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Prev: Music: The episode opens on a tall black tower, stretching high into and above the clouds. 12:18AM, March 4th, 2021 Anime Island (or whats left of it) The helicopter from the last episode zooms passed the camera, causing it to shake violently. A large hatch opens up on the side of the tower and the helicopter flies inside and exits into what appears to be a large hanger. The helicopter lands in a free spot in a long line of other aircraft. We smash cut to the top of the tower, which looks a lot like the bridge of a ship from Star Trek, only it was more decrepit, and it seemed to be creating this uncontrollable feeling of dread. Dozens of octolings typing away at the bridges computers and security systems, almost like willing slaves to the power that controls the tower. At the end of the bridge, we see non other than Dark Squid and EM64 (OnyxKing67s doppleganger) looking through a large window and down to the world below. Suddenly, there is a loud hissing sound as the blast doors of bridge slowly open. Everyone turns to the doors and stands to attention as the sniper from the last episode walks inside. The sniper makes his way down the bridge to EM64 and Dark Squid, Darth Vader breathing sounds vibrating from his helmet. The sniper stops just inches from Dark Squids body, who was completely unfazed by the tall man in armour that stood before her. With a click, the sides of the snipers helmet pop off, allowing him to remove it. The sniper grabs his helmet and pulls it off to reveal… SMG3: gasps* I CANT BREATHE IN THIS THING! SMG3 angrily throws the helmet aside, hitting an octolings head in the process. He then proceeds to remove the rest of his armour (thankfully, he was wearing his overalls underneath. SMG3: No wonder stormtroopers cant aim, this armour is a suicidal persons wet dream! Dark Squid: Oh, quit your complaining. Just be happy that your identity wasnt discovered. SMG3: HEY! YOU DONT GET TO TALK TO ME LIKE THAT! Remember, you and that red-skinned rip-off are guests in MY tower! If you want to boss people around, GET YA OWN TOWER! EM64: You… do know that Dark Squid owns, like… fifty-seven towers, right? SMG3s eyes widen. He looks back to Dark Squid, who had a shit-eating grin on her face. Dark Squid: in a mocking tone of voice* So, howd it go? SMG3: Well the good news is I was able to tie up that lose-end that was unravelled after SOMEONE *he turns to their octoling minions* LEFT THEIR PHONE ON SPEAKER IN THE FUCKING BATHROOM! All the octolings flinch as SMG3 screams at them. EM64: So, the great MarioMario54321 has finally bit the dust at last. Heh, a sad day indeed. SMG3: I know, he was one of my inspirations to start making YouTube videos. I will admit, it was difficult for me to pull the trigger- EM64: I WAS BEING SARCASTIC! SMG3: Oh… then forget what I just said. EM64 just simply points to one of the dozens of security cameras that covered the walls of the bridge. Cameras which also record sound. SMG3: sighs* Damnit. Dark Squid lets out a few giggles, clearly amused with SMG3s and EM64s quarrelling. SMG3: Oh, give me a break, guys. The important thing is that the mission was a success and the YouTube Rangers are leaderless and scattered, making them easy pickings for us in the future. Dark Squid: Well, did you at least take care of SMG4 and that little gang of his? SMG3 rocks back-and-forth on the heels of his boots, nervously whistling as he tried to come up with a good answer. SMG3: Is ‘still a work in progress a suitable answer? EM64: THEYRE STILL ALIVE? YOU LET THEM GET AWAY? SMG3: Ah, technically ‘they let ‘me get away. The choppers that Dark Squid provided us were just too fast for poor old SMG4. Dark Squids: Those ‘choppers are also equipped with state-of-the-art mini guns, you idiot! You could have ended them then and there! SMG3: HEY! The sky was practically swarming with aircraft! If I wanted to get out of there alive, I had to leave before the real chaos began. Besides, SMG4 still as no idea of our real plan, and as long as we keep taps on him, hell never know it. But I dont want any of you BONEHEADS killing him by accident. Do whatever you want to the plumber and his friends, but SMG4 is mine! As SMG3 was talking, the screen behind him flickered to life and a distorted image appeared upon it. The image was of the upper part of a face, it had grey skin, black eyes and red pupils. Its black eyebrows were arched downwards into a dark scowl. A small trail of grey smoke floated calmly up from the bottom of the frame to the top, indicating that whoever this face belonged to was smoking. Everyone on the bridge stared up in horror at the image that looked down upon them. Everyone, except SMG3, who was facing away from the screen. However, it didnt take long for SMG3 to notice the horrified looks on his comrades faces. SMG3: points behind him* Theres something really bad behind me, is there? SMG3 slowly turns around, only to be greeted by the horrific image. SMG3: nervous tone of voice* Oh hey Mr. Wrath, sir. We were… just talking… about how successful the mission went, yeah thats it. This… SMG4 you speak of. By the way you talk about him, he and his “friends” could put my clients plans in great jeopardy. So, whats this I hear about you letting him get away? The… thing on the screen spoke in a demonic voice that, somehow, also had an audible American accent. SMG3: Okay, so there were some complications, but I assure you that they will be soon taken care off. Were just need more time, so please dont. Dont do what? This? A red aura suddenly forms around SMG3s body and he is forced to the ground with a metallic thud! Once the aura faded away, SMG3 tired to get back up, only for the aura to return and for him to slam back down to the ground. This happens over and over again. causally continues talking as he floors SMG3 to death* Yeah, not feeling it buddy. I thought youd have you shit together after that “great” plan of yours set us back 2 billion. SMG3: Using Inkweaver to easily create ourselves a braindead and non-freethinking army seemed like a good idea at the time! I didnt know that Francis was going to use it to fulfil his sexual fantasies- another floor slam. And yet you gave Francis the responsible of handling the magical potential weapon-of-mass-destruction pen. Youre lucky that I was in a sunny mood the of Francis failure. SMG3: I understand, your Wrathiness, but we have a way to lure SMG4 into the light. Im forwarding you the plan now. SMG3 limps over to the nearest computer and types something in. He then presses enter, sending the Email to. The blue light of a computer screen appears over. s face and his expression turns from anger to impressed. Oh, thats cool. Youd think, me being so powerful, Id sense that. SMG3: Or maybe read the report on your desk every once in a while- another floor slam. No, I got final stage shit to do. Speaking of, wheres that inkling demon OC from the GMOD Splatoon community that probably shouldnt be in a SMG4 episode. SMG3 gets back up, only to be shoved aside by Dark Squid. Dark Squid looks up at. s image, a proud, but dark, smirk on her face. Dark Squid: The final stage of you plan is coming into fruition, sir. The blueprints you sent us have been analysed to the T, the necessary parts and materials have been ordered and should arrive at our location in a weeks time. Excellent. How long until the construction is complete. Dark Squid: Once the order gets here, we should have at least four units ready by the end of April. My octolings only require one hour of sleep a day, so we should have an army prepared around Christmas. You have done well, Dark Squid. I knew Id made the right choice hiring you. Dark Squid smirks and bows her head. s eyes then turn to SMG3 and EM64. As for you two, Im assigning you and your minions to stage six of the plan. EM64: Thats the one involving The Church of the Broken God, correct? Yeah, we can handle them. SMG3: But… SMG4 is still out there! I should be tracking him down! The plan that ‘I sent you was ‘my idea! SMG4 is my kill. You had several perfect opportunities to knock out his lights, and you didnt take any of them. If SMG4 and his friends turn out to be just as bothersome as you give them credit, we with give you one more chance to take him out. But for now, SMG4 will have to deal with us, personally! With that. ended the call and the image dissipated. For a long moment, the bridge was left in complete silence. SMG3: Wow… What a jerk. A red aura forms around SMG3 and he is forced to the ground. EM64: He can still hurt you from here, you know. SMG3: feeble tone of voice* I know, shut up. Cut to Peachs Castle, the next morning. Axol is trying his best to keep everything in order, but he just wasnt cut up for the job that SMG4 had been doing for years. Axol: Alright guys, the power bill just came in mail and… I dont know how we the number up into the 38-digits, but now we have to pay that. So, were going to have to implement some changes to our technology privileges. Axol walks over to Tari, who was playing games as usual. Without warning, Axol turns off the TV. Axol: So that means no more excessive game time, Tari: she clutches her heart with her hand* Youre breaking my heart… (Note; yes, that soundclip is from Revenge of the Sith) Axol then walks over to the nearest window, opens it and leans out of it. Axol: No more mecha building. Cut to Shroomy