Gloomy Notion

© Aug. 27, 2015. All Rights Reserved.

Mandaline:

Tattoos to hide the bruises.
Rebelling to hide the loses.

You can’t fool me.
You’re a wannabe.
Something you’re not.
You’re in the wrong spot.

Statues in body clues.
Scared to face the bad news.

I’m over you.
I’m always true.
You’re beneath the bully.
You’re never free.

Carmella:

Why do you always pick on him?
It’s from A.M. to P.M..

I’m just helping out.
Stop it, or I’m walking about.
You’ll never see me again.
He’s not gay. He likes women.

You chase him home in a car.
You beat him, but he’s a rockstar.

I’m letting you be.
Get your hands off of me.
He’s a better man,
And he has a plan.

Brian:

Carmella, I hate your exes.
He makes me hold my reflexes.

He’s a retarded racist.
Why was he on your love list?
Fuck a future. He’s dead.
I want his head.

I should put a bomb in a guitar.
You’ll send him it and run far.

I’ll stab him in the face.
I’ll destroy the human race,
Throwing tear gas in his bed.
He’s going to end up dead.

Carmella:

He hangs around other races,
Just to disrespect other faces.

He mocks merchandise and body art,
He shits lungs with my heart,
Saying I’m his property.
He used all my money.

He’d beat me, then his mom.
He wanted a threesome.

I’m a replica of his dream.
This may sound very extreme,
But I can’t get him out my head.
My relapse of psychosis is dead.

Brian:

What the fuck is your problem?
Hold your applause. He’s a scum.

I can’t choose who you love,
But make sense about what this is of.
Do you want your children that way?
Fuck it! You think talking’s cliché.

You were raised in that life.
Go on! Be a committed wife.

I can see it now!
You never liked me anyhow.
You’re on his team.
I’m more than what I seem.

Carmella:

Our love doesn’t involve you.
I won’t want. I don’t do.
I’m different, and I respect.
Listen, nobody’s perfect.

I’m keeping my distance.
Our past was intense.

I see something in you.
You shouldn’t feel blue.
I had these feelings the longest.
I can’t say I’d be the best.

I want to give us a try.
Look me in the eyes. Don’t lie.

Mandaline:

What the fuck is going on here?
You’re raping my ears down the hemisphere.
Nigger! I hate your kind.
I ain’t colorblind.

Jews think they own the place.
Faggots want to be a race.

Stay away from my bitch!
If you got change, I’m rich.
You want to fight?
I’ll make you see the light.

I’m going to skin you.
I’m going to lynch your crew.

Brian:

Don’t fuck with me cracker!
You’re just acting blacker.
Triple K is a Christian cult.
A thirty-third degree insult.

Since you don’t play fair.
Alas, you’re dead as a prayer.

You’re gone at the speed of light.
You’re trying to look the color white.
Confused, stupid fuck.
If you’re the light, your mind’s stuck.

Don’t apologize.
It’s you I despise.

Bénédicte:

Brian, it’s not worth it.
You don’t have to do this shit!
He’ll overdose from insults. Quit!
Lyrical semen makes his head split.

His racism originates in B.C.,
Hatin’ on the Virgin Mary.

He needs a leash.
Tame him another way, capeesh?
His brain shakes on acupunctures.
Wisdom is new to his brain structures.

He looks like a pornographic rerun.
Here. Shoot him with this gun.

Mandaline:

Go back to Africa!
Your face says you’re in a dilemma.
You know what’s wrong with you?
You think what you say is new.

I’m fighting for our equality,
By killing the black prodigy.

Jesus is white.
You know I’m right.
What the fuck you’ll do?
Fucking Voodoo?

Ooh! I’m so scared.
If it’s real, whites would be chaired.

Bénédicte:

I’d be careful Mandaline.
Anything I say is under your skin,
So go ahead. Be an ass.
Outlast your heart of pizzazz.

You racist Buddhist,
Lip-locking the mist. You don’t exist.

We’re all related somehow.
Dominant genes aren’t now.
Show you’re equal with a heart,
Or your soul will depart.

