Journals of a Psychopath.

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Clarkson's mother is brutal and cruel, he punishes silvery blonde haired women as pay back to woman kind.

Mother

At mother's house, the windows reflected the winter sun mother was house-proud. Behind the drapes, she skulked I could sense her.
      “Can I have a cigarette?” Charlenson asked.
Giving Charl’s one and swigging from the bottle of bourbon, I received the courage to enter the domain of mother. Vacating the car, we saw the house was bolstered with thick black boards. A dog ran at us, it snarled, the mutt was shorthaired, the dog’s body compact, and the tendons rippled. Skidding to a halt, I punched the dog in the face, the dog whined, and fell to the ground.
      “You knocked it out,” sis said.
Staring at the dog it was not moving and sis was worried.
      “I wonder if the dog belongs to mother.”
Flinging the door open and mother’s silvery-blonde hair was glossy in the sun.
      “You are so asinine look what you have done to Growler.”
      “Trust you to own a vicious dog.”
Sis scanned the ground, avoided mother's vision-spheres, and Charl’s did not lift her head. Mother's viewing-disks, as cold, as the ice clinging to the tree in mother’s front yard, lifting Growler, she paced into the den, put him in front of the fire, and stroked the dog.
      “I wish you were dead,” she said with impunity.
She zoomed close and I shrank back.
      “Ah, some things do not change now get out, I must keep an appointment, you can come and see Hanson another day.”
Charlenson and I were relieved to escape, but aware that it was just a delay, I would need to face mother and Hanson.
      “It will not be so bad next time,” sis said.

Smithson

I taught Smithson to manipulate women I educated him involving the yield to the Trees Smithson relished the education. Working side by side, we were the impeccable combination, exactly alike, and our thought processes the same. Smithson came to learn what was expected. He saddened me a couple of times concerning Lady Flarice, but I forgave him.

Mother

Growler engaged his vista-orbs, he was wary, mother sat up straight in her rocking chair, and she began to rock. Swaying the seat sounded sinister, it groaned in concordance to my fear.
      “Charlenson light the burner and make some coffee.”
Sis did what she was told to do and coming back in, sis waited for mother to give her orders.
      “Set the platter down.”
The tray was filled with cupcakes. When young the frosted-cakes unavailable to me and I wondered if it would be any different now.
      “Are you going to ask how Hanson is?”
      “How is Hanson?” Charlenson inquired.
      “You boy ask how your lookalike is?”
The word boy caused me to tremble.
      “How is Hanson keeping?”
      “He is dying and I truly wish it was you.”
      “We cannot always have what we want mother dear.”
Rocking furiously and mother grimaced. Growler cowered by my feet and he respected me he viewed my every move.
      “Charlenson take a cupcake.”
      “Thank you.”
      “You cannot have one.”
      “I am not a boy mother and I can live without your sweet-concoctions.”
Sis discharged the beverage and she glanced at the cakes on the undersized flatware.


 

 

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