sitting in the castle courtyard with his tools and a giant Voltron! Shroomy: Aw man. But I wanted to get my mecha-building badge. Axol moves out of the window and turns to face the castle lobby. Axol: And, as much as it pains me to say it, NO MORE ANIME ON THE BIG SCREEN TV! Axol points at Fishy Boopkins, who is watching anime on a monstrous TV! a different TV, not the one Tari was using) Boopkins: Huh? What? Axol: Boopkins… I want you to understand that Im doing this to prevent us from living on the street. Its nothing personal, okay? Axol reaches for the TV remote, but his hand and Boopkins hand land on it at the same time. Boopkins: NO! YOU WONT TAKE AWAY MY ANIME, YOU TRAITOR! Boopkins then tackles Axol to the ground and a fight breaks out. Tari watches on in horror, her hands clasped over her mouth. Meanwhile, two toads baring witness to the scene started chanting… Toads: FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! As Axol and Boopkins brawl gets more violent, the anime on the TV was suddenly replaced by an emergency news bulletin. Axol and Boopkins quickly stopped fighting, as their attention was draw to the news. They, along with Tari, Shroomy and Toad, gathered around the TV to watch the broadcast. The anchor-man (who is actually CrimsonMan5) appears on screen. CrimsonMan5: We interrupt this program to bring you breaking news! Local YouTube star and leader of the YouTube Rangers, MarioMario54321 as hes known on YouTube, has been found dead in his office after the fire alarms of the YTRs HQ were activated for unknown reasons! Recently, an eye-witness who wishes to remain anonymous, has come forward and revealed the identity of MarioMario54321s murders! The image on the TV changes to a series of wanted posters… wanted posters for Mario, Luigi, SMG4, Meggy, Bob and Saiko! Axol: WHAT THE? Tari: OH NO! Shroomy: Oh, this aint good. Toad: Does this mean I can kill Mario legally, now? he pulls an AK47 out from nowhere* CrimsonMan5: The six people you see here have been deemed as outlaws and are to be considered armed and dangerous! If you see anyone of them, or you have some information to share, please contact your local police station. Coming up next; babies, where do they come from? The answer may shock you! Boopkins couldnt say anything, he was in a state of shock caused by what he had just seen. Finally, he forced some words out from his mouth. Boopkins: Oh SMG4… *the camera lingers on the wanted posters* What have you gotten yourself into. Smash cut to the Outback. We see The SMG4 Gang staggering through the sand to god knows where. They were tired, hungry and thirsty, but they had to go on. Bob: COUGH, COUGH. SO, THIS IS HOW IT ENDS FOR THE MIGHTY BOB? WONDERING THIS DESERT WASTELAND FOR THE REST OF HIS DAYS? WITH ONLY HIS LOYAL SIDEKICKS TO KEEP HIM COMPANY? SMG4: Were your what? Bob: YOU GUYS ARE MY LOYAL SIDEKICKS, REMEMBER? YOU WOULD ALL GIVE YOUR LIVES FOR ME, RIGHT? Luigi: Yeah, we would. But only if youll do the same for one of us. Bob: PAH, LIKE THATS EVER GONNA HAPPEN! Suddenly, Meggy fell to her knees in the middle of a fit of coughing. Saiko quickly ran to her side and pulled Meggy back onto her feet. Saiko then looked at Mario. Saiko: Mario… Luigi… Bob… Oh god, Im so sorry I dragged you three into this. I just wanted to make sure Meggy would be alright, okay? Meggy: coughing* I told you, Saiko. I can take care of myself! Luigi: Now listen here, Saiko. Dont blame yourself, its our fault for agreeing to come with you in the first place. Bob: appears in front of Luigi* YEAH, THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! Luigi kicks Bob aside. Mario: Believe it or not, Saiko, ever Mario makes mistakes sometimes. Its a part of everyday life. Suddenly, something inside Marios pocket lights up with a *ding* sound. SMG4: Wait? Mario does your phone still have a signal? Mario: Yeah? So? SMG4: SO, USE IT TO CALL AXOL OR TARI! CALL FOR HELP! Mario quickly pulls his phone out from his pocket, only to find that the reason the phone had lit up was because he had received a text message from an unknown number. Mario: Hmm… Whats this. Mario opens the text message to find the wanted posters of himself and his friends from the news broadcast! Mario: Oh, that cool. Someone sent me pictures of us. Maybe weve won an award or something. Luigi: What? Let me see. *he snatches the phone away from Mario, only for his skin to turn as pale as a ghost* Meggy: Luigi… Whats wrong? Luigi: he shows the phones screen to the others* Weve just been outlawed… for the murder of MarioMario54321… At that moment, Meggy noticed a few grains of sand shift out of place. Followed by a few more and a few more. Then, a distant rumbling sound could be heard. The SMG4 Gang all turned to face the source of the sound to see a group of distant silhouettes, distorted by the haze of the desert sun. But as the silhouettes came closer and more visible, The SMG4 Gangs eyes widened and their jaws dropped. Bob: NOT AGAIN! Music: A mighty armada of police cars and police helicopters tore through the sands and air towards our heroes! The two lead helicopters were carrying a huge neon sign that suddenly flashed into life. The sign read “STAHP RIGHT THERE! ” SMG4: RUN! They didnt need to be told twice. The SMG4 Gang quickly turned on their heals and ran as fast as they could. Policeman: Looks like we got a couple of runners, boys. The sirens of the police cars roar into life, the subsequent combination of noise sounding almost like a battle cry! With their tires kicking up large amounts of sand, the cars began to rapidly pick up speed! Thank to the sandy terrain, the SMG4 Gang could easily outrun the police cars. But the same couldnt be said for the helicopters! Helicopter pilot: STOP BREAKING THE LAW, ASSHOLE! Within moments, three helicopters were hovering right above the SMG4 Gang with spot-lights ablaze! Meggys eyes were wrenched shut, not only because of the mighty strain put on her dehydrated body to try and get it to run faster, but also in an effort to hide a stream of frightened tears! Luigi was screaming, Bob was shouting insults and profanities at the helicopters, Mario was writing his will on the go while Saiko and SMG4 focus on running, looks of determination and terror on their faces. SMG4: Wait… Wait! GUYS LOOK! SMG4 points to a few more distant silhouettes in front of them. However, these ones were stationary. They were buildings! They were heading towards what appeared to be a quarry! SMG4: WE CAN HIDE THERE WHILE WE TRY TO WRAP OUR HEADS AROUND WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON! Luigi: THAT IS IF WE CAN MAKE IT! Meggy let out a loud roar of effort as she forced her legs to run faster, but it was agonizingly painful for her to run in the state her body was in. Saiko: MEGGY! Meggy: IM FINE! JUST KEEP MOVING! The quarry was coming up fast! Just then, someone exits from one of the quarrys buildings. That someone is Yoshi! He closes the door behind him and turns around to see… Yoshi: Holy fuck! The SMG4 Gang running towards him with a tidal wave of police vehicles following close behind them! Yoshi quickly turns back to the building he had just exited from, only to find that the door was jammed! Yoshi: Let me in! LET ME IIIIINNNNN! With one final effort, the SMG4 Gang ran through the quarrys entrance, leaving a horrified Yoshi to press his back against the buildings wall as the police closed in. Suddenly, the police cars stopped about 2 miles from the quarry entrance, Yoshi was now completely surrounded! Yoshi: Hey guys… *nervous laughter* Policeman: Wait a minute… Youre Yoshi! YOU HAVENT PAID YOUR TAXES IN THIRTY YEARS! There was a long silence before… Yoshi: RUN BITCH! he darts away through an opening in the police blockade* Policeman: DONT FUCKING RUN AWAY FROM ME! With that, the army of police vehicles turned away from the quarry and raced after Yoshi. Yoshi: YOULL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE! AAAHHHH! The camera pans up from the ground to the sky as we see Yoshi run into the sunset, the police hot on his tail. We then see a large white drone, covered by a red aura, hovering above the quarry, unnoticed and unbothered. The camera attached to the drones underbelly had recorded everything. We cut to a dark room, the only light source being the drones camera feed. A birds-eye-view of the quarry was presented clear as crystal on the rooms large screen. A large bulking body of something alive was watching the feed. We then see the figures face (at least the bottom half of it. Telling by the color of his skin, this figure and SMG3s employer (The Wrath) are one in the same. A brown cigarette is balanced in his mouth, tilting a little as the Wrath's mouth contorted into a twisted smile. Smash cut to black! The Wrath are on their way! Next.