Most people aren’t innocent,
But together, we’re one hundred percent.

Mandaline:

What are you mixed with?
Your complexion has to be a myth.
It’s like graffiti in a peephole.
Nothing dark is stopping my goal.

Fuck the walks y’all made in a mile.
Y’all are lynched in single file.

Whipped with flames,
Just crush the games.
We shipped y’all names for a cost.
No matter what you say, y’all lost.

I don’t give a damn what you say.
Niggers are living astray.

Brian:

I won. (Bang!)
I shot your mouth to slang.
What’s that? You’re playing possum?
Well, I’ll repeat. This gun’s awesome.

Fuck you Carmella! (Bang!)
Put her in the trunk with her gang.

Us blacks love Jesus, right?
You’re eating fetus tonight.
Despite your muscularity,
All you worked for goes to charity.

You’re so white,
But can’t match the air in sight.

Bénédicte

Shut them up. I’ll make everything clear.
Brian, drive, my volunteer.
“No one interfere,” says my mind.
I’m shootin’ strangers from behind.

No one had to die.
They weren’t payin’ attention. Why?

Fuck them! The world’s full of it!
Even children taught racist shit!
I’m drivin’ about,
But the cop behind makes me doubt.

He’ll scream. He’ll say, “Ouch!”
Buddy, shoot him a kangaroo pouch.

Brian:

Traffic is in his gas tank.
Fuck him and every rank.
He won’t catch us.
I’m worried about hitting a shuttle bus.

You know what? (Boom!)
Fuck the cops. I need more ammo room.

Did you see him crash?
What a stupid ass white trash.
Hell, I’ll burn his skin to Braille,
So he’ll know a black male.

Well, pace yourself. (Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!)
Car down at noon. (Vroom!)

Bénédicte:

That’s what I’m talkin’ about.
He’s the drought.
Pull over. Shit got real.
They think we won’t kill.

I’m the one motherfucka. (Boom!)
Flex, you punk. You’re comin’ to my room.

How’s your bitch?
That’s right. I made her heart twitch.
Wake up, false prophet.
He’s in a place full of shit.

Get out the goddamn car!
I’ll wipe those fuckin’ tears with tar.

Brian:

You can hangout here.
You can disappear.
First, suck my fucking dick!
Tick-tock. Bitch, you think you’re slick.

Scream, and I’ll fuck your mouth shut.
Regardless, I’m doing it, so what?

I’m kidding, but not my main man.
He’s here to delete your lifespan.
That, I can understand.
Bitch, stay seated! That’s not as planned!

You know what? (Boom! Boom!)
Good afternoon. Take off that costume.

Bait Girl

© Aug. 26, 2015. All Rights Reserved.

Live About Murder

© Aug. 20, 2015. All Rights Reserved.

Mardi Gras.
Fuck the law.
Mardi Gras.
Fuck the law.

“You’re so weird,” she said.
All she did was worsen it,
Stuffing a church in her purse instead.
She’s a curse hell-bent on shit.
We were rehearsing outside,
But her line was unscripted.
I’m weird? Well, that’s suicide.
I held everything lifted.
I held her items. I held a spell.
I knew her boyfriend’s not feeling well.
After all the laughter and the pain,
I had to smile. She’s insane.

Mardi Gras.
Fuck the law.
Mardi Gras.
Fuck the law.

I’d kill her anywhere,
But remember what I did?
The expert with a flirtatious stare.
She viewed me as a kid.
She pretended to be Christian,
But whispered she’s a witch.
Bitch, I’ll do more than sin.
I’ll make her my bitch,
Following her ass home,
And make her tits roam.
I’ll be suited in her vagina,
And crack her face to Mardi Gras.

Mardi Gras.
Fuck the law.
Mardi Gras.
Fuck the law.

Predict it when I fuck Aurelia’s energy.
All she escapes are her eyes.
I snatch funny bones for free.
Beware movement to my size.
I’m dragging her in the bathroom,
Where I can violate her anus,
Sticking a plummet to Venus. Boom!
Feel the doom. Sperm in her legroom.
Ritual miracles in a dick.
Get to know me. The flames are a magic trick.
Scream, and nobody’ll hear. Ooh!
I should’ve drugged her, but it’d do.

