Journals of a Psychopath

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The novel Journals of a Psychopath was inspired by the author's stalker.

Karen

Riding to Karen's district and I mulled about her, she was a girlfriend. Her strong body was obvious. Arriving in Karen's neighbourhood, I chained the Harley to the railings. My boots were silent, as I tramped the sidewalk the pavement began to ice up. Sneaking into Karen's yard, I scrambled through the bushes. Insensitive to my true nature, endorsing the evaluation by behaving as I guessed Karen would, she sloped into the yard. Her limbs were robust and sinewy. Her face delicate, similar to a freshly picked rose, no lines marred her flawless face. Karen's body smooth, congruent to satin in my hands. Her mammary glands massive and baby pink, dying in the heavens the sun receded from her. While it did so, Karen’s silvery-blonde hair darkened, and the hunger receded a little.
      “Do not take her life,” the Voice said.
“Karen merits death.”
Taking my garb from the backpack, dressing leisurely, fitting the mask onto my face, the only part, which could be seen my brown vision-spheres. Ferreting in my pocket for the coloured contact lenses, I put the disks in my sight-orbs, and my eyes became blue. Breaking the glass quietly, I scrambled through.
      “You cannot rape her yet,” the Speaker said.
I obeyed, because I am petrified of the Archangel, the Timber Figures and the Declarer. Waiting in the den, I was impatient.
Majestically striding into her room at midnight, garbed in the pure white silk robe, Karen's face displayed terror, it increased, when I advanced in her direction. The room was muted apart from the rustle from the robe. Karen ululated, as I grabbed her. Forcing her lips open, pushing the gag in her mouth, I tied Karen’s hands. Slamming my manhood in her backside, her anus bled, Karen twisted with agony. Wringing her neck, elated, the performance was praiseworthy.
“You must stop you are nearly slaying her and it is not on the agenda,” the Orator said.

The Pit Stop

(My step-uncle is friends with Perry’s father, we shared barbeques at Perry's house, under no circumstances was my home utilised. Stepfather sat by the fire and sewed, his social skills had not been learned, Mother never joined. Perry and I climbed trees, did the normal stuff boys do, friends until the day he saw the wounds. Uncle Braden and Perry's father used to sit on the porch and put the world to rights. I envied Perry and I was jealous about his normal childhood. When Pep inherited the gas station he became smug, alone I punched the wall and seethed.) Pep advertised for a new worker, hiring a lackey to replace Joe was not a task we enjoyed.
The first man swaggered in the office I detested him. Following and the next one’s street credibility was bad, we needed someone smart about the block, willing to enact dirty deals. Strutting in, Farren was confident, I assumed she was a dyke, I need not have worried, Farren was aware of people who assumed she was gay. She showed Perry a photograph displaying her boyfriend he was in his work-clothes. He taught her all her knowledge-involving cars. Entrants arrived and they were disappointing none appropriate. We discussed Farren the thin faced woman, a chick something we had omitted to consider. Even better, she knew we took on dirty deals. Farren had been acquainted with Joe, she was eager to comply with underhand transactions. Her body was slim. Farren's short hair was fixed with hair-wax, her skin blemish free.
“Are you ok with a woman working with you? It will be hard for you to take,” Perry said.
“Yes it will be fun watching her fail.”
“Do not do anything to frighten her off.”

The Malady

I avoided the psychotic drugs as often as possible, the result I continued the mission. When I administered the meds, the pills erased the urge caused the failure of my organ. The sexual impulses coursing through my body necessary to nourish the obsession, Muzzles took one look, scampered into the corner, a toy squeaked, when he sat down. Searching for the meds, I pulled the drawers out, and hunted for the tablets. Muzzles watched as I trudged around. Finding them, I threw the pills down my throat, and swallowed.
      “Why are you looking like that?” I asked Muzzles.
His tail drooped and his eyes were dull he sensed my angst.
The Haven

A heart-shaped mirror reflected the items in the undersized shrine. Enhancing the silver cloth on the ornate table, the three black wax blocks represented the three dark- forces, the Wooden Forms, the Darkest-One and the Lecturer. Kindling the candles, the wax blocks illuminated some photographs of the Lady Flarice. In one picture, she displayed a basque and stockings, I jerked, I could feel the triumph flood through my veins. Waving the incense stick and the shrine filled with pervasive scent, the swirls circled, rearranged, my incantations escalated.
      “My lobes,” I sang.
The ears of the victims were unspoiled and primarily set in unmatched formation. I looked forward to the ears, which would grace the montage. The Purifiers and the Archangel began to emulate my stance, revitalised, sure concerning the mission, the purpose plain, the way a cacophony of screams, shouts, screeches and wails, and it transformed me into someone of importance.

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