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I loved Michael. Even if he was a serial killer. He went missing one day before the police finally caught on. I had no idea. I was stunned. Not to mention betrayed. Depressed. Absolutely horrified by my husbands crimes. But what could I do? Michael and I were close but apparently, not close enough for him to draw me into his many murders. His torturous, systematic slaughter of over twenty women. Nor show me the way he photographed each and every one of them both before and after sending them to their gruesome deaths. Michael always the sadistic shutterbug. I felt for his victims and their families. I really did. I cried every night for eleven months straight. Long ago came to the conclusion I was oblivious to living with a monster. And I fucking dealt with it. I wasnt defending shit and certainly not Michael. Maybe the same psychopath who was able to lure countless women to their deaths could dupe his devoted wife? Who knew… and why was that so hard to believe? Especially with a man as sweet and handsome as him. But like buzzards, the media tore into my fragile flesh. I was The Dumb Housewife to what they dubbed The Perfect Husband. Just the dumb blonde. Nevermind, I had a PhD and worked at St. Francis hospital here in Columbus, Georgia. Goddamn social media was even worse. The abusive comments swarmed me. Everything from I was a dumb bitch to apparently an ugly old hag at forty-four. Apparently, I was so jealous of other women and all my failed pregnancies, I let Michael do the dirty work. Let him exterminate those beautiful fertile women. Yeah. This was “the narrative. ” As suspicious as they were, the police and D. A. still cleared me. But not before a final press conference where the prosecutor played the “not enough evidence” card. Just teasing the press enough for his own fifteen minutes of fame. To be able to be featured in the surefire “documentaries” where Lifetime and E! would rip me apart. How could she not know when the murders happened under their roof! In their own basement! The tabloids tormented me. More than the memories to be honest but I had no idea. Michael wasnt that way around me. I thought he was my soulmate. The love of my life. Wed met in college over twenty years ago. Both of us honor grads. At first, we bonded over photography. Nature. The arts. The very hobby that would become Michaels terrifying trademark. Michael wasnt tall but stayed in good shape. He ran everyday, and I certainly wasnt complaining when he kept his morning run ritual over the years. Like I said, he was handsome. His chiseled face complete with irresistible dimples. His brown curly hair as soft as those green eyes. When we first moved to our big house on Whitesville Road, I thought this was it. Our life was set. Michael and Sam Downing now had the American Dream. Of course, being with someone so attractive and charming only intensified my own insecurities. Even moreso once I became a suspect. A media punching bag. Only unlike O. J. and Casey Anthony, I didnt have a trial to lean on. Didnt have anything to leak out to the public. I was never given a voice. Or chance. At least the hospital stood by me. Columbus, Georgia like a support group away compared to the skeptical outside world. I guess we took care of our own out here… Regardless of whether or not my friends and family thought I helped The Perfect Husband kill those girls. Most of the time, I kept to myself. No more traveling or exploring. Instead, I just stayed inside our big brick house. Two stories of soulless superficiality. Michaels gorgeous grin still stared at me from our many photographs. His spirit stuck in every cat ornament or surreal portrait he ever bought for me. I felt him everywhere. Except the basement. I damn sure never went back there. I didnt care how much the police had collected evidence and washed out the grisly scene. I couldnt dare face the Downing slaughterhouse once more. Couldnt face the horrifying reality. What was worse was there was no closure. The cops took what they could and that was that. But Michael was still gone. Hed taken his Nikon D5 camera with him, so now wed never know how many women he killed. How many corpses hed have on display for his personal art exhibit. And I thought we probably never would. Michael was too smart. Too clever. Beneath the harassment on-line and from the paparazzi, I wilted away for another agonizing year. My blonde hair now started to grey. Bags started popping up under my eyes. Like a virus, a deadly combination of stress and mid-life crisis crashed upon my once good looks. I was far from curvy but I only grew skinnier. To my horror, even my tits started to sag. At this point, I had no chance at dating. At least, I didnt think so. No longer did I feel attractive or talented. Much less confident. When I felt at my lowest, loneliest, and yes, horniest, I sought attention on-line. All under an anonymous name. But the only compliments this desperate girl got were from the more desperate guys. Not to mention the hybristophilia-addled men and women wanting me just for my undeserved infamy. I didnt talk to hardly anyone at all. Sure, the Columbus community didnt harass or insult me. Not like the national media did. Or national zeitgeist for that matter. But no one was exactly eager to swing by my house. No one invited me over. Forget margarita nights with the co-workers, my own family didnt even have me over for Christmas. Instead, there was only one person I interacted with on a daily basis: my neighbor Sean Winslow. Nearing eighty (or at least looking it) Sean was polite and respectful. The grandfather type who never married or had kids. Like me, he was all alone. And by sheer coincidence, all the other homes on Whitesville Road barricaded themselves from their neighbors with fancy iron-pike fences and gates. Quarantining themselves from Sean and I… Not that their isolation helped while Michael was on the prowl. Especially considering how Michael kidnapped and killed Tarra Falls, one of the wealthier people out here. A mutilation by machete. Sean welcomed me back with open arms. His skin was still so smooth. His stark white hair so straight. His body muscular, his movements spry. As if wed swapped aging patterns, Sean seemed to grow younger and more spirited while I grew decrepit both inside and out. To my relief, Sean believed me because he too had been duped. Felt betrayed by the love of my life. Every weekend, Michael and I used to visit Sean. So he too had been close to this living monster. Days after the shitstorm ensued, Sean had let me stay the night at his place. Sure, maybe he was just being an old perv. This was before the stress tarnished whatever good looks I had, after all. But Sean didnt make any moves. He never did. Instead, he comforted me. There at his kitchen table, the two of us shared one of his older Cabernets. The wine warmed me from the dread. And so did Seans pleasant company. I looked out a window. Out toward the blue lights. The news vans. The media assault on 6660 Whitesville Road. An investigation still ongoing to this day. Sympathetic, Sean grabbed my hand. The supportive hold of a parent rather than a lovers lust. “Its okay, Sam, ” he told me in his genteel Southern accent. “You couldnt have known. ” I looked into his piercing hazel eyes. No longer did I cry. Not now. Not when I knew I wasnt alone. “No one could, ” Sean reassured. But then came a miserable milestone. The first of what I was sure would be a never-ending cycle of pain. One that wouldnt stop until my death. The one-year anniversary of our lives being buried. The January day Michaels darkest secrets were discovered. By me, the community, and the world. And the day Michael slaughtered my personal life. His first kill without a blade. Of course, the networks were chomping at the bit. Just passing twelve months meant more coverage, more specials. Televised investigations handled by incompetent talking heads and clickbait reporters. There would be exploitative re-enactments of Michaels methodical crimes, theories on where he is now, and theories on how I got away with murder. I had nothing new to say. I didnt know why Michael did what he did. Why he killed, why he used all sorts of vicious weapons from knives to hammers to kill so many women. Or why he used his favorite weapon of all: the Nikon. The same exact camera he used to take pictures of his bloody trophies. At the recommendation of lawyers and loved ones, I declined the biased interviews. Even when I knew that wouldnt be enough to turn down the army of press camping outside my door when the twenty-first arrived. But Sean came to the rescue. Yet again. The offer of staying at his place during this tasteless “holiday” was too much for me to pass up. An escape from both the limelight and lynch mobs. And one that was less than a hundred yards away. On that cold January dawn, I migrated inside his house. Well before the news crews and cameras began their stakeout. Before I could become prey to this malicious pop culture. Seans house was spacious. Clean. Besides the abundance of wine, he liked art as well. The many framed photographs and paintings perfect for his homemade museum. Throughout the day, we hid inside. Far from the madding media. No one bothered us. Seans security cameras scaring away even the creepy Michael Downing Fan Club. But like a ghost, Michael still haunted me. The T. V. talked about him constantly. So many stations stayed dedicated to anniversary coverage. To discuss Michael… or to accuse me. So Sean guided me back toward the kitchen table. Back to the site of our better memories. Together, we shared a few bottles of Pinot Grigio. “Well, Im glad I stole you away from them, ” Sean joked. Grinning, I took another sip. “You and me both. ” Behind a warm smile, Sean poured more into my glass. A generous helping as always. “I just got this bottle yesterday. They got that vineyard out in Albany, you know. ” “Oh really? Thats cool. ” Sean leaned back. His muscles well on display through the jeans