Mardi Gras.
Fuck the law.
Mardi Gras.
Fuck the law.

Bizarre Trip

© Aug., 19, 2015. All Rights Reserved.

Part 1:

Too scarred to be far,
Too many walks for two.
Tomorrow, I’ll own a car,
To see you smile like brand new.
To see a while so bizarre,
To be continued with you.

To be us. To be driven.
To make love with souls within.

To be miles on the road.
To say nothing with music blasting.
Tomorrow, I’m with you until I’m old,
To feel your heart racing.
To drive along hot and cold,
To know we’re still loving.

Kiss me now.
You left me driving.
Leave me how?
I keep moving.

I keep turning. I keep thinking.
Broken pedals. It’s not stopping.

Part 2:

To be alone,
To be steering.
Tomorrow, I’m grown,
To give me feeling.
To be a man of my own,
To see you, and I’m yielding.

To be us. To be driven.
To make love with souls within.

To sit knowing it won’t happen.
To honk the horn; you won’t walk.
Tomorrow, you’re begging other men,
To let you in to talk.
To know how you’ve been.
To drive where you’d stalk.

Kiss me now.
You left me driving.
Leave me how?
I keep moving.

I keep turning. I keep thinking.
Broken pedals. It’s not stopping.

Part 3:

To keep driving without you.
To keep moving forward.
Tomorrow, clouds form a curfew.
To feel I’m aging; it’s absurd.
To run over a cactus from view.
To feel worse; I say no word.

To be us. To be driven.
To make love with souls within.

To crash into you.
To crush my dreams.
Today, you can’t sue.
To beat the car that gleams.
To drive where homes are askew.
To move where love seems.

Kiss me now.
You left me driving.
Leave me how?
I keep moving.

I keep turning. I keep thinking.
Broken pedals. It’s not stopping.

Aerial Setback

© Aug., 18, 2015. All Rights Reserved.

Warning: the following context contains sensitive material for pusillanimous, idiotic entities as well as loquacious ones. This poem contains explicit language, sexual depictions, excessive, unfathomable violence, and more. The metaphors are offensively written for the clarification of virtuous justice.

Knowin’ you is paintin’ air.
“What’s your favorite color?” That’s fair.
Beware me as I stare,
To perfect your image, I swear.

I paint beyond the lines,
Mitigate the hues of Valentine’s.
Envisionin’ your love signs,
To your clear designs.

The crucible of crucifixions,
Restrictin’ addictions.
Crimson afflictions.
Beheadin’ a head of missions.

Stillborn and reborn to scorn,
Torn till they mourn,
Warnin’ horns from words sworn.
Adornin’ forlorn figures to forewarn.

Quite the contrary, recalcitrant ankle-biters,
Devastated from deceased fighters.
Reiter’s syndrome collected spiders,
For they’re starvin’ writers.

Imprison the cicerone.
Time outs are phony.
Eatin’ doggone holystone eagerly.
And every milestone costs money.

Every frown vivifies scars,
As we vicariously live through stars,
Shootin’ for fire; shootin’ for ours.
Crashin’ to movin’ cars.

Preemptive strikes teasin’ “dykes.”
Queers twitterpated under “kikes.”
Goys thrustin’ bisexuals with pikes.
Felchin’ harlots by motherly likes.

Mulattoes follow the dominant genes,
Under pickaninnies fuckin’ preteens.
Stumblin’ from poisoned vaccines,
Second-class citizens intervenes.

Back to square one; forgive and forget.
Misconceptions in hideouts, I admit.
Tattletalin’ shit on pieces of shit.
My third eye’s open; everyone forfeit.

I’ll put their hormones in auctions,
And stone their ambitions.
Seizures on friction with confessions.
Expanded with torched captions.

Interrogate the decoy as I murder.
Vice-versa; my partner harms further.
Confuse systems; I’m roamin’ the future.
Your ritual strokes backfire over.

