I am blank.
Empty.
Soulless.
I have no place in my heart for love.
For compassion.
My heart yearns only for malevolence.
I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds.

I was born different
Raised right, was loved
But still--> I'M ME
The truth is this:
You won't understand me
And you never will

Let's begin with a definition of evil. Mine is a simple, psychologically based one: Evil consists in intentionally behaving in ways that harm, abuse, demean, dehumanize, or destroy innocent others - or using one's authority and systemic power to encourage or permit others to do so on your behalf. In short, as my friend Irving Sarnoff says in his aphorism, "Evil is knowing better but doing worse." -- Philip Zimbardo, The Lucifer Effect *~* Kill *~* *~* Amalia *~* *~* LeClair *~* *^* I force my lips into a frown and look down so my dearest sister can't see my vacant eyes. She's just finished telling me some kind of infuriating story, all about how the person she thought had the perfect lead on our father's killer stood her up or something. I'll admit, I wasn't listening at all. Not even half listening because this has all gotten so routine. She's obsessed. She needs a hobby. I suppose if I had the capacity to worry for someone other than myself, that I'd worry for her.... wonder if she's gotten enough sleep or even if she's slept more than three hours at a time any point this year.... if she eats regularly, if what she eats is anything substantial, etc.... maybe that's just the tiny, nagging part of my brain that wonders what it'd be like to be a good person, no, a normal person. She's adorable, though. A little wannabe hardboiled detective.... I wonder what she's going to do if she ever finds the man who put a couple bullets in dear old daddy. An eager wondering, I'm always left asking myself if my little sister has the stomach to carry out half the heinous things I'm sure she's thought about in regards to daddy's killer. A gambler would probably bet no, but call it wishful thinking on my part.... I want her to. I'd be right there, encouraging her to give in to her heart's darkest desires. Does that make me a bad person? Well, probably not that.... I'm pretty fucking reprehensible on the human scale of morality. But, I'm not a person. Not really. I'm a bug-eyed monster lurking in human skin stitched together like Jame Gumb's woman suit. I don't think she's caught on to the fact that I'm not even bothering to pretend that I'm listening at this point. I look up to see her lips still moving and the same droning voice escaping her lips. A string of gibberish here. "I was so close" there. Her eyes are damp and glossy, tears stream down her face. My eyes are wide, looking upwards at her, memorizing her face so I can recreate it should I ever need it. Despite present company (not you, lovely.... or maybe because of you) I drift away from where I to where I >want< to be. Stalking the night, primed and ready for someone, preferably one of the homeless pieces of trash that litter this fucking city, to make themselves an available target. The hunt, the pursuit, doesn't really interest me. The feeling of their life exiting their bodies by my hands gets my blood pumping, but the real appeal.... the thing that really drives me to this (outside of wanting to feel your reactions of course), is choosing. Looking at the people go about their days right up until they're staring down their own mortality in the form of a meek, unassuming woman. I'm sure that when they see me the first time, they think nothing of me. Why would they have reason to suspect anything? I kind of wish I could be in the opposite position. Hypothetically speaking of course, it'd reaffirm the bullshit concept of karma if it actually did happen. But, to be on the opposite end of the situation, I've always wondered what goes through their heads in the moments before the lights go out. Do they wonder >why Maybe they resign themselves to the truth. There's >no< reason for of it. Well, there is one reason. Because I want to. Don't think they'd accept that though. Which makes it all the more appealing. I'm not one to try to find any common ground with humanity, but in all honesty, we're all the same under the skin. People think that deep down, we're animals but animals only kill for survival. Man is the cruelest animal, if you'd even consider us animals. We're monsters is what we are. All of us, from the children to the adults to the elderly. Even you, oh heavenly father who watches over my every move. After all, weren't we made in your image? My dear sister finally catches on. She whimpers out, "Are you even listening to me?" To which I say back with a wide smile, "Yes." Good talk. Austin Fernando. I know I'm most certainly not Maxwell Dane, and I'm sure you must be wondering where he is, though I'm sure you'll say you don't care because that's your aesthetic right? You're too cool to care, isn't that right? You don't care at all, and I don't really blame you. Familiarity breeds contempt after all, does it not? So, instead of coming right at your throat, trying to burn you to ash, I just have one simple question. From the bunnyman himself. Aren't you tired? Tired of having to project yourself, your accomplishments, everything about yourself for everyone's benefit? Tired of playing second fiddle to a loudmouth drug addict whose prior claim to fame was being fifth fiddle in a successful stable? Or maybe if you want to get more recent, acting like a stereotypical mexican and fighting a black man for "brown pride"? Tired of throwing your chips in with Luca Arzegotti in general? Was that your idea, or his in the first place? Maybe it was Zane Kingsley's. Oh, yes. I see Zane, he sees Zane. There's more to your relationship than you'd want to claim, isn't there? You'd want us to believe everything's smooth sailing there, right? That you trust the man with your career, your livelihood. But I can see it your eyes, Austin. I see a lot. You don't trust Zane. You don't like him. But still, you put up with him riding your coattails just like Luca. Constantly overshadowing you, the man who's a solo champ but can't get any respect as a singles competitor. Who not even the fat failure Robbie Bourbon can muster up any respect for. Does that sting? That not even people who are so below you care enough about you to even feign respect for their clear superior? Oh, I'm sure you have the prepared answer of "why should it sting?" but I'm asking Austin Fernando the man, not Austin Fernando the celebrity-- no, I can't say that with a straight face. Austin Fernando the lackey. I want you, Austin. The real one. Not the fake PR stunt of a wannabe celebrity. To answer me. Does it sting? Are you bored with this like you say you are? You're not having fun anymore, putting people in their place? How do you feel when you step into the ring? When all of your harsh words are on the line? Do you ever think about what it might be like if you have to eat every single syllable? How your nose will be rubbed in it like a dog's in shit when its being potty trained? Because you're still learning, aren't you? Is that why you decided to team with Luca Arzegotti? You thought the XWF's perennial underachiever would be able to teach you something about cultivating that couldn't care less attitude of yours? Maybe he'll teach you how to maybe be a superstar if the talent pool's shallow enough? Maybe that second lesson holds some weight since the XWF talent pool currently has a no diving sign next to it and you're the top prospect. The man grabbing onto the ledge. Pulling himself up with all of his might, while the 200 plus pound anchor that is Luca Arzegotti threatens to sink him down to his level of mediocrity posing as mental and physical superiority. He doesn't care, and neither do you, right? Like I asked earlier.... aren't you tired? Do you feel your shoulders start to give out under the weight of Luca? Meanwhile he sits atop you, soaking in the glory that should be yours? Getting catapulted back to semi-relevancy on your hard work? Do you ever flashback to the other factions you were in, where you were always the man with the brightest future overshadowed by flashes in the pan? You're still here. You survived Defiance. You survived the Heyman Alliance. You survived all of the groups who were stealing your buzz. Who made it as far as they did off your effort. Your perseverance. Your blood, sweat, tears. All of it is you. And yet what do you have for your work? The tag titles aka a monument to your inability to break out of your rep as a man who needs stables. And an X-Treme championship that you've defended in matches designed solely to pad your stats. I see you, Austin. Maxwell sees you. And he wants you to know, he's your hero too. Your engel. You just have to let him. If you want, you can consider this match your very own baptism. When he spills your blood, it can be a rebirth. You will be accepted by us. Not for what you can do for us. But for you. We can save you, Austin. But only if you want to be saved. What did I do? Killed them all, of course.

How many Americans have you killed today?