While vacationing in Vienna, just prior to the First World War, I was in close contact with an up-and-coming spy by the name of Mr. Allen Dulles. The young man had a promising future, and I intended to steer him in the right direction. Presenting myself as a wise and admirable mentor, I took this feeble lad - this warm body with gestating potential - under my wing, later utilizing him as a loyal pawn at the Office of Strategic Services. There was a certain unforgettable day, during the early stages of Project Paperclip, after I had arranged a meeting between a then middle-aged Dulles and former SS general Karl Wolff. These stalwart gentlemen were in high spirits when they finally joined forces to discuss a cessation of hostilities in Italy. Enthusiastically, I served the two of them countless portions of fine Scotch whiskey, allowing them to laugh heartily, kick up their feet, and bond like brothers in front of a fierce, glowing fireplace. I recall retreating to the shadows for what seemed like hours, lurking there in a dark, forgotten corner of the room, observing the interaction from afar. Suddenly, the men smiled maniacally and conducted a proud and brazen handshake, bellowing in agreement while maintaining a piercing eye contact. A wave of euphoria swept over me - I made this happen! I thought. And at that moment I realized the crisp American uniform adorning my naive protege became obsolete, losing all previously perceived significance. I leaned in closer, towering over Dulles while gazing into those hypnotic flames, imagining myself perched on his shoulder, plunging my talons into him before devouring his flesh. The power I wielded over him was like that of a predator over his prey.