Makin’ eyes mimic an eclipse,
Snippin’ shortcuts to duckin’ hips,
With captives on slave ships,
Navigatin’ by the apocalypse.

Grisly scenes and forced religions.
Decomposed bodies like onions.
Activatin’ lawful inventions.
Prophecies fulfilled from morbid mentions.

Demeanin’ the youth; every parent cares.
Abusers traumatizin’ nightmares.
Psychological control. No repairs.
Unfair with blurry scares.

Perpetratin’ bona fide crimes.
Touché. Spades livin’ in rhymes.
Escortin’ eyes to punctures for dimes,
Stolen to molest timelines for mimes.

I don’t wash “T’s” so fuck Jesus’ cross.
Mountin’ holograms. There’s no boss.
Fuck the Celtic cross. It’s all false.
Lost in favors, so I kill across.

Give me fellatio to procedures.
Smackin’ activists with seizures.
Genetic skills for cheaters,
I’m stranglin’ underdogs like women beaters.

Agin to know; agin’ to show youths.
Burn ’em in confession booths.
In sooth, truces grown, gone from the sleuths.
I’m uncouth. Rip the Book of Ruth to Deluth’s.

Racist Christians. Racist Muslims.
Put a leash on these bums.
They cause fear like an idol in slums.
Close-minded ones makin’ victims.

Suicidal angels,
Danglin’ from different angles,
With mangled faces from holy wrangles.
Bangles mistaken for halos which jangles.

When you see my face, you shit freight trains.
Leavin’ weight of puke in membranes.
Airplanes to the kisser crushin’ reigns.
Transportation blames campaigns.

Traumatic mutism’s vivid pollution.
Gruesome notions snatch an option.
Quit bitchin’. Kill the fucktards as a lesson.
Entry wounds for colorful perfection.

Believable is deceivable shots,
With major points counseled by dots.
Oppressed civilians sweatin’ blood clots,
Until the knots of shots in ’em rots.

Watercolors like corpses in ravines,
Twitchin’ from thieves and murder scenes,
The canvas is flesh which leans,
From conspiracy walls which intervenes.

Supply genres in boxes.
Obese bubbles inside rises,
As a Hebrew pisses,
Mecca or Nazareth misses.

I don’t give two fucks about an Atheist.
I insist drawin’, but it don’t exist,
Until I poke my fist down each wrist.
Showin’ all, I can’t resist.

Zigzag rape holes goin’ crisscross.
Tracin’ the edge like a boss,
Clumsiness is the arts loss.
This canvas, I want to toss.

Surgical bombin’ portraits,
Givin’ light and dark fits.
Splinters on stitches and shits,
Drawin’ the legit painting in pits.

Eh. Dr. King. Malcolm X.
They’re drawn from the apex of sex,
Against the elites, but fucked the hex.
They tried to impress; they’re not suspects.

Fake ass Pagans pretendin’.
Fake ass hooligans in skin.
Fake ass bans on racist men and women,
Illustrated on splatters of sin.

Official angels outlined,
As they whine with whips behind.
Line up. I’m killin’ the divinely designed.
Resign when the Earth’s confined.

Combine the trust just to suck pus.
Fuck Christopher Columbus.
He’d motherfuckin’ kill us.
I’m born in the wrong time. I’d kill Jesus.

If Earth’s this bad, I don’t want to see hell.
Syke, hell’s a fairytale, and I’m out on bail.
Surreal rapscallions tryn’ to make me fail.
Well, leak. No one hears them scream or yell.

Graffiti on saviors with dabs of welts.
The endless pelts,
As silent as lashings of belts.
Nobody helps before the painting melts.

Happily ever after until thugs strike,
Fuckin’ with all there’s to like.
The rich boastin’ or struggles of a tyke?
What the fuck! Paranoid blacks, take a hike.

White men’s religion.
Black men’s decision.
Colorful vision,
Drubbin’ the legion.

Assumin’ faggots are just like niggers.
Cigars on the canvas of figures,
On ashes with pulled triggers.
Like dead apes or monsters.

