Journals of a Psychopath

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A published novel full of interesting characters and a surpising plot.

The Pit Stop

      “Whoops,” Joria said.
Joria’s bravado disappeared, when she saw what I held, a knife with a sharp blade was in my hand, driving the cutter into Joria’s skin, I studied the red-solution as it gurgled. (Perry could not hear he was testing the equipment. The nickname Pep came out of my mouth once, in a while.) Impregnating my male-weapon into her vagina, as I thrust my manly-tool, I dug the knife into Joria. After it was over, I swashed the blood with bleach, and I hid her body in the trunk of the car. I was looking forward to taking her to the isolation chamber, but she would have to wait.

The Lady Flarice's work

My competency was supreme, I climbed the huge branch of the enormous old tree, and I clasped the lager in my hand. My sight-orbs zoomed onto her womanhood. A problem had come up I watched, the skin attached to her eyebrows puckered. The Lady Flarice worked until she solved the riddle. Closing my vision-orbs, drifting into sleep, I dreamed regarding the scattered seeds in the fertile heart of the Lady Flarice. She would not evade the plans I had made.
      “Why do you torment yourself?” the Orator asked.
“I must think of the things to come.”

The Lady Flarice’s home

A gale buffeted the icy-shapes, the snow settled, flew from my clothes. Discharging the rays briefly, the golden-orb of the sun played hide and seek, in and out of the foliage. She showed up and the Lady Flarice a view to suspend a task. Dashing inside, she rushed to the liquor, poured a glass, gulping it down, Lady Flarice was desperate for another, I could tell. It seemed as if she was dependent. Racing into her yard, the Lady Flarice lifted the glass and I studied her. Shivering, she was cold the desire to warm her became strong. Entering her house, she decanted another drink.

Waldorf Grove

Steering into the garage, vacating the car, I heaved Joria through the door connected to where I kept my car.
Opening the iron-entrance leading to the isolation chamber, her body was over my shoulder. Over the years, several bodies journeyed through the segregation cell, some were tortured, a few died without water or food. Old, the freezer bore the brunt of the weight. Banging on the block, her head juddered Joria’s eyes were open. Invading her woman-part and contorted in agony, I was elated relevant to her unsightly face, I danced. Dressing in my robe, I looped circumnavigated the corpse. I am the best and in the future, no one other than my blood, could come up to my standard. Cutting her ear, I deemed it too common to unite alongside the others. When a woman’s ear joined my tableau, it was an honour. Lifting the freezer door, tossing her in, Joria's body thudded onto the others. Poking my finger into the wounds, the injuries were ductile. Fondling her body, I lost track of time, Joria's mouth was open, and the eyes stared sightlessly from the sockets.

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