Journals of a Psychopath

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There is not other psychopath like Clarkson he is the one.

Kimberley Lehmann

Silvery-blonde hair decked Kimberley’s head, ethereal her face drove the men to distraction. An hourglass figure and unforgettable green eyes caused the hunger. Designated for the role introducing her as the Lady Flarice and commanded by the Idols to act as her Knight I was overwhelmed. Obsession ruled the first time I saw Kimberley. Spinning on its axis the world turned upside down and the calling magically validated. Stunned the glimmer affecting the fixation seeded in my middle, proclaiming Kimberley's involvement, the Trees and the Archangel decreed the rite, which christened Kim the Lady Flarice, must be sombre and legally binding.

The Shrine

Crossing the threshold of the shrine the sanctuary, the venue I visited for solitude, it was an unused building. Remote and the other name endowed the haven. The neighbouring house, a good distance from the shrine and protected by Soldier Trees.

Lady Flarice’s abode

Installing the small cameras and they created a window to view.
Confiscating a figurine from the shelf, inserting the pure white silk in her cubbyhole, self-possession assailed. The Lady Flarice would not inform the lesbian she lived with concerning my activities, because the man-woman possessed a jealous nature. She would turn it around and allege the Lady Flarice brought men into the house. Samantha the partner existed as thickset and rough; her voice was mannish. Her greasy blonde hair spiked with firm gel presented as a mess. Malice discharged from Sam was evident. Singling her out for death, the system sanctioned the dyke’s survival, but I would not.

The Pit Stop

Old Jeb the fifth person in the crew took care of the gas-pumps on the forecourt. His baseball cap nearly obscured his eyes I knew liveliness lurked under his visor. Compensating for the shortfall of Jeb’s ugly form and vivacity granted his face animation. Rambling to him, skinny and strong, worn and his face weathered the deep lines. Old Jeb's nose was long and tufts of grey hair stuck out from his hat. Rushing into the idle yard over, I dropped to my knees no one could see;, high- fences cordoned the site from prying eyes. A lower tree sourced its home in the middle. Praying to the Trees and the Archangel, the supplication produced concord. The requisite from the Woodlander Warriors and the Archangel was all sacrifices should be performed in Blackclaw Woodlands.

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