Mano e mano. Arrows at all they know.
Errors in their slow mind grow,
When they can never say, “Hello.”
I can paint; I can make paint overflow.

Rapes versus bomb attacks.
Meet the combination on train tracks.
“Just smile.” Oh, it’s heaven with hijacks.
Some fucks are starvin’. Relax. Paint snacks.

There’s more trailer trash assholes than niggaz.
What is, was.
I kill because I did what does.
When I strike, fill the buzz.

Fill the paint when I exhume the bodies.
Christopher’s eyes gouged out with wannabes,
Havin’ him suck Hitlers dick for a disease.
Burnin’ ’em overseas with ease.

Fables in art of a saint’s children.
Gone, crushin’ ankle bones and manly men.
Debonin’ women to spineless kin.
Clonin’ twins to nothing but sin.

Paintin’ birthmarks with period juice.
I condone murder from the noose.
Bitch, I get loose.
Get used to the myth of a truce.

Begone. Masturbate on masterpieces.
Feces from every species kisses.
Cobblestone fed to infants as promises,
All in a painting of disses.

Me, A.K.A., the you killer,
The goal stopper,
The slut chopper,
On you like spilt liquor.

Birthstone Body

© Aug. 12, 2015. All Rights Reserved.

I’m A Bug Beater

© Aug. 12, 2015. All Rights Reserved.

Even cockroaches have dignity,
Hushing, blushing for sympathy,
Crawling, sprawling my memory.
Cuddly, bubbly lady for me.

Sensitized to lies till my demise,
In disguise, lies, I despise.
Staggered to my rise,
There’s lenient cries.

I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.

Thoroughly kempt, you may seem.
Until your inner germs bite a scream.
Galvanized eyes stretch self-esteem,
As you flee the hakim.

No more bedbugs and love slugs.
My eyes shrug under rugs,
Stuck seeing senseless hugs.
I’m elsewhere doing drugs.

I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.

But I know the bugging you,
Squeezing my shampoo.
When you bug another, you outdo.
You bug of a lady; feel my shoe.

Achoo! The drugs are on you, now.
Drugs crushing the vow,
And left into chow.
I have more mess than you allow.

I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.

Belittle the little creep,
On the beach in sand deep.
Crawl away my lady and sleep.
Ocean, leap and weep.

Screeching for years with fears,
Reaching back during leap years,
The lonesome trails never clears,
Reappearing, but tears interferes.

I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.
I’m a bug beater.

Choler Place

© Aug. 4, 2015. All Rights Reserved.

Rumors sprawled to his subordinates about being a suspect in the diabolical murder case of two canonized girls. Sean Clover, interrogated by the venerable police, is deprived of food and water, and tormented. The interrogation is still in process, it’s only the third day, and his button-down, polyester shirt is torn. As a scare tactic, the police inflicted Sean bodily harm as well as unreluctantly sending him verbal death threats. An extremely bright light is hung over him making it irritating to give eye to eye contact. After excessive trauma, the psychological abuse made him confess to the crime.

Halfway urinating in his blue jorts, Clover yells, “I killed the girls! I raped them on the plantation!”

Officer Willie, with sleek, blond hair, brown eyes, puffy cheeks, and a bony figure chuckles. Then, Officer Willie spews saliva in Clover’s face, saying, “No you didn’t! Are you lying to us! If you’re lying! Give us one good reason not to kill you right now! Did you love fucking those girls or what! Nonchalantly fucking a six and seven year-old would be an easy thing to do since your ugly ass wife never pleases you! You lured those girls in your farmhouse! This is first degree murder, and you know it!”

Officer Minse with a slick-back hairstyle, blue eyes, and an athletic body, pulls Officer Willie back and says, “Let him breathe,” then he says to Mr. Clover, “We know you’re innocent Mr. Clover. The world will know you as the grown man who was spurned by the little girls, and had the urge to kill them. Who’s gonna believe your story? You’ve been recorded.”

