I would like to share with my fellow Moggers some of my writing. I know this is a music site, but I think I will get the best artistic opinions from you guys. This is a story i'm working on. It's a little bugged, but that's the kind of writing I enjoy. If you have time, read the first part, and give me your honest opionion. If you guys like it, I will continue to post the rest as I write it. It's not edited, so excuse the errors. Thanks in advance.

*The Mind of a Killer* (working title)

I came to the realization a long time ago that just because you like to kill people, it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re crazy. Some people deserve to be killed; some people like to do the killing, sounds like a perfect balance to me. It’s not like I go out and stab the first old lady I see walking down the street, or I steal baby strollers out of women’s hands just to roll them off of the nearest cliff. I kill people whom I feel deserve to be killed. Furthermore, I don’t choose them. They choose me.

Let’s take this bitch in front of me for instance. I’ve been standing here for five minutes now. All I want is to drop off some photos that I’ve been meaning to get developed, but never got around to. She’s looked up at me twice, but continues to flap her gums to whomever the lucky person on the other end of the phone receiver who has the pleasure of her attention.

“Excuse me miss. I just want to drop these photos off for your one hour service.”“As soon as I’m finished I’ll be over there.”

The little cunt has dismissed me. It was ok at first because she had the benefit of the doubt. She may have been blind, and really didn’t see me. Now I know that she knows I’m here; knows I’ve been here for the last eight minutes waiting for her to finish her conversation.

“No Rick, I told you I didn’t go to the bar last night. I was at Stephanie’s all night.”“Look, you can believe what you want. I’m at work, and I don’t have time for this right now.” (Click)

With that, Rick has joined me on the infinite list of people dismissed by the photo girl. She goes under the counter, pulls out an envelope and flips it on the counter.

“Fill this out.”

And she turns to walk away.

“I’ve been standing here for ten minutes now, and that’s all I get?”“What else do you want?”“A little friendly service would be nice.”“This is Wal-Mart; you can go to Target for that.”“If I went to Target, I wouldn’t have the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”“Lucky you.”

She goes to her photo processor, and I start filling out my envelope. Doubles? No; CD? No; Expected time of delivery? One hour. I call little miss sunshine over to pick up the completed envelope.

“It’ll be an hour.”

She goes back to her photo processing machine, and I head to the McDonald’s in the front of the store. I can’t enjoy my Big Mac due to the fact that I’d much rather be enjoying watching the photo girl’s expression when she realizes her cute little foot actually could face the other direction. As much as I would love to live out this scrumptious morsel of a day dream, I can’t go around mutilating everyone who is rude to me. I can, however, get medieval on a bitch that is rude to me, and destroys the last role of film I have of my wife, who’s been dead five years as of tomorrow.

That would explain the frantic knocking and screaming that is coming from my trunk. I must say, I am the world’s biggest music fan, but there is no sweeter sound then what I am listening to right now. Can you hear the passion in her voice, the frustration in every punch and kick of the trunk, the rises and falls, the changes in pitch, fucking gorgeous. I’d buy the album.

Finally, we arrive at our destination. My grandfather died when I was thirteen, and he left me his farm in the middle of Nowhere. Nowhere, VA is a town of about two hundred residents in western Virginia. It’s known for the fact that it has the United States largest square miles to resident population ratio. This is due to the fact that all the residents of Nowhere are farmers with extraordinarily huge plots of land. My closest neighbors are the Jansen’s who live about five miles away. The moon and stars are usually the night’s only sources of light, but tonight the moon has left the stars to handle the job on their own.

When I first arrived at the farm, on my eighteenth birthday, it was full of the cows, pigs, and chickens that my grandfather had raised for years. This provided me my first taste of what it felt like to take a life. It started with the chickens. During countless summers of my youth, I came to help my grandfather out with the chores on the farm. I would help with the milking of the cows, feeding of the livestock, and whenever we needed a chicken for dinner, which we ate most nights, my grandfather would go out, grab an unlucky chicken, twist their head off, and prepare them for dinner. The first time I saw him perform this act, I was mesmerized by the way the chickens continued to jump, and run around after being beheaded. I wasn’t strong enough, nor had the stomach to do it myself. When I took over, I had no choice but to perform the act that I watched my “pop-pop” perform on countless occasions. I went out, found the plumpest chicken I could find, and removed it from the coup. I watched it run around the yard for awhile, mesmerized by the life I was about to take away with my bare hands. Once I built up the nerve, I picked it up, twisted off the head like my pop-pop did, and let it dance around until all the life escaped its skinny legs. The feeling I got was so filled with drunken power that I was hooked. I wanted to try something bigger. The cows were too big to simply twist their head off, but pop-pop had an arsenal of shotguns he kept on the farm. I found the first one he taught me to shoot at eight years old. I went to the area of the property where the cows were kept, and watched for my perfect target. When I saw her, brown with black spots, plump from the great care my pop-pop gave all his animals, I hoped into the fenced in area, cocked the shotgun, put it to her temple, made sure my eyes were on my target, and pulled the trigger. The spray of blood on my face, mixed with the smell of a suddenly dead carcass, and the way the rest of the headless body slumped instantly to the ground, gave me a rush that I’d never felt before. I was hooked.

The photo girl was still screaming her little heart out when I popped the trunk. The look she gave me when our eyes met gave me an instant erection. I grabbed her by her hair, pulled her out of the trunk, and started preparing for our evening of fun….