and flannel shirt. The killer biceps. “I just wanted to mark this special occasion, I suppose, ” he joked. Even I cracked a smile. “Great idea…” “Well, I knew youd be here, ” Sean said. He leaned in closer. “I always appreciate your company, Sam. ” My eyes scanned the room. Doing everything they could to avoid the sickening soap opera outside my front yard. But the huge Keurig, the catalog of Seans nature photography did nothing to ease the anxiety. Nothing to stifle Michaels deep voice. His piercing gaze. The elegy of our good memories. “Honestly, it gets lonely out here, ” Sean went on. Feeling drunker by the second, I leaned against the table. Trying to keep myself upright. Sean shook his glass. White wine splashed out. I now realized it was a glass he hadnt touched in quite some time. Unusual considering both of us were alcoholics. “I miss the old days, Sam, ” he said, his voice sinking to a low tone. A Southern accent shifting from high exuberance to deep reflection. The drinks caught up to me. They hit so quick. So sudden. I looked over at Seans refrigerator. At the many magnets and photos. Several pics looked familiar. There was St. Simons Islands beautiful beaches, Pasoquans psychedelia in Buena Vista. The same places Michael and I loved to visit… “I miss when we could all be together, ” Sean said, his voice drifting away. “Before those amazing murders. The kills. ” My eyes drifted out of conscious. The room got blurry. Everything faded to black. The glass slipped through my hand and smashed against the marble tile. A deafening sound now reduced to a hollow echo. Through the haze, I confronted the bottle. What I was sure was drugged Albany Pinot Grigio. Sean reached toward me. “I want all of us together, Sam. ” That was the last thing I heard. I fell backward in my seat. Entered an unconscious realm. What felt like centuries was mere hours. I awoke later that night. Confused, disoriented. I knew Id been drugged. Lying on the ground, I looked all around me. Bright bulbs lit the claustrophobic room with clinical lab precision. Immediately, terror sunk in. Surrounding me were hundreds of photos. Enclosed in the gaudy frames were bodies and bodies. All of them women. Some nude, some in torn clothes. But all the girls were bound-and-gagged in duct tape. All of them dead. There were dissections, bludgeonings, decapitations. Visceral, grisly murder at the hands of many different tools. And at the hands of one horrifying serial killer: my husband. Like Michael, the Nikon D5 showed no mercy. Every corpse was captured in a captivating light. In all their disturbing glory. From the walls, the collection of corpses watched me. The few faces that werent mangled still had their eyes open in fear. The faces of death. Right by the red door was a long metal table. Its surface covered by an arsenal of vicious weapons. There were knives, machetes, axes… and gallons of dark dry blood. The blades ready to tear through flesh. And all they needed was a killers hungry touch. I now knew where I was. The houses in this neighborhood all had similar layouts. But there was no way this was my basement. Even if looked just like the scary scene police had shown me one year ago. Somehow, Sean had made a shrine to Michaels work. A terrifying tribute to his prolific serial killer career. Then a muffled cry hit me. As did a nauseating smell. Turning, I saw a red-headed woman lying a few feet away. She was bound-and-gagged in duct tape. Her ripped clothes covered in blood. Her pale body covered in bruises. She couldnt have been older than eighteen… but she still fit Michaels M. O. Or whatever the Hell Seans “type” was. The womans eyes begged me for help. She squirmed beneath the tape. Too weak to even crawl. “Oh God! ” I yelled. I jumped up and ran toward her. Desperate to help the young woman escape. Tears streamed down her eyes. Shivering, the woman struggled to move closer toward me. This up close I saw she was missing patches of skin. Her pants stained with days of piss and shit… I reached out toward her. Then the red door burst open. In came Sean. A sly smile on his handsome face. A silver hammer in his hand. A Nikon D5 in the other. Startled, I jumped back. My eyes watched Sean charging forward like a wolf ready to pounce on a vulnerable lamb. I stood petrified in fear… even as I heard the young woman shriek through that tape. Heard her body flounder on the floor. Without hesitation, Sean sunk the hammer claw straight into her face. Right between the womans screaming eyes. Blood blasted all over us. Each of us coated in a quick crimson shower. The girl fell straight back. Her body silent and still. The hammer an arrow into her foreheads bullseye. A fast flash caught the postmortem photo. The young woman now a most morbid model. Perfect for Seans morbid museum. Sean lowered the Nikon, revealing an even bigger smile. Pleased at his latest trophy. Horrified, I glared at him. “What the Hell are you doing! ” all I could scream. Seans cackle became a soundtrack to this slaughterhouse. In his death basement. Angry, I took a step toward him. “What the fucks wrong with you! ” I waved toward his latest victim. “Did yall do this together! Both of yall sick fucks! ” “Not at all! ” Sean yelled in a deep, proud voice. Crying out, I lunged toward him. Toward the old sack of shit. In one quick push, Sean pushed me straight down. His strength so sneaky. I fell hard. Groaning, I looked up at him. His muscular physique. The shoulders and chiseled chest so unnatural for someone near eighty. With a theatrical flourish, Sean withdrew a switchblade and flicked out the shiny blade. He set his hungry sights on me. “Ive been waiting a long time for this, Sam. ” Disturbed, I watched him lean in toward me. But inside, I built up courage. Or at least tried to. “You have no idea, ” Sean went on. He put the blade to my face. Faint blood stains were all over the fucking thing. Bits of female flesh included. I suppressed the tears. But stayed sickened by everything around me. “I want you…” Sean teased. Embracing anger, I threw a first punch. Right at Seans nose. My aim perfect. Covering his face, Sean staggered back. “Aw, fuck! ” Then I looked on. Simultaneously stunned and scared. Unable to move. To make a sound. There stood Sean, clutching his bloodied nose and dangling, filleted flesh. The long strands of skin like shredded paper. He glared at me behind one green eye and one brown one. Through the blood, pale powder smeared across his hands. Red rain had washed away the disguise. And now it was all clear. Especially when I saw that hazel contact lying by Michaels latest victim. Raising the switchblade, my husband confronted me. Standing tall in the death room hed recreated in Seans basement. A sadistic smirk now plastered on his face. “Looks like were together again, Sam! ” his deep voice bellowed. “Right where I always wanted you. ” I staggered to my feet. Too nervous to stop the chills but too upset to shed tears. “Why, Michael! ” I yelled. With cool indifference, Michael ripped off the remaining latex. The make-up now wiped clean to reveal the face of a cold-blooded killer. Fake skin still dripped off Michaels fingertips. But his grip on that blade stayed steady. On the camera as well. “Why are you doing this! ” I hurled at him. Michael took a calm step toward me. “I had to escape, babe. ” Both his hands now grabbed on to the Nikon as he got closer and closer. “So I did the only thing I could. I came here. ” This Michael was similar sure. Still handsome and charismatic. Still the man I married. But deep down, I felt dread. Disgust at the Michael Downing who fooled me. The Perfect Husband I didnt know. Betrayal battered my senses, but I wasnt gonna cry. Not over him. Not ever again. Just inches away, Michael pointed the camera at me. A crude spotlight for my fear. “I killed Sean, ” Michael went on. “It was tough but I had no choice. You know Im not crazy about killing dudes, Sam. ” I just glared at him. Watched Michael as he got ready to take a photo. “Happy anniversary, babe, ” Michael teased. There right in front of me, he took the picture. With no regard for Sam. For all the years I loved him. Instead, I was just another temporary thrill. Yet another victim. Grinning, Michael lowered the camera. “Oh, Ill take my time with you, Sam. ” I stood there, silent and still. I felt violated, sickened. Hurt. Cringing, I let Michael caress my face for one final time. “Just like I always wanted to, ” Michael said. Relishing the torture, he leaned in close. His movements soft and slow. “Now how about a kiss for The Perfect Husband, babe. ” I then made my move. A quick punch into Michaels firm chest. My long year of agony now released in that one act of violence. Groaning, Michael fell to his knee. He dropped the knife. My onslaught continued. I just laid into him. One hit after the other. Now I was glad to have kept the wedding ring on… more force for that left-handed hook. Michaels muscular frame hit the ground. Lying parallel to his last victim. Two bodies for this basement funeral. A funeral for my ruined past. For my shattered dreams. Crying out, Michael struggled on the ground. His face battered and bruised. Blood pouring from his broken nose. Power surged through me. Strength. Confidence. All the violence sent me into a pure state of euphoria. The most pleasure I felt since the honeymoon stage... Excited, I snatched up the Nikon from Michaels weakened