Officer Minse removes a silver tape recorder, which was taped under the black, wooden table. A stunned Mr. Clover watches Officer Minse’s malicious smile. Minse draws out a gun from his holster and slowly aims it at Mr. Clover’s forehead. Officer Willie lowers Minse’s gun. “Bang,” Minse whispers, proving he could’ve killed Mr. Clover. The framed Mr. Clover cries.

“Why are you doing this,” Mr. Clover yells.

There is strained silence. Mr. Clover struggles to break loose of the handcuffs. To his awareness, Officer Minse gives a passionate kiss to (the man with an impenetrable heart) Officer Willie. Disgusted, Mr. Clover squints as if the bright light he’s under is confusing him. With the wooden chair, he tries to tilt it over with his weight, but to no avail.

Again, Clover yells, “Why are you doing this to me!”

Officer Minse skillfully juggles his gun and tape recorder, saying, “If I drop the gun first, you have to stay. If I drop the tape recorder first, you’re a free man. What do you say?”

“What did I do to deserve this?”

Officer Willie says, “He looks so fine, Minse. We should keep him.”

With a deathlike face, Willie thunderously strikes Clover, drawing blood from his right nostril. Clover grunts, and the force of the strike causes his chair to tilt over. His orbital lobe hits the impregnable, concrete ground. Blurriness is now Clover’s distraction from seeing the officers. “I didn’t kill the girls. … Let me go,” Clover says after taking shallow breathes. Willie squats over Clover with an enraged expression. The face of Willie seems to be too close to his sight, then too far as a piercing noise occurs in his ears.

Willie kicks Clover hard enough to crack his orbital margin, supraorbital notch, and glabella. The biceps of Clover are strained from constant struggling to escape the handcuffs behind his back. Then, with brute force, Willie hoists up the chair Clover’s sitting in, and positions it back in front of the wooden desk.

A mind of misoneism, Minse yells, “Leave him! He has a snotty mouth on him! I don’t like him!”

His longevity is in question, and he will have an ephemeral life with no children. Resilience is extinct because his future goals may never dawn. Terribly, his once indomitable spirit to maintain nirvana is mercilessly eradicated. Every aspect of life is slinking to a downfall. As the police maddens innocent Clover, he wonders about when, and how he will die.

Giving Clover a devastated look, Willie kicks him in the chest, causing him to fall backwards in the chair. Clover tries to remember what if he heard anything while he was asleep on his davenport last week. April and Adrian were poised girls allegedly poisoned by his cooking. He forged their trust with his charm and intelligence. April Venerable, 6 at the time of the murder, was wearing only a black, sequined shirt while her sister, Adrian Shatner, 7, was completely naked. According to Clover, the girls were dead on his plantation by the time he woke up in his farmhouse. When he saw the bodies, he hesitated to call the police.

About now, his pain corresponds to his deplorable marriage. The grisly sight of the police reminds him of everyone ever to belittle him in his past. He remembers the problems he faced when he was 6. From his cousin shoving the side of his head into the bedpost for asking to play the video game, to slipping outside a public swimming pool while being ridiculed by his sister, he sheds a tear. Such memories weren’t the start of his trauma, and he is certain that a all of his problems won’t end.

“I’ll pay you cash if you just let me free,” Clover yells.

To Willie, Minse says, “I like. He’s talkin’ moolah.”

20 Minutes Later

Clover is a free man, but he is traumatized from the interrogation room. He is driving home with a firm grip on the steering wheel. Something other than earlier is deeply troubling him. He makes his way to an intersection and stops at a red light signal. Exhaustedly, he cracks the kinks in his neck. To the farmhouse, he travels, seeing his worried wife outside.

Florine stares through the tinted window longer to make certain what she is seeing is real. Clover is not in prison, and she does not know what to think. A confused Florine jumps over hay, dodging the horses, then jumps over the silver horse fence panel. She sees Clover step outside his red car, so she knows this is real. She rushes even faster to hug him.

Florine asks, “What happened to your face? How did those girls end up on our farm?”

“I’m absolutely terrible. I had to pay two officers to free me. The police killed the girls. I don’t know why they chose me to frame,” he says.

“Tell me you didn’t kill those girls.”

“You know I didn’t.”

