I Keep Madness In Tact

Prologue

The world wants to believe we're perfect, they want to believe we're something good. But we aren't. No matter what you say to yourself, we're not. And, even if we were, why would they want to convince themselves we didn't kill, rape, shoot some sad sack over 30 dollars? Let's face it, religious or not? Didn't Jesus commit suicide someday? Savior or not? Me and God weren't friends. Never will be. But, hey, who hasn't thought about spilling someone's gut's to the floor. I did. And who was that you say? Donnie Hinch Belstrem.

And I was doing it tonight. He was an ant in my mind; I was the dude with the bug poising ready the spray the little bastard of my front lawn. Wish him a "rest in pieces", and back the fuck out.

Murder is not a bad thing, it's nature. The balance of thing. too many people walk on what our "God" gave us. I took one step into his large room, with the polished floors, and thought back at my house, that was full of news paper clippings of the man I'd been stalking.

John F. Kennedy.

Though, I knew I'd never be able to kill someone if I didn't do it now, and Donnie, if anyone, was going to be my first murder. . . Not in cold blood, either. Warm blood because he deserved it. He shut down my company, shoved his dried up dick in my daughter, and ran me broke.

I grabbed the pillow with that gun behind it, stuck it over his tiny, sleeping face, and fired. But it wasn't a fire. It was a click. He awoke, screaming, I stayed quiet, jumping over Donnie's body, and hanging over him. The screaming was muffled, while I dropped the gun; tightening the pillow over his face. The twitching of his body, screaming, clawing, and pushing at my chest made me smile. I was too strong for him to shove me off. I stuck the gun to his ribs, pushing hard. The guns pressure cracked one of his ribs, causing a blood-curdling scream from the pillow. I laughed, a bit menially. And growled:

      "Do you remember me, you son of a bitch? Huh? Starting to recognize the voice, now aren't you? Don't worry, I'll tell  my daughter, Naomi you died. Turns out he got suffocated, and tortured. Ha-ha! 'Wonder who did it?' she'd say. I'd say, 'what sick bastard would do such a thing?'"

The twitching stopped, and as I removed the pillow, there was no light left in those dead eyes, but fear.

Authors Note: Next chapter will be longer. This is just the prologue. . .