grasp. Aimed it at him as if the camera were a pistol. The smile long gone, Michael glowered at me. “You bitch! ” he cried. “You fucking bitch! Gimme that! Defiant for the first time in this horror movie marriage, I held the camera steady. The lens more unflinching than my harsh gaze. “Gimme the fucking camera! ” Michael yelled. Rage won out. As did desire. I snapped my first death portrait. But did you really think Id turn Michael in? Expose his existence for all the world to see. Clear my name for these fucking assholes? Of course not. Sure, I ended up dumping Carla Dowses body off on Whittlesey Boulevard. A chance for her family to get the closure I finally got… But I did nothing with Seans place. Nothing other than take a few souvenirs with me. Months later, and the kills still keep me aroused. Keep me excited. I think about those tied-up bodies. The naked young men helpless to my touch. Their blood, the slow slaughters. The way the boys flinch when I take that fun first photo. And then how I position their beautiful corpses for the even more fun final shoot. Photography hasnt been this exhilarating since college, Ill tell you that. I renovated my basement. Now its my death room rather than Michaels. Sure, I got a similar layout. A pink wooden table full of vicious sharp blades at my disposal. But at least I keep the slaughterhouse stylized. I love the pink wallpaper. The psychedelic (now blood-stained) rugs. But most of all its my personal museum. The framed photos of dead hot guys running up and down those walls are my victims. Not to mention my newfound pride and joy. The fetish I never knew I had. Late at night, Ill fall asleep thinking about the kills. Fantasize over them. Salivate over taking those pictures. Dream about murdering those fineass men. By now, the photos of Michael and I are gone. Everything that reminded me of him are gone with them. The cat figurines, the surreal portraits. This is my house now. Especially that Goddamn basement: Sams Slaughterhouse. The only thing Michael has left me is himself. The crumpled prisoner in my death room. Like an entrapped lab rat, he just lies there in duct tape. Too beaten and bloodied to do anything. Both his Achilles are sliced, his tongue ripped out, fingers lopped off. I dont mind toying with him from time to time. But I do have other studs to tend to… more alluring hotties to play with. Their photos now form my basement trophy case. That Nikon my deadliest weapon of all. I understand Michaels desire now. I get why he was a serial killer. The same motive fuels my bloodlust in the basement and in bed. What I do behind that big red door gives me exhilaration, an escape from the boredom. So much pleasure I carry it with me to the bedroom every single night… Now I never feel lonely. After so many murders, I feel better. The carnage a catharsis for my confidence. Ive matched Michaels strength. Now muscular and fit, I look amazing. The blonde hair is back. The wrinkles held at bay. I look ten years younger, and I use my attractive looks to my advantage. Just like Michael did. In the basement, I scan the many framed photos. The many victims Ill be thinking of later tonight. And the same murders Ill be dreaming over for eternity. I steal a look at my unconscious husband. Divorce closer than ever considering Michaels dying state. His cuts and scars have only been growing deeper these past few days. Then my eyes drift toward Adam. The college kid I picked up last week. A jock with a nice smile and long black hair. The slit throat now made him even prettier. So did the blood all over that amazing body. A perfect picture for my gallery. A sharp vibration cut through my admiration. A phone call from my latest date: Johnny Cullen. He was acute, skinny black guy in his thirties. One with a sympathetic heart I couldnt wait to carve out. Dressed to kill, I turned toward the table. Toward the butcher knife I planned on using later. Not to mention the other tools forming my hardware horror fantasies. The media always wanted me to be a killer. And so did the rest of the world. Even Columbus, Georgia. Even my friends and family. And now… well. I was gonna give them that bitch. Meet Sam Downing. Photographer and serial killer. The Perfect Wife. 14.

A vÃgyak szigete Watch stream.nbcolympics. Trenton, NJ 2011 It had been almost a month since I had reported to my P. O... There was no doubt in my mind that Mercer County had issued an arrest warrant. I was scheduled to report to the probation office weekly as well as go in front of the judge every Tuesday morning. I had been getting high for months. It started in the halfway house with the intention of quitting before I came home. As assertive and self confident as I am, I always get bullied by drugs and submit to the schedule they want me on. I had been functioning on the brink of destruction for the 2 months that I inhabited this apartment. Each time I met with my P. O. I was carrying a clean urine contraption in my Polo boxers. Id cut a small slit in the flap of a pair of boxer briefs. Then I would empty out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and fill it with clean piss wherever I could find it. That bottle was then warmed up and placed with just the tip sticking outside the underwear fabric. On my way to the office my body heat would keep the temperature regulated. With this invention I could give the fake sample even if I was being watched and I was always being watched. Most times the officer would stand outside the bathroom and watch as your back was turned but some of the more devious officers would look right at my hammer while I was putting piss in a cup for them. 95% of parole and probation officers are the worst type of people. If you ask me anyone involved in the just system has some lack of self esteem that would drive them to impose there power on others. Especially Richard Dye and Janice Coble two people who did their best to help me ruin my life. At this time I could no longer keep up the façade of a sober productive citizen. I had come to the same crossroads that I had passed through many times before. I could give up the drugs and re-adjust to a healthy wholesome lifestyle, or I could give up the last semblance of a normal life and keep on with the excitement and madness of being a junkie. The junk was way more seductive than the prospect of regularity ever could pretend to be. I waved the white flag at square life and “took it on the run” from probation. For the first few days I talked with criminal advisors of all types. Drug users who had been in the same boat, drug dealers who ran from football numbers for years, and Ex convicts who had long since turned to family men. As I was only facing a 3 year sentence with half that time already served the general consensus was to turn myself in and get this situation behind me. However, I was in the clutch of a daily speedball addiction and I couldnt find it in me to just walk away from that steamy romance. One day as I was in the midst of a strong dope nod the plan unfurled in front of me. I could collect the security deposit from my apartment, take a train to Florida, and eventually find a job on some sort of Caribbean boat. I would have to stop using but I would work it out so that I started a new life on whatever island felt right. I was so disgusted with my life and the justice system in New Jersey that the fantasy of never coming back to the U. S. filled me with more satisfaction than the best drugs in Kensington. Somedays I still dream of how pleasant a simple life on a small tropical island could be. After the plan was hatched I couldnt think of anything else. I hadnt felt the freedom that leaving would give me in years, if ever. I couldnt leave today because I didnt yet have the money. I also need to acquire a stash of detox drugs so that I wasnt diminished to a trembling, crying, puking pile of crumbled junkster on my way to execute operation “Detoxy Freedom”. That meant waiting a few more days if not weeks. My landlord was a clean cut businessman, but was no stranger to the other side of the law. I had explained to him my situation and apologized profusely as I humbly asked for his help by returning my security deposit. With no hesitation he agreed. The catch was that he needed a few days to get it together, whatever that may have meant. In the meantime I needed to make sure I stayed low. I had a buddy who lived a few towns north of Trenton in Pennington. Pennington was a quiet town made up mostly of forest and farmland. It was a great place to hide out. As long as I stayed indoors no one would ever suspect that I was there. I had brought some drugs with me to Pennington but not enough. By my third day there I was in the midst of an ugly withdrawal. My Buddy McFlave knew I was using and showed sympathy but he wasnt a part of this lifestyle and couldnt do much to help me out as far as getting another fix. I knew that the only way to end my current physical suffering was to get back down to Trenton and get a fix but I was so close to freedom that I was scared to risk it. That fear only lasted for a day. When McFlave returned home from work one night, I had a half meltdown and told him I had to get back to my hood. He initially tried to bargain with me, it was to no avail. We hopped into his 1980-something Reliant K station wagon to make the 8 mile drive. With my physical discomfort and the prospect of alleviating