“I made dinner.”

12 Minutes Later

“That’s why I can’t take this anymore. I don’t know what’s going on, but I was setup, and I can’t call the police on the police. You know I didn’t kill those girls, but what if I told you that I killed someone else.”

“Honey, now’s not the time to be playing.”

Clover exits the kitchen, leans against the wall, and says, “I’m not playing.”

“Seriously?”

“His name was Brendon Minse, and he was an art director. I knew nothing about this man, but one night I just got sick. … I got sick of being the same old me. I went out to thrill myself with no rules to stop me. I went to his backyard, I saw him having sex with his girlfriend on the living room floor, and I shot him through the window. His girlfriend screamed, so I shot her in the back as she ran. Brendon’s father was a cop, and to my discovery, it was claimed I could’ve done the murder because of rumors circling. Brendon was the same guy you had an affair with!”

“Those are just rumors.”

“Why can’t I trust you for one second?”

“Maybe I did fuck Brendon! Okay! He pleased me every now and then. He appreciates a woman. He loved me while you were out with you buddies every night. I want children. This marriage won’t work out. To kind of think of it, I wish you were in prison, so I can fuck more. You’ll be a better fucker after the inmates get done with you anyway.”

Sean speeds in the kitchen, and wraps both of his hands tightly around her neck. He stares at her with formidable eyes that can snap her optic nerves. Florine is against the chestnut cabinets, and her face is numb the entire time she loses oxygen. She is aware that her feet are off the marble tiles from the floor. She doesn’t fight back, and he finishes strangling her without saying a word. He does not know how to feel, but he assumes cleaning up the evidence will lead him out of trouble.

A flashback occurs. Sean remembers when he was 9, after running away from his older brother’s funeral, he ran miles away. Nobody knew where he was, but he thought about the how his brother jumped off of a two-story building. Sean hid in the bushes where he aimed a gun at a girl on a scooter, pulled the trigger, and it discharged. Bang! The anonymous girl was shot in the head, which lead to blood squirting. She fell lifelessly on the grass near the damp sandbox.

“Maybe I did fuck Brendon,” the voice of his wife repeats in his mind.

A vivid image of Florine blushing from Brendon’s words at the park comes into imagination. Unsympathetic Sean wants to pulverize her, but she is already dead. Specifically, he remembers burning down not only Brendon’s house after the murders, but his neighbors houses. A trail of liquor was placed around his targets. A match was ignited against the rough surface of a milk-white wooden bench, then placed on all three houses.

Sean, with a total disregard for humanity, seizes a mattock from the bottom kitchen drawer. After placing the weapon in his back pocket, and hiding it with his draping shirt, he sluggishly exits his farmhouse as a madman. His own car maddens him to the point where he three times, he swings the mattock at the hood. Further damage continues as he swings the mattock at the right side windows four times, at the bumper once, and at the license plate, twice.

He turns around to see a bassinet in the midst of where the horses walk. The more he moves toward the horses, the sound of the baby increases. The baby is crying, and Sean is disoriented. His cell phone rings, and he shreds a tear.

With the device to his ear, he speaks, “Who is this?”

A disguised voice says, “You know. You work for us now. If you don’t want to go to prison, you kill the baby. I know what you did to my son. It’s only fair. I forgive you. After you kill the baby, you kill your wife.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Yes. That’s right. You showed your wife who’s boss. Just like I’m showing you who’s boss. Don’t take it easy on the baby. I’m only allowed to call you. We’re watching you. Remember, if you disappoint us, you disappoint yourself. Peace.”

Sean lowers his phone, and stuffs it in his right pocket. He walks closer to the baby and sees her innocent eyes. This is (Lexi) his cousin’s 5-month-old daughter, and he knows it. He cries and tries calling Officer Mince back, but the Mince doesn’t pick up the phone. Sean cries longer after placing the phone back in his pocket. He kisses the baby on the forehead before swinging the mattock at her three times.

His phone rings, and he reluctantly answers, “What the fuck do you want!”

“Nice work. Pretty soon, you’ll be the hometown hero. Keep it up.”