I was feeling overwhelmed by loneliness and about my place in the world. More and more lately I feel as if I don't belong, that my actions on a daily basis mean nothing-and I am in fact the miserable son-of-a-bitch everyone thinks I am.

And then Peter's threats broke my spell of depression, unleashing my unabashed survival ethic. Never say what you don't mean-or you will face the consequences of my hand across your big mouth. He had called me saying he knew the truth-I had killed my wife Barbra-and he was going to the authorities.

"How do you know?" I asked on the phone.

"A friend of Barbra's told me."

"Ridiculous. Who?"

"None of your business."

I calmed him down and agreed to meet him the next night at La Cocina, a Mexican restaurant in Hollywood.

Everything worked as planned. I called the restaurant, informing Peter I wouldn't be able to make it because my car had broken down (after I had disconnected my ignition wires). Getting a tow from AAA would give me an alibi should the police ever question me. From the garage, I took a cab home and waited.

The phone rang about an hour later with a simple, "I'm sorry. Wrong number." If there was anything that that hit man was, he was a professional. It was done. Peter's suicide was completed.

Natural gas has no odor, but the gas company adds a scent to make sure you know if the dangerous fume is airing in your home. Poor Peter, despondent after Barbra's death (and after a dinner that I was unable to attend), he finally cracked-laying down on his living room couch and slowly letting the gas fill the room-and his lungs-- slowly suffocating to death.

The hit man promised me there would be no trace of a struggle. Breaking into Peter's apartment, he would wait for Peter to return from dinner. At gun point, he would make Peter turn on the oven and then lay patiently on the couch. The hit man carried a small scuba diving air tube, used as a precaution if you're large tank ever empties, to hide from the fumes. If Peter did struggle however, he would simply put a bullet in Peter's head and leave the gun in his hand. I didn't want anymore blood. I wanted Peter to commit suicide valiantly, calmly, slowly falling asleep.

The hit man would then call me. "Sorry, wrong number"would mean it went as planned. "What number is this?" meant it was carried out by gunfire.

After I hung up the phone, I realized Peter now too was dead. This would make authorities question me and bring a certain focus to the series of events. I would have to play it cool, and pour on the drama of heartbreak, telling the story of Peter's slow unraveling about Barbra's tragic murder.

What made me a tad nervous was Peter saying someone had told him about the incident. Either he was lying (not likely), because for him to be in such a state of shock and hatred would have to be the result of evidence. Would I have to kill one of the Mocha Daze crew-Fran, Mike, Greg, Drew, or Eric?

Listen to me. I'm out of control. My rational mind is slipping and I've crossed the point of no return. I cannot, and will not, tolerate anyone or anything getting in my way.

Murder is a fact of life. And I will kill any of these people-I simply don't care whom lives and who dies anymore.