for the rest of eternity. Word of this challenge spread throughout the workplace, and pretty soon the whole company was talking about our upcoming race. Animals even started betting. About 95% of the company put their money on Harriet, but I had a few friends who bet small amounts on me as a way of showing their moral support. Mr. Hare, being a kind and slightly oblivious creature, saw the race as an innocent challenge between two young rivals. On the day of the race, he came to the floor that Harriet and I worked on and brought us protein bars, water bottles, and headbands for the afternoon’s competition. “Have fun out there, kids,” he said after giving us both a pat on the back.
   I knew that Harriet would want to show off her fast legs by taking a long nap during the race. I had heard her talking about it by the water cooler. “At the most, it’ll take me 25 minutes to run that course,” she gloated. “It’ll probably take Corn-Dill four hours. So, that gives me three hours and 34 minutes to have sweet, sweet dreams about beating his butt.” Her state of unconsciousness was the perfect opportunity to execute a murder.
On the day of the race, I packed my sharpest kitchen knife, a tranquilizer, and a couple rags in case things got a little messy. The entire company gathered at the running trail that evening. Harriet—that damn elitist—was decked out in Kale athletic gear. Since I wasn’t too eager to get Harriet’s blood on my clean Corn-Dill sportswear, I had dressed in my most raggedy clothing.
“Are you so embarrassed to wear Corn-Dill gear that you’d rather dress like a hobo?” she asked as we stretched.
“Something like that,” I replied, with a big grin on my face.
She scoffed at me, but I could sense that I’d made her feel uncomfortable. “Jesus Christ, don’t smile like that. You’re giving me the creeps.”
We positioned ourselves at the starting line as everyone gathered to cheer us on. Mr. Hare had volunteered to referee. “On your marks, get set, go!” he yelled. Harriet immediately took off in a sprint, and within seconds we could no longer see her. I fumbled along the trail with my tortoise feet; other animals from the company shouted words of encouragement, but I also heard a good number of them whispering about how I was “totally screwed.”
About ninety minutes later, I ran into Harriet. She had settled under a shady tree and was snoring loudly by a picnic basket. I looked around to make sure the area was clear, and then I took the kitchen knife out of my sweatshirt’s kangaroo pocket. For my own convenience, I’ll spare you the details of what ensued; I don’t like to think about the bloody bits of my victims. Still, just know that I was successful. Come to think of it, I’m sure the gruesome details of my crimes wouldn’t be unsettling to you, human. After all, your species feasts upon my peers at almost every meal. I myself might not be a common delicacy, but my shell is a coveted material in frivolous items like pretty combs and decorative boxes.
  I crossed the course’s finish line after four hours and 20 minutes, slightly over my predicted finishing time. Everyone was ecstatic that the underdog had prevailed; I wasn’t the only one who thought of Harriet as a demonic plague. After an hour of waiting for Harriet to finish the course, Mr. Hare grew worried and decided to look for her since he was the second fastest animal at our company. 30 minutes later, Mr. Hare returned to us with Harriet’s bloody corpse in his hands. His sobs and screams were saddening, but not pitiful enough to make me feel even the slightest bit guilty.
Harriet was the first victory of my ninety-year career. After murdering her, I began to kill off every arrogant animal I encountered or heard about. I have murdered thousands in my lifetime, but no killing has been as satisfactory as Harriet Hare’s. And I know what you’re thinking—how did I not get caught? The trick was to stage every attack as if it were a natural encounter with some predator, like a coyote or crocodile or even one of your kind, human. I’ve been retired from my secret life for over twenty years, but something’s been telling me that it’s time to start things up again. I might never be able to eradicate arrogant beings completely, but at least I can destroy all the c***y animals around me while I’m still alive. Besides, I expect that my secret killings will be much easier to handle during my golden years. After all, who would expect a tubby tortoise like me to be a mass murderer?