withdraw, the 20 minute ride felt closer to an hour. We stayed mostly silent as I shivered and sweat in the passenger seat. The trees and fields transitioned to buildings and lots as we weaved through the North side of Trenton. My internal paradox had intensified as we arrived in the city. The anxiety grew since there was a greater possibility for capture in Trenton. At the same time, the serenity rose knowing that soon I would have some relief from my opioid induced malady. The sun was on its way down. It was one of those humid summer nights where the sky glows all shades of orange and purple just before sunset. While arriving out front of my apartment building I found solace being back amongst the trash strewn streets of Chambersburg. For years I had felt my connection to life through the crumbling infrastructure of the inner city. McFlave solemnly bid his farewell as if I was a soldier shipping out to war. He wasnt far off. I would be shipped before 24 hours was up. I didnt even bother to walk upstairs into my apartment. I sat on the bench out front of the store and called Brownie. He didnt answer. During my time in Trenton I think I saw one open air dope spot. The word was that the whole Perry St neighborhood had hustlers on every corner. If they were there I never saw them. Its also possible that I was looking for the wrong situation. In North Philadelphia, where I spent most of my days, the dope spots were not camouflaged. Young black, brown and occasionally white brothers stood proudly on corners and let each passerby know which drugs could be purchased there or close by. Then, the hand to hand transaction was made outdoors only using two vehicles or buildings as cover from any nearby police. My understanding of Trenton was that the dope was sold inside of the brownstone tenement buildings on the 10-15 blocks surrounding Perry St. So anyone who wanted a particular brand of skag would have to know which building it was sold inside of and they would walk into the front door to be served. I dealt with a similar process in Paterson NJ however at that time I had never been locked up for any length of time as an adult so I was quicker to throw caution to the wind. Being on Probation in The Town, I wasnt keen to spend hours in the hood searching for drugs and socializing with low level junkies. Brownie was a dope dealer I met while I was still in the halfway house. My Bunkie Ross was from the neighborhood and one of the illest hustlers Ive ever met. Ross could turn a dime to a stack inside of a week and very seldom made his profit with drugs. He did know the guys who made their living selling crack and smack though. I think it was Ross who originally put me in touch with Brownie. Brownie was a hood anomaly. He spent years getting high on heroin. At some point he stopped using and started selling. He lived in a homeless shelter and I think part of the reason was because that was where most of his clientele was. As I was realizing that I was gonna have to take an Amtrak to Philly just to get one bag my phone rang. Brownie was calling back. It didnt ring twice before I picked up. “Hey yo” I greeted meekly, showing myself just how weak the withdrawal made me. “Whats happening Shane” Brownie asked. He always called me Shane and I never corrected him. In the street using your real name can be detrimental. I told him I needed 2 and asked for 2 on consignment. My credit score in life is non-existent but in the dope game it was 850. I almost always got drugs fronted to me. Brownie told me to meet him at the 6ABC building next to the train station. I argued and told him thats a terrible spot but he insisted. That part of the city was rampant with police and pedestrians and was about the worst place to buy drugs, especially as a fugitive. It seemed shifty but I let go of that notion relatively quickly. Any of the lethargy evaporated as I ran up to my apartment 2 steps at a time to grab my bike. While still at the halfway house I had acquired a murdered out, gunmetal beach cruiser with high rise handlebars. The only component on the bike that wasnt black or gray was the thick whitewall tires. I kept my bike, apartment, and sneakers pristine. It was about 20 blocks from Chambersburg to the train station downtown. I pedaled down Emory St. through a lively neighborhood. I caught a few notes of the narcocorrido songs playing at Chapala, the corner bar. Immigrants children played on the sidewalks as I passed. Every car that rode by me sent tremors through the block from heavy bass in the songs they played, mostly Trap and Latino Hip-Hop. I thought to stop at the liquor store across from the park where Emory and Whitaker intersected, but there was a menacing crowd of MS-13 outside. Those were the only gangsters who ever made me nervous because my wit and charm would be useless without full command of the Spanish language. Past the park I weaved through a few quiet side blocks and turned left heading north on S. Clinton Ave. Clinton Ave was generally an unassuming city street. It varied between residential blocks and strips of storefronts. The blocks south of the Dye St bend were Latino restaurants, barber shops and botanicas. North of Dye St the blocks got visually poorer. Most of the storefronts were abandoned, as well as some of the homes, and the intersections near Hamilton ave looked like the perimeter of a landfill. The only business that appeared to have some measure of success was the Chinese Food/Liquor store. It wasnt clean but the large brightly illuminated windows gave it that appearance. It was always busy and drew an unsavory crowed who milled about outside on Hamilton Ave. I made a mental note to stop and grab a drink on my way back home. 2 blocks past Hamilton I crossed over a small truss bridge that spanned a few railroad tracks leading to the train yard of the Trenton Station. This bridge signified the boundary of downtown. I didnt like being in Trenton right now, and it was amplified while travelling through territory that housed poilice precinct, state buildings and other high security areas. People poured out of the station entrance from an incoming train and it helped me to relax. The more faces that were around the less likely a cop would focus on mine. Brownie was on the far side of the traffic light sitting alone inside a covered bus stop. I hopped off my cruiser and leaned it on the side of the structure. As we shook hands Brownie tried to nonchalantly pass off the product. However, it clumsily dropped out of our grasp as it did everytime I copped from him. Brownie always blamed me for this but I maintain that he was the klutz. “Thats 6” he said as I sat down with him, “2 are from a new connect, do those first and let me know what you think” I couldnt help cracking a smile despite my depressed demeanor and anxiety riddled mental status. Testers werent uncommon on well established drug corners. I never got any from Brownie and this was a pleasant surprise. I would be able to have a bag or two when I woke up the next morning. With subtle incognito movements I reached in my pocket and placed two 10 bills on the bench next to me. I had no time to sit and chat I had to get the hell outta dodge and get high. In a blink I was back on the Cruiser and heading back down Clinton. As I sped past the Chinese liquor spot the thought of stopping for a drink had already disappeared. I was nauseous, anxious, in pain and had a mean case of diarrhea brewing. With the cure in my pocket I mutated from crippled junkie to Lance Armstrong. Each pedal stroke was taking me closer to the goal I would nearly die to achieve. Had I met Brownie in a different section of the city I would already have shot a bag of dope and been moseying my way home without any particular urgency. Here in the Downtown/Chambersburg corridor I didnt know of one safe place to stop and take the few minutes to set up a syringe. My white T-shirt and gym shorts were soaked with sweat from withdrawing in August while riding a bike. I looked like a possessed man passing by nice Colombian families enjoying an Aguardiente in the summer heat. My legs were cramped and damn near inoperable when I reached home. I left my bike on the side of the building and stumbled up the stairs to fix a shot. The apartment was sparsely furnished and spotless. Years of incarceration had engrained a moral sense of duty to be clean and organized. I kept my tools of the trade in the nightstand near my bed. My hands trembled while I poured the tan powder from a white wax envelope into a water bottle cap. I add 10cc of water for each bag; no more, no less. Using the back of the diabetic syringe I stir up the cap until all the powder dissolves. I think “this is some good dope” when it turns the color of ice tea. I re-use the same speck of cotton for days at a time, dropping it into the cap to be used as a filter. Gently resting the tip of the needle on the browned filter I pull back on the syringe plunger and suck up 25 ccs of the antidote. In the movies they squirt a few drops out to make sure theres no air in the spike. I wouldnt dare waste a few ccs like that. I flick the body of the needle twice to let the air bubbles rise and then push the plunger just enough to remove them. All of my movements are made in a hurry but very methodically. I dont want to spill the potion or miss a vein. The leather Polo belt snaps as I grab it off the bedroom door knob. I stick my right arm