[color=gray][h3][sup][sup]He should have been calmer stepping out from the parking garage; stepping away from the body and all its vultures circling and squawking and pecking. Tranquil, even, there beneath the stars smothered behind the light pollution. Each backlit window and every streetlight a kilowatt of the apathy of God. Denying Connie that peace however was something he couldn't flee, couldn't crumple up and litter with all the inconvenienced scorn one musters for a sandwich wrapper. Something internal and ill-mannered, none so polite or patient as the human bacon pestled across the concrete. Latched to his viscera like a hookworm: rasping, writhing, its every enunciation a protest, every word barbwired.

How it coaxed and cooed, that voice. Insinuated. With an eerie rationalism how it provoked him to wonder who would even miss someone like Austin McGlinn, twitchy narcissist with a gun #3,196: the other buzzcut bullies on the force? Some poor woman he bludgeoned black and blue after a few beers too many, after his team had fumbled a crucial touchdown in the fourth, or fuck, for no other reason at all than he needed the rush, needed to feel in control and there she was in the master bedroom all porcelain and dried oregano leaves and the bones of baby birds? All the dogs and the wellness checks he hadn't gotten to view down the tritium sights of his Glock for his nightly dose of masculinity? [i]You'd be doing them a favor, wouldn't you, Conrad darling?[/i] fluttered its lips, nuzzled its tongue, nibbled its teeth smooth and humid past his ear, though it always flinched just out of view, always dwelling there in his peripherals. Every protester who wouldn't be teargassed every mental health crisis not neck-stomped to the pavement, swatted to it like mosquitoes swatted to shirtsleeves, exterminated there on the black skin of the streets, every late-night reckless driver not dragged into the back of the cruiser at gunpoint not forced to suck his cock wouldn't they owe you?—[i]thank[/i] you, in the strange and cosmic ways that strangers do? And how often do opportunities like this come along, anyway, how often do you get to feed [i]and[/i] be the better person, how often does it not have to feel like brood parasitism, like vein-rape, like all you do is violate, is defile, how many mornings the cactus needles all beaded and dewy and the sky the color of tangerine sherbet how often do you go to bed and not have to perform the arithmetic, not have to wonder if you locked away enough scumbags, hunted down enough runaway monsters to pay your spiritual dues?

But that singular word jutted out at him from amongst the diatribe. Feed. Of course. That's what it always was; what it always came down to, wasn't it, stripped right down to the copper wiring of it all. He was just hungry. Just hungry. It didn't matter the images turkey-bastered into his cerebral cortex: a jerk shop from his childhood knocked over and rebuilt (a general store, a bank, a Dunkin Donuts); people he used to know, used to recognize, slouching and withering and moldering all in seconds, termite mounds of dust, puddles of flesh; wallpaper yellowing and peeling in an instant, the air blackening with flies; corrupted old home movies in vignette, memoirs in synopsis. Just more shitty memories churned out of their graves to taunt him. Didn't matter the sound of his wife's voice yodeling around in his skull, rich and lively first, dulcet, then brittling, breaking, wasting, like the sidewalks of Chernobyl crumbling in fast-forward, weeds twitching up between the cracks, a hundred fifty seasons compressed into an afternoon, nuclear fallout swallowed like a diamond. Just another ghost.

