Blood Lite

All this excitement has given me quite a thirst. '

Don't wait up.

Miller

Prophet of Doom

Yes, that was what he wanted to say. Blue is the color of my heart. He smiled, ready to commit it to paper and banish forever the image of the doting husband, but even before he had set the first letter down, his mind was racing with another, more creative missive.

You Know Your Name, It Is Legion Do you know what I want? Right now, more than anything I want to see you die. I'm simple to please like that.

Let's play a game. Let me count the ways:

By hanging, your feet dangling inches off the floor.

Drowning in a vat of acid. No, a bathtub, your hands slapping at my arms as I hold you down.

A silver bullet between the eyes.

A stake through the heart.

Sunlight and a crucifix.

A gypsy curse.

Set ablaze by a mob of angry villagers.

Defenestration. That's another great word, isn't it? See, all this thinking about you is good for my vocabulary.

Disembowelment. Decapitation by a rusty chainsaw. Fed into a wood chipper. How much Pru would a wood chipper chip if a wood chipper could chip Pru? That's today's million-dollar question.

Eaten by a pack of hungry wolves is good. Struck by lightning would do. I love the smell of ozone in the morning.

Anaphylactic shock. I'm not fussy and wasps have always frightened you, so that's a bonus right there.

Hell, even a good old-fashioned heart attack would raise a smile.

That's a lot of ways to die, some of them were good enough for Dracula, Frankenstein, the Wolf Man and all those other Universal Monsters, but shall I tell you a secret? Not one of them is good enough for you, Prudence.

Piranhas aren't good enough. Plague isn't good enough. Warts eating away at your genitalia, still not good enough. Mad cow disease? I pity the cows. A thousand cuts? Come on, there's got to be a more inventive way to do it.

How do you kill the Antichrist? Blessed flatware from the kitchen of the Lord? Dull, dull, dull. There has to be a better way. Voodoo? Witchcraft? Sacrificing a virgin? Sacrificing a wizened old hag (easier to come by around here)?

Nibbled to death by gerbils?

Hmm, I rather like that one. I wonder if the pet store is open at this time of night? I'll check when I'm picking up the victuals —cigarettes and alcohol.

If not, buried alive does have its charms.

Don't say I don't love you —I am always thinking about you. Even when you are not here.

M

He gri

Slut Bitch Whore, I have plans.

Such plans.

Oh yes.

Such plans.

Must remember to buy plastic sheets to catch the blood. I can get them now while I am out buying cigarettes.

Shall I tell you what I am going to do?

Oh yes.

Everything is better shared.

First I will gut you, then I will stuff you and stitch you back together and then I will have you mounted and put on display in the Met. I already know what the plaque will read: This Bitch Ruined

My Life.

Your taxidermist, Miller

He relished the image of his wife stuffed and displayed as an exhibit, but even as he felt the warm glow of freedom seep­ing into his limbs, those doubts solidified. He saw it now, laid out before him, chains of cause and effect. No, no, no.

Oh, Pru, You Clever, Clever Bitch, I get it.

I understand your game. You think you are so much cleverer than me, don't you? You think you can play me like a ... a... I was going to say radio, but that doesn't work, you're a passive listener with a radio, sure, you can twiddle the dials but essentially you're at the mercy of the DJ, then I was going to say a guitar but we both know you're tone deaf and about as musically inclined as a bag of nails. And you're the antithesis of sporty so let's forget football analogies while we're on. Chess! That's a miniature reflection of a war, black and white generals going at it head-to-head. That's perfect. You think you can make me your knight sacrifice, pushing me out to murder the queen only to get taken in turn.

Oh no, no, no. See, it's all about the long game, looking moves ahead. I'm no fool. You telegraphed your play. I can see it plain as the nose on your fat face. You'd give yourself up, driving me to murder, just so your specter could lurk behind The Chair and gloat as they juice her up... I get it. It's the ultimate, the queen sacrifice. Not only do you get to ruin my life, you get to sink your fangs into my afterlife. I don't think so. See, I'm too clever for you. As David Bowie sang, this is not America. We're civilized. We've done away with state-legislated murder. I know, I know, you think with this new lot in power they'll bring it back —-just for me. Sorry to ruin your scheming, m'dear.

Check and mate, Grandmaster Miller

But should he let her know he was on to her schemes? Could he somehow twist it for his advantage? Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey, as his mom used to say.

Prudence, Woman of My Nightmares, I still think about you all the time. They were such loving thoughts. But times change. I still think of you all the time but now my head is filled with all of these vicious, horrible, nasty things I want to do to you.

Familiarity breeds contempt, and all that.

I hear voices, goading me on, telling me to cut you, to hurt you, to punish you. They want me to do unspeakable things to your corpse. I try not to listen to them but when you leave me alone like this, they get louder and louder until I want to scream and it seems the only way to shut them up is to surrender and do what they say.

I am going out now to walk and to clear the demons out of my mind. In the words of Captain Scott: "I may be some time."

Call it an exorcism, only instead of a Bible and holy water I'm shooting for the purifying essence of cigarettes and alcohol.

Nomini patri et Philip Morris... Father Confessor Miller

Dearest Prudence,

Got lonely without you, so I just nipped out to the shop to buy a packet of cigarettes. I'll be home soon. Hope you had a great night out with the girls. Been think­ing about you. A lot.

All my love, Miller

A Good Psycho Is Hard to Find

Will Ludwigsen

At least with the Chainsaw Guy, you always knew where you stood. When he came lurching between the palmetto fronds, swinging that Husqvarna over his head, there was no question that he wanted to lop off your arms and send them flying in a bloody spray into the bushes. There was no debate, no discussion, no feasibility study or Microsoft Project resource allocation chart.

Nobody at EnAble Technical Consulting has the straightforward, no-nonsense attitude of the Chainsaw Guy. Like an algae-coated stone at the bottom of a shallow mountain creek, our CEO Mr. Wendell has been worn into a rounded disk of corporate pliancy: everything just flows above and around him. He deflects responsibility to people like me, still idealistic and energetic from college. Like him, everyone here is safe, friendly, professional. Worst of all, none of them have ever threatened to kill me with a garden tool.

The summer before I started here, I worked one last time as a counselor at Camp Soaring Osprey. Maybe it was my way of saying good-bye to my young adulthood. Maybe I also hoped for one more chance with Misty, the girl at the canoe paddock I'd always dreamed of helping to—well, fill a canoe, anyway.