Who killed Martin Heidegger? I did!
All I ever wanted to be, I think, was a German-Jewish intellectual, a Yekke, as it were. Unlike some of my kind, I didn't emigrate to Palestine or NYC. Nor did I commit a single memorable word to paper. Instead, I scrupled to get possession of the very axe that had been used by that Stalinist thug on Trotsky — how I did that is, trust me, a tale unto itself, what you might call a thriller — and repurposed it. I snuck up on Martin Heidegger at his desk, brought it down, and utterly separated the left and right hemispheres of his brain, thus sparing subsequent philosophy — or "denken" as he would have had it — endless quantities of ontological sewage.
Some metaphysicians have never forgiven me. I can live with that.