through the belt, wrap it twice and sink my teeth in to hold it in place. A thick vein inside my elbow pushes the yellow bruised skin up just enough to make its presence visible. Along that lump runs an inch of scars from previous years of needle pokes. The needle is old and dull so when I jab at the vein it hurts a bit more than normal also my nerves are on edge and it adds to the sharp prick. Immediately I see a bit of blood swirl up into the cylinder of the syringe. A red dragon from the same Asian country as the heroin its dancing in. I drive down the plunger as fast as it will go. Before I can pull the arm dart out and wipe the blood I get a tingle starting at the bottom of my back. Its a warm euphoric version of your foot “falling asleep”. The pins and needles dance salsa up my back. When they reach my head the tingle shifts to an explosion and a wave of warm goo drips from my skull to my feet. I close my eyes and float in the feeling. Without even having the chance to take the needle out I fall out of consciousness in the most heavenly way. At 5:30 the next morning there was a knock at my door that woke me. My eyes opened and heart pounded. The soft light from the window signified that it was still early. I lay for a moment with my blood pressure pulsing all over my body. I knew at this time of day the only people showing up at my apartment were the police serving a warrant. My mind spun and the anxiety was unbearable. ‘This was it. ‘Or was it? If they were knocking than maybe they werent gonna kick the door down and I would be safe just staying still. They would leave at some point and I would make a break Florida immediately. A few more moments of silence, I was frozen stiff. I started thinking that maybe I didnt really hear a knock, ‘I was just dreaming. I wasnt sure that I heard a knock, it did happen while I was sleeping. A knock came again, but it wasnt the normal cop knock. It was a knock to the rhythym of the Clipse song Grindin. Now Im all the way scared and confused. ‘Was it not the cops? ‘Were they trying to throw me off so Id answer the door? It was only seconds but it felt like minutes when the next hip-hop knock came. This one settled my heart as it was accompanied by a voice. “YYEERRROOO! COOOVVV! ” The relief was on par with last nights fix. The voice wasnt immediately recognizable. I was sure, though, that whoever was at my door before the birds started chirping was friend not foe. With a dried stream of blood crusted on my forearm I got up from the bed and wobbled through the living room. Before the next knock came I peered through the peephole. It was Machine Gun Funk. Gun Funk was one of the most unique characters Ive ever met. We spent a half of a year together during a bid in Middlesex County, a lockdown program in New Brunswick to be exact. He was a white kid from Hamilton, the suburb next to Trenton. He built a name for himself running through West Trenton with the Fruit Town Brims. Fruit Town was a set of Bloods that originated in a section of Compton California. There arent many Brims in Jersey but they are always official. Brims refer to each other with some form of the moniker Funk. P-Funk, D-Funk, Lo-Funk, etc. Gun Funk didnt look like a gangster to the untrained eye. He wore khaki cargo shorts with leather sandals. He rocked a generic middle class white guy hair cut and fake diamond earrings. His face looked like he could have had a sprinkling of downs syndrome and he had a wrist full of friendship bracelets and leather bands. People who met Funk for the first time were more likely to think he just came home from Coachella Festival rather than a Correctional Facility. There were 2 things about Gun Funk that let the streets know he wasnt your average college stoner. His tats and his beads. He wore red and white beads around his neck that blended in with the rest of his rave jewelry but were actually a symbol to his alliance to “Them Hat Boys”. He had a bunch of regular tats on his skin but the important one was on his forearm. In the joint someone inked an orange tree and a top hat below his elbow the tree symbolizing Fruit Town and the hat for Brim. I had talked to MGF a few weeks prior via Facebook and told him my door is always open now that I was in his backyard. I never thought he would show up but I was too happy to see him to be angry that it wasnt yet 6am. We had both seen better days. I bypassed his outstretched hand and went straight for a hug. “What the fuck is going on? ” I asked with intent and not just as a greeting. I stepped away from the entryway and we both sat on the old living room couch. Gun Funk offered me a Maverick Menthol but I declined and pulled out a Newport from my own pack on the coffee table. I was eager to find out why this guy who I hadnt seen in over a year was showing up on my doorstep. He began to break down the story. Like me MGF was a vivid storyteller which was a great skill for street dudes who wound up in the most unusual situations. A picture was painted for me of a night of drugs and sex that ended here in my apartment. Funk had been sniffing blow with a barely legal teenage girl in her parents house on Chambers St. As he told me more of the details it became clear that he was pretty fried. They did the normal sniffing lines off her ass kinda stuff. Sometime before the sun rose and the coke was getting sparse the girls father woke up to get ready for his work day. Pops must have heard some commotion from his precious daughters bedroom and looked to find his baby girl with Ol Funks gun in her mouth. Ive never laughed so hard before my morning coffee and shot. Her Pops threw Funk outta the house like he was Jazzy Jeff. I saw the freshly scraped elbows that were proof. Chambers was only a few blocks from my place on Emory. With his phone and wallet still in homegirls bedroom MGF figured to try his luck at my house. I believed every word of his story. It wasnt too far off from a situation I had or may find myself in. I was glad to see him and even more elated that he came bearing such an outlandish story. I made us a pot of coffee. After years of jail time Gun Funk adjusted to drinking his coffee John Wayne, meaning no cream and no sugar. I made my cup a Little Wayne, just sugar, I hadnt bought cream or milk since my last shopping trip a few weeks ago. We sat for a few minutes as I told him about my fugitive status and plans to get out of The Town a. s. a. p... He wanted to kick it at my spot for a few hours until he could safely retrieve his phone and wallet. That was fine by me, I was glad to have some company for the day. I handed him the remote and told him to watch what he wants. I hadnt paid the cable bill in a while but they hadnt cut it off just yet. I went to the bedroom and grabbed my tools for a morning fix. I did it in the bathroom then hopped in the shower. After getting dressed and making my way back to the couch, I saw that gun funk had dozed off. He had crashed from being zooted all night, and wouldnt be waking up anytime soon. I decided to head downstairs to the deli that was the first floor of the building. I figured I could talk to my landlord and see if he might have had my security deposit for me. As I stepped foot out the door my landlord Johnny greeted me with his friendly smile. He had an espresso cup in one hand and a Marlboro in the other. Johnny was a family man nowadays but had grown up in the streets back when Chambersburg was a tough Italian part of town. I believe he genuinely felt for me and didnt like to see me living this life. We had talked about my plan for getting to Florida, if I really felt like this was the move and what I would do long term. He told me that by the end of the day he would have money for me. I felt uncomfortable in more ways than one. I didnt like putting Johnny in the spot I did. I also didnt like standing out in the open during broad daylight. As we chatted I watched every car that past. One of those cars was an older model, dark gray Crown Victoria that may have had government plates. Later on it registered to me that the driver of that car looked an awful lot like my Probation Officer. Since he didnt stop at the time I made the choice to believe it was just a coincidence. After shooting the breeze for an hour or so I made my way upstairs to do another shot. Knowing that money was coming my way that afternoon stopped me from being conservative with my last few bags. Gun Funk was still dead asleep when I came out of the bathroom from doing a double shot. The Regis and Kelly show wasnt holding my attention so I grabbed the remote off the coffee table and put on Animal Planet. It was a dry documentary about cheetahs, the perfect background noise to nod out to. I layed on the floor with my head propped on the base of the couch and focused on losing focus. “ BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM” four heavy knocks on the door. I sprang to my feet. Funks eyes shot open and we stared at eachother our eyes lit with fear. There was no mistaking that knock. The panic had surged my adrenaline and any inkling of being high had vanished from my body. I was hoping against all odds that my door wasnt about to kicked off the hinges. As quietly as I could I crept to a spot where I could look under the door. My nightmare was confirmed. I saw more than a few pairs of black boots on the floor of my apartments vestibule. I mouthed the words to Machine Gun Funk “Black