Well, TMZ has obtained a manuscript from that book (or so they claim). I cannot vouch for the validity of this passage, but if it is real, then it is chilling. Fasten your seatbelts, because you're about to go on a bumpy ride (caution: contains strong language!):
I'm going to tell you a story you've never heard before, because no one knows this story the way I know it. It takes place on the night June 12, 1994, and it concerns the murder of my ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her young friend, Ronald Goldman. I want you to forget everything you think you know about that night because I know the facts better than anyone. I know the players. I've seen the evidence. I've heard the theories. And, of course, I've read all the stories: That I did it. That I did it but I don't know I did it. That I can no longer tell fact from fiction. That I wake up in the middle of the night, consumed by guilt, screaming.
I looked over at Goldman, and I was fuming. I guess he thought I was going to hit him, because he got into his little karate stance. "What the f*ck is that?" I said. "You think you can take me with your karate sh*t?" He started circling me, bobbing and weaving, and if I hadn't been so f*cking angry I would have laughed in his face. "O.J., come on!" It was Charlie again, pleading. Nicole moaned, regaining consciousness. She stirred on the ground and opened her eyes and looked at me, but it didn't seem like anything was registering. Charlie walked over and planted himself in front of me blocking my view. "We are f*cking done here, man-let's go!"
I noticed the knife in Charlie's hand, and in one deft move I removed my right glove and snatched it up. "We're not going anywhere," I said, turning to face Goldman. Goldman was still circling me, bobbing and weaving, but I didn't feel like laughing anymore. "You think you're tough, motherf*cker?" I said. I could hear Charlie just behind me, saying something, urging me to get the f*ck out of there, and at one point he even reached for me and tried to drag me away, but I shook him off, hard, and moved toward Goldman. "Okay, motherf*cker!" I said. "Show me how tough you are!"
Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened, but I can't tell you exactly how. I was still standing in Nicole's courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there, when I'd arrived, or even why I was there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital-with little Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping balls into my neighbor's yard; Paula, angry, not answering her phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly sh*t about Nicole's behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive from Rockingham to the Bundy condo. And now?
Now I was standing in Nicole's courtyard, in the dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I couldn't get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of me was covered in blood, but it didn't compute. Is this really blood? I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?
Another TMZ posting reveals, also from the book, that during the now-infamous Bronco chase scene, he considered killing himself with his Magnum:
A.C. drove another half-mile or so and pulled into an orange grove, where no one could spot us, not even from the sky. He got out to take a leak, and the moment he left the Bronco I reached for my grip. I unzipped it and pulled out the Magnum. I was in tremendous pain, and I saw nothing but more pain ahead of me, and I decided to end it. I realized, I can make this stop. One shot to the flicking [sic] head and it's over.
Is it possible that there is a more despicable man alive? Is there anyone more sick, and twisted, and selfish than this man?
I remember the OJ Simpson trial. Every reasonable person in America knew that he did it. I was still in middle school, but classes basically came to a halt. Day in and day out, we watched the trial in class. The day the verdict was announced, the school erupted into celebration by the... minority students and faculty. And I mean that literally -- they were cheering and dancing and shouting in the hallways, as if this was some kind of victory for the civil rights movement or something.
And OJ stood there in the courtroom, smirking.
Then there's this book. Whether he did it or not, how horribly selfish was that? I mean, to make a profit off of those murders -- including the murder of the mother of your children -- is sick, whether you did or not. Think about the effect this will have on Nicole and Ron's families, hearing about their loved ones being brutally murdered. And what about his children? How will they like reading about their mother being murdered in explicit detail? But that doesn't matter to Mr. OJ Simpson, oh no. Anything to make some money, right?
Sick, sick, sick, sick, sick. That man is despicable. Just, honestly, can you sink any lower?