Do it, she—[i]it[/i] tantalized. Do it. Drag him between the white Cutlass Ciera and the red Jetta. (Fourteen years old. A small, weedy wildflower bouquet discovered in a trash can just outside the school.) That's right—there—where the cameras can't see. Bite him in the thigh first, then in the throat. [i]Hors-d'œuvre[/i] and [i]entrée,[/i] you see? Do it. You could frame these two fledglings. It would be so easy. Teresa can have the fat one. (Razor-thin wrinkles stenciling themselves around his mother's eyes. A drizzly, Novemberish tint to her hair. Trying to remember if that tooth was blue and loose and dead before. More bruises. The warmth of her smile despite it all.) Take them both, all of them, every sip, every drop. Say they were like this when you got here, must've been an ambush, a getaway gone wrong. (A shovel. A hole. Hands callused and filthy and burning beneath the fathomlessness of a sky fading from purple to green to cuttlefish-ink-blue. Tears fiercer and hotter than when his wife had left. Wondering whether that means he's broken. Tiny foamy waves tapping out their rhythms upon the lake shore.) Who are they going to believe, you or a couple of orphaned shovelheads who don't know their own assholes from an anthill, who are going to get quashed like roaches anyway? Do it. Then the fledglings will die the bodies will burn the late-night news footage will be scrubbed or doctored and no one will know and no one will think to question. Do it, Conrad. Take the blood he's been wasting on annual cancer checkups and twice-a-week half-chubs. Use it well. Burn it better than he ever could. (A bighorn ram laying upon a scrubby hill its wool matted its tongue and eyeballs eaten its black belly hollowed out and crawling with worms the points of its ribs flapping with scraps of fat as yellow as saltwater taffy. Why didn't God stop this, mama, why would he let this happen to something so beautiful?) Let it fuel you. Use it to show him how a [i]true[/i] predator hunts. Do it. (Standing outside on the porch mustering the courage to tell his father he'd wrecked the car. Anticipating the most horrific sound in some fifteen year old boys' whole world: leather cracking on leather.) Take his sorry excuse for a life and finally imbue it with its first iota of purpose, a seed of meaning. (Trying to go a whole month without whiskey. Succeeding.) Do it, Conrad. (Trying to go a whole month without whiskey. Failing.) You know you want it. You know you must. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. [i]Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it...[/i][/sup][/sup][/h3][/color][h1][color=firebrick]	I̷̴̸̴̢̨̧̡̡̛̒̆ͣ̑̀̓ͬ̐́ͧ̎̑͛̏̅͋̀͑̏́̂ͧ̀͊͛̅͐͌͆͂̽̋̽̅͊ͤͧ̓ͥ͐̓͂̋̐͐̽ͩͨ̐̂̑͗ͭ̾̅̏͑͌́ͣ͋̓͐̈ͪ̚̕̕͘͟͜͠͠͝͠͠͠    S̵̷̵̵̨̧̨̛ͣ̃̈́͊͋͊͒́̂͗͛̿̓́̃͑ͣ͋ͮͯ̌ͦͪ̆̓ͮͨ̍́̚̕͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͞͞Ą̷̷̏͋̉̆͗ͦ̄̈ͪ̉ͨ̑͊͐ͬ̿ͩ̂̊ͯͧ̑̍͒͋̈́ͬ͊̌̓͗̓ͨ͑͋̽ͮ̄ͦͩ̅̔̄́͢͠͠͝͏̢͟I̷̴̡̓͒͑ͦ̈ͯ͌ͭͬ̒̏̉ͫ̆ͨ̒̉ͫ͆ͩ̐̀̔̊̂͒ͭ́͜D̽ͫͯ̐ͤ̂ͯ̄̑ͭ̿ͤͥͬ̃̆̃͑ͫ͒̾̈́͐̒ͯ̆̿ͪ̂ͫ͑̔ͧ̈̒̀ͣͣ̂̈͌ͮͭͦͤ̑̚҉̸̶̵̴̶̴̧̨̡̧̧́́͞͝    F̷̊̒̂͊͋̓ͨͥͭͨ̐̋͌̐̎̈́ͯ̒̂ͦ̓ͫͥͥ̿̚͜U͊̂̄͛̏͋̋͐ͭ̒̌͆ͧ̿ͨ̌̐̽̏̐ͧ͊ͦ͊ͪ͛̒ͯ͂ͮͬ̒̄ͧ̎̎̔̂͆ͪ̇̔ͤ͆ͤ̈̾ͦ̽̊ͣ̈ͧͯ͆͂̏ͩ̅̍̋ͤ́ͧ̈́ͪ͆͑ͯ̏̚͜͟͠C̡̛͆͐ͪ̓ͥ̾̍ͥ̋ͩ̔ͨͩ͆̓ͣ̇̈́̊̔̄̈́͆͒͛ͬ̈́͒̈́ͤ͗ͧ̔͑̐̊̈̂̂͆̍͛̆͆͗ͩͣ͌̄ͯ̓̎̏ͯ̀ͤ̔̈́̈́̓ͨ͐̃́̎ͣ͘͠͡҉̷̀͜͠Ǩ̶̴̵̨̢̢̡̛ͯ̏ͪ̇ͮͪ͒̿͋ͧ̑̍̋ͯ͛͑̄͆ͩͩ͋̉͐͋ͧ̽̚̕͘͜͢͢͞͡͞͡I̴̐̊͒̎ͣ̄̎̌̒͗͊̾ͥ̉̈ͮ̈̐̐͆̽͊ͧͬ̂ͤ̾͢͏̸̷̴̴̸̧́́͢͜͠҉͜Ň̸͌̈́͛̿̉̈ͨ͛͒̄͊̎͛̃̂ͥ̔̃̍͆͆̎̽ͤ̇̏̐̚G̵̢̨̛̋͗̈́̂̋ͥͪ̔ͧ̂̌͛ͬ̎ͤ̾̋̓̾ͨ͒͊ͦ̎͛̀̓ͧ̄ͧ̓ͧ̓̀ͤͤͥ̈́ͧͮ̔̉͊̃ͫ̇͒̒̑͗ͪ̈͌̔́́̚̕͞    D̷̷̸̴̶̴̡̧̨̛̛ͨͥ̈́ͭ̐ͨ̑ͨ͋̑́̓̆̑ͬ̉̌͊͐ͭ͋͊͒ͪ͋́́ͣ͂̾̽̏̆̏̅̍̃ͭ̍̉ͦ̏ͬͣͦ̎̃́̈ͯ̔̃̉͒̈̌͌ͦ̍ͤ̽̉ͫͫͣ̀ͫ̈́͋̑͂͐ͨ̾͌ͦ̒̽͊̊̌͋̽͌̓̏̓͐ͭ͑ͮ̏̀̚͘͘͘͟͢͢͞͞͡O̓̋̑ͥͭͪ̄͞͏̀̕͜    I̚҉̴̶̴̶̢̢̡̛̀͘͝͡͝͏̡̛͢͡͠Tͨ̿͂ͨͮ̑̃ͤ̓̐̓̊̋ͩ͋̐̓͌̈́ͮͩ̾͊̊̿̾̓͌͑́̐̄ͦͮ͐͆ͬ͑͗̀͋ͫ͒͆̐͋̏͌ͫ̚҉̸͠[/color][/h1]