His father hadn't had time to teach him all the lessons

he needed to know in life, so there he sat at home and looked out

the window. His hair was long and his jacket was leather, but his

age was 16 and his parents understood. At school he was loved by

a few and hated by most, for though he never learned to cook he

could sing like an angel. Too bad he overdosed on crack. 





        The trial was proceeding smoothly when it was suddenly 

revealed that the Judge was the father of the defendant. "I am

not. So ruled. "said the judge, and banged his gavel sharply. 



        Finally, the old Reverend Goodfellow died. As his soul

wafted heavenward, he looked back over his life and swelled with

pride. All his life, he had abstained from sin, and fought it in

others, despite what those so-called liberals said. He warmed

himself with the knowledge that all those who had called him a

corrupt lunatic would be roasting in Hell and suffering

eternally. Then he got to Heaven  and they were all there, every

last one of them. The pornographers, the pinkoes, the Commies,

they were all there. "Haven't you heard?" said John the hated

homosexual. "everybody gets in. " Everybody gets in. 



        It didn't hurt as much as he had expected it to. It

hardly hurt at all, as a matter of fact, just a pinch and then a

numbness spreading over his body. "Wow." he said before he passed

into darkness. "That's some margarita. "



        To stretch his mind and make him the proper moral vessel,

he would find a busy place and sit and watch the people go by,

then he would choose a person and look at them closely as was

polite, and think to himself "this person is as real as I am.

This person feels pain like I do. This person has a soul like I

do. This person is just like me but over there." At first, he

chose at random, but later when that grew too easy he

deliberately chose people who seemed unpleasant or even repugnant

to him. 



        It was Nietzsche who said "Mistrust all those in whom the

urge to punish is strong". And Mark Fenner was the living proof

of that. First as a prison guard, then as a lawyer, then as a

district attorney, he had lived his life in the pursuit of

acceptable forms of violence, and he clung fiercely to the

philosophies that allowed him to express his deep rage at all his

father had done to him. But his father had been RIGHT and so was

HE and they had to SUFFER. 



        It was a small wound but it was in just the right place

and he died quickly and without fuss. The knife that had made the 

precision wound was quickly cleaned and the kerchief pocketed.

The woman patted her pocket and smiled, They would not find the

body until a week from now. She picked up her cane and headed out

the door. "Is your friend OK, Grandma? " asked Claudia. "She's

just fine now, Claudia dear. "



        The first victim was strange enough, someone scalded to

death when somebody melted a clock onto their face. The second

one made the detective suspicious : the victim had been gored to

death on the horn of a ceramic unicorn with a bone heart and eyes

made of flashing lights spelling 'death'... but the third one,

where the victim had been smothered to death under a thousand

tiny pieces of paper that said 'mother', confirmed it. The

detective sighed. He had a surreal killer on his hands. 



        He liked to live on the edge. Well, not literally on the

edge, but almost. Well, near the edge, But not too near. Within

reach of the edge. Well, in sight of the edge. In fact, he spent

so much time backing away from the edge that he didn't notice

until it was too late that he'd fallen over the edge on the

opposite side. 



        He prided himself on his heart of steel. Nothing could

get in. Not love, not sensation, not anything, or so he thought.

In reality, the one emotion that drove him into so many brutal

acts, big and small, was that glorious feeling as the emotions

bounced off his heart of steel. He had to prove it over and over

and over. 



       True, a tree did fall in the forest, but does it make a

sound? Being the writer I suppose I should know. It's my tree and

my forest, after all. But I haven't decided yet. So there it

sits, fallen for sure, but the noise still hangs in the air, so

to speak. 



         He glared at the rain. Rain was bad because it made the 

leather in his boots shrink and made them uncomfortable. Sun was 

good. He trudged on through it hating every last drop. He trudged

past dry lawns thirstily gulping down the rain. He trudged past

gardens and flowerbeds. He trudged past the children splashing in

the puddles and the ducks having a party in the duck pond. He

didn't see any of them. All he felt was tight boots and hatred.

Then, as he was about to open his door and go inside he thought

"I could get new boots. Other than that, I love the rain." The

next week he'd quit his job, sued for divorce, and moved to

Florida with the girl next door to sell whale tours. 



She wasn't pretty. She wasn't tall. 

But she had something to beat them all

She had the charm, the wit, the style 

To keep all of the men beguiled.

Her smile was savvy. Her grace, first-rate. 

The kind of girl that Revlon hates. 

She needed no makeup. She cared not for beauty. 

She had no need to be a half-starved cutie. 

When you're such a bright and charming lass 

The beauty myth can kiss your big fat ass. 







        It was magical. Their love was like the meeting of two 

mighty rivers and the affection and passion seemed to spray up

into the air and fall to wet the others around them. There was

nothing but  total devotion in their hearts. There was nothing

the one would not do for the other. Together, they were a

hardworking pair, good at their jobs and well paid for it. A lot

of their money went to help starving children in homeless

shelters, where they also spent most of their weekends

volunteering. But they were both men so the whole thing was sick

and immoral. 



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