Boots! ” I was expecting at any moment to see the door come flying open. Instead I heard another round of aggressive taps with an angry womans voice afterward “Trenton Police”. I remained as still as I could though my heart beat as loud as the cops knock. I couldnt breathe. Deep inside I thought that maybe they were going to leave had I not answered the door. Then came the only sound worse than a battering ram busting the door down. It was the most fearful sound I could have imagined at that point, and it was no louder than a phones vibration. I heard a key clicking into my doorknob. “ohhh fuucckk” I muttered breaking my silence. The door swung open with dynamic force knocking the Crucifix above it off the wall onto the head of the 2nd cop through. A brunette lady cop with her gun drawn at my face yelled to get down. I was paralyzed staring at the barrel and the enraged face behind it. “ “Hit the fucking ground. ” the second time she punctuated the statement with a wave of the gun. I snapped from my trance and dropped face first on the carpet. Funk did the same while in the crosshairs of a different gun. Immediately after I got down two linebacker sized pink skinned piglets in plain clothes pounced on me. I caught a gun butt in the back of my head that should have required a few stitches. I took a few swift boots to the torso. I wound up with a knee grinding my face into the floor while another pansy twisted my arm backwards way beyond its capability. Dazed from the blow to the head I can only imagine that MGF got the same treatment. After a few moments I was lifted to my feet violently to see that Sgt. Swine Slut was rummaging through my cabinets. She looked like the captain of an NCAA womens hockey team. In a momentary lapse of judgment I said to her “You looking for something to eat? ” That earned me a quick but weak jab to the gut from one of her flunkies. She didnt bother responding after that. Two more plain clothes doughboys stood over my cohort and asked me with malice “whos this? ” I remained silent as Gun Funk uttered his government name. I didnt have the chance to hear anymore of that conversation as I was drug down the steps out to an unmarked police cruiser. As I sat in the back of that car the only thing I could think of through the pain throbbing in my head was that “I only missed a probation meeting, I dont deserve this”. I didnt have trouble believing that I took this beating from the Police. It only added to the disgust I had for the justice system and government. Behind the shit storm of emotions and underneath the silent tears I knew one thing. I was glad this is over. Being on the run, even for this short period had taken its toll on my soul. I looked forward to getting to jail so I could finally get some rest.

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[Start Here] Previous] Candle ran down the gentle slope of the hill with no thought to direction. It was pointless to try and outrun the wights. She was growing tired. What was she going to do? The Wights were terrifying, but while they were primally vicious, they were slow to react. She might be able to send them back to the Night if she could separate them. Her hand strayed to her left arm, which was swollen and purple and painful to the touch. She was lucky to have survived one encounter, and there were at least three shambling after her. Tripping she stumbled forwards and landed in ankle deep water - probably the stream she had crossed earlier. The wights shouldn't be able to cross water! She sloshed eagerly into the stream which was thigh deep and chilly as the grave. She strode forward, then stopped, abruptly. On the opposite bank, another wight waited, hungry-eyed and flanked by several, smaller, ill-defined spirits. They crowded towards her, reaching out spindly fingers made of shadow. Looking over her shoulder she saw three wights standing at the edge of the opposite bank. She was caught between them. Thinking quickly, she splashed water towards them. They growled, moving backwards, but while it was clear they disliked the water, they didn't seem to suffer any lasting damage. Night had fallen, true night, dark and deep as Candle stood in the rushing stream weighing her options. The fog was lifting as the wind picked up, but the light of the stars was weak. Everything seemed dense and dark. Trees and bushes clustered greedily by the banks, making it hard to distinguish shade from shadow. The stream itself was relatively broad and swollen with winter rain. Downstream there were rocks and a fallen trunk lying across the width. Too dangerous. She started to walk upstream slowly, slogging through the water. The Wights kept pace with her and then fell behind as she pushed a little faster. It was hard to move quickly against the water, which was cold and made her clothing heavy with its weight. She swore eloquently as she went, for there was no one to tell her to speak like a lady and an ache was spreading in her limbs. It occurred to her that if she died on the fellside no one would even find her body. She paused to drink, and the wights appeared a minute later. The patched white of their hair shone with faint luminosity under the weak starlight. She splashed them remorselessly, and they retreated, blue eyes baleful, watching her. If only she could figure out which stream this was. If only she could follow it to a village or some place of safety, but she had no idea where she was. Action seemed preferable to inaction so she kept wading upstream until it started to narrow as the slope steepened. Afraid of trying to climb the slippery rocks in the dark she sat crouched in the middle, swirling water protecting her on all sides and rested as best she could. She was growing very tired, and she had eaten the last of her stolen food. The Wights stood waiting like horrible sentinels. They had only to outlast her, for they were already dead. The dawn broke, cold and miserable. Candle tried to rub the life back into her limbs, but by the harsh light of day, she could fully appreciate the desperation of her situation. No one would be coming to save her from this situation. She had been stupid to think she could just wander off into the fell and be fine. It was prideful to think she was fit to survive. Her ignorance might well be the end of her. She climbed wearily over the slippery rocks, where the stream gushed in a series of little waterfalls. High sandstone walls were rising on either side of her, she was climbing into a gorge. The air was cool and misted with spray. She slogged on hoping for an island, or a dry rock or something that she could rest on and dry out, searching for some kind of salvation. Climbing a steep set of rocks she momentarily left the wights behind. At the heart of the gorge lay a pool of tannin brown water surrounded by ferns and early morning rainbows. The stream poured out of the mountain high above, tumbling down the steep rock face in a ribbon of falling water. Candle waded into the pool, which was deep and stood there for a while, feeling faint. Then she picked up a loose rock and hurled it at the leading Wight with all her might. It made a dull thud and left a dent in its skull. The creature didn't seem to notice. She ground her teeth in frustration, lobbing a couple more rocks at the Wights. It did little to damage them but it eased her frustration somewhat. Candle looked up at the cliff face – it was slick with spray and covered in moss. It was damp enough that it should keep the wights away. It also looked easy enough to climb for someone light and nimble if they were careful not to slip. Making up her mind, she placed her hands carefully and started to climb. She went up slowly, stopping after a few feet to look back down. The wights stood clustered around the pool, staring up at her. Candle wobbled dangerously, regained her balance and concentrated on looking up only. A few more feet up, she spotted a ledge, protruding from the cliff behind the waterfall itself. She crawled onto it gratefully. It was dry and just large enough for her to lie on without falling off. Hauling herself up and onto it she lay quietly for a long while, resting her tense body. She leaned out as far as she could without getting wet. The cliff above was very steep, sheer even. It was unlikely she would survive an attempt to climb it. She looked down at the patient undead below. What in the Night Nation was she going to do? She would have to try and kill them, and she would have to do it soon before she lacked the strength. She lifted the iron pipe with one shaking hand and then put it back down. Her only other option was to wait, here on this tiny ledge until she died of starvation, alone and unloved. And no one would ever know or care. They would never find her body. No one would come looking for her in this random gorge. Tears pricked her eyelids, but she was too tired to cry. She leaned back against the rock, completely deflated. She had made a terrible error of judgement. She should never have left the sanctity of Hanternos. Now she was lost and alone, and she would never find a better life, she would never make friends. She would die here, and that would be it. Leaning back against the crooked rock, she gave into her depression. In an attempt to make herself comfortable she wriggled against the hard stone. With a terrible crack, the rock gave way, tipping her backwards into the bowels of the mountain. [Next.