is cool. He fumbled inside -- located his flashlight. He flicked the ON switch.
“Let there be light,” he whispered. “Wah-lah!”
Awhh, too bad sports fans -- he was definitely in the attic of his home. This wasn't a dream. He was the Truth School killer, after all. He shined the bright light down on his wristwatch. It was a twelfth-birthday present. It was the kind of sophisticated watch that pilots wore. Wow, he was so damn impressed! Maybe he could study to be a jet pilot after this was all behind him. Learn to fly an F-16.
It was 4:00 A.a. on the jet pilot's watch! Must be 4:00 ,.M., then.
“The hour of the werewolf,” he whispered softly It was time to come down out of the attic. It was time to continue to make his mark in the world. Something cool and amazing had to happen now.
Perfect murders.
Had to, had to, had to.
HE LET the bulky foldaway stairs drop down very slowly to the second floor of the house. His house. If his foster parents happened to get up for a pee right now- BIG PROBLEMS FOR HIM.
BIG SURPRISE FOR THEM, THOUGH.
MAJOR SHITSTORM FOR EVERYBODY CON CERNED.
He was having a little trouble with his breathing. None of this was easy now. He needed to set the heavy, unwieldy stairs down quietly on the second floor, but there was a little thud right at the end.
“Damn you. Loser,” he whispered.
He still couldn't exactly catch his breath. His body was covered with a thick coat of sweat, the kind horses break on a morning workout. He had seen that phenomenon on his grandparents' farm. Never forgot it: sweat that almost turned into this frothy cream, right before your eyes.
“Pusillanimous,” he whispered, mocking his own cowardice.
“Chickenshit bastard. Punk of the month. Loser, man.” His theme song again.
He tried to let some of the icy panic and nervousness pass.
He took long, slow, deep breaths as he paused at the top of the folding stairs. This was so freaky It was helter fucking skelter, in real life, in real time.
He finally began to climb down the wobbly wooden stairway, on wobbly wooden legs that felt like stilts. He was being as careful and quiet as he could be.
He felt a little better as he got to the bottom. Terra firma.
He walked on his tiptoes down the upstairs hallway to the door of the master bedroom. He opened the door and was immediately struck with a blast of really cold air.
His foster father kept the window open, even in December, even when it fucking snowed. He would. The arctic cold probably kept his silver-blond crew cut short. Saved him on haircuts.
What a superjerk-off the guy was.
“Do you screw her in the cold dark?” he whispered under his breath. That sounded about right, too.
He walked up real close to their king-size bed. Real close. He stood at their altar of love, their sacred throne.
How many times had he imagined a moment like this? This very moment.
How many other kids had imagined this same scene a thousand thousand times? But then done nothing about it. Losers!
The world was full of them.
He was on the verge of one of his worst rages, a real bad one. The hair on the back of his neck was standing at attention.
TEN-SHUN. It felt like it, anyway.
He could see red everywhere in the bedroom. kike this misting red. It was almost as if he were viewing the room through a nightscope.
He... was... just.. about... to... go.. off... wasn't.. he?
He could feel himself... exploding... into.. a... billion...
pieces.
Suddenly, he screamed at the top of his voice. “Wake up and smell the fucking Folgerk coffee!”
He was sobbing now, too. For what reason, he didn't know. He couldn't remember crying like this since he was a real little kid, real little.
His chest hurt as if he'd been punched hard. Or hit with an eighteen-inch ballbat. He realized that he was starting to wimp out. Mister Softee was coming back. He felt like Holden Caulfield. Repentant. Always triple- thinking every goddamn move both before and after he made it.
“POW,” he screamed at the top of his voice.
“POW,” he screamed the word again.
'?OW.
'?OW.
