Here is my re-written prolouge.
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The night was dark and dreary. Not a single star in the sky. No moonlight to guide his path. The killer, dressed in his black hooded robe, made his way down the streets of the oaks. The Oaks was a quiet residential neighborhood, filled with middle classed residents, of Ville Platte, Louisiana. The lightning illuminated the night sky casting beautiful shadows of the hooded bandit. He always admired the immense power of severe thunder storms. He pulled his hood fully over his head, as the rain began to make its way down. He pulled out, from his cloak pocket, a compact digital camera, and attempted to capture a photo of the lightning bolts that blasted through the sky. He was a natural photographer. “I’ll add this to my collection at home.” He said to himself. Proud of the natural wonder he just captured through his lens.
He propped himself up against the stop sign at the corner of Norward and Sue Streets. He thought about the victims. About the pictures that filled his cork board on the wall in his basement. He only attacked after midnight, and as a general rule it had to be a stormy night. March was the perfect month for attacks in the Deep South. Thunder storms were frequent and violent. He used a photo shop style program to make collages of his victims. The background of the collage was pictures of stormy weather captured before the time of attack. Each particular background reminded him of every unique innocent victim. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was cleaning the city out of messengers for the horrible ring he was once a part of.
It was a shame that innocent people had to die, and that his art work was a result of their pain. As an artist, his main goal, was to combine photos of human pain with the pain that Mother Nature inflicted upon her people. Many times the background of his photos was of damage caused by the storm. Other times they were of the actual storm in all its force, the lightning, the clouds, the wind in the trees, the fallen signs on the side of the road. How beautiful he thought.
The boy’s name was Brandon Conner. As with all the victims, he was not technically a boy, he was in his early twenties. The killer watched his every move for close to a month. He knew when his mother left on business. He knew what time he got home from class. He also knew that Brandon had been a starting quarterback for his high school football team before he graduated. A stunning good looking young fellow thought the killer. He knew Brandon worked at the grocery store a block away from his home. He knew he was making only minimum wage to sweep floors, and clean up after closing time. Most of the boys caught up in the ring did what they did for the money. Usually five hundred dollars cash per run.
Each delivery was accurate, and timed according to the mail carriers schedule. The leader, whose face was never seen, by the messenger had everything planned out. The documents to be delivered were in a thin yellow envelope with specific instructions of date, time, and location of delivery. The messenger didn’t receive payment, until he picked up the conformation slip placed inside of the mail box of the delivery location. It was all innocent. The messenger didn’t even know what was being delivered, or what type of work he was doing. The five hundred dollar cash prize was all that mattered.
Being an ex-member, and at one time assistant to the leader, the killer knew what kind of danger the messenger was getting himself into. The boy would be killed eventually, if not by him, then by the leader. The messenger was also not aware of the people he placed in grave danger, after he delivered the documents.
The rain continued to bear down on his back. The back pack, swung over his shoulder, was getting increasingly heavy. He glanced at his watch, and prepared to make his move. It didn’t matter that this was his fourth victim, his stomach still turned with nervousness, every time another victim was taken. He calmed his thoughts with the fact that his cork board would have another addition to it, another masterpiece, another work of grand art.
He peeled himself away from the cold wet stop sign, and proceeded towards the home of Brandon Conner. He watched as the light from his bedroom went completely black. He knew just what door had trouble locking, and how far that door was from Brandon’s room. When his parents were away, he slept in his mother and father’s bedroom. He pulled the leather mask from out of his shoulder bag and placed it over his face, and slipped on the bulky leather gloves. As he walked, his shoes swished, as a result of the rain that accumulated in them. Deep breath lets do it he told himself.
He jumped the fence leading into the back yard, being careful not to make any noise. He slowly and quietly approached the back door, and pushed it open. The loud sound of the thunder above created a mask to the sound the door made when he entered. He crept down the hall looking in every corner taking in everything the nice house had to offer. Finally he arrived at Brandon’s door. He placed the knife in his right hand, and pulled the door open with his left. Brandon didn’t move when the killer entered the room. The killer’s breathe now became labored. The sounds could be heard a mile away coming from under the mask. He pulled out his camera again and said “Ahh a deep sleeper” almost to himself. Brandon still without movement, he managed to capture of few pictures of the young good looking broad in front of him.
Suddenly, due to the flash of the camera, which is what the killer wanted, Brandon awoke.
“Who are you and what do you want from me?”
The killer remained quiet. and Brandon asked louder this time, the same question.
“Don’t worry little guy. You won’t remember a thing that happened this night.” The killer was now approaching him with extreme force.
Before Brandon could move he jabbed the sharp knife into his stomach. Brandon sat straight up in his bed. Blood now pouring out like a fountain in Italy. His hands fell across his stomach in effort to stop the constant pouring of blood. He yelled into the silent stormy night.
“Why!”
The killer, thrilled with Brandon’s pain, pulled out his camera again snapping several shots of the slain boy in bed with blood gushing out violently.
The killer pulled him down by his thick hair, and placed his bag on the floor. He stooped to pull out yet another mask along with leather restraints. He placed the mask over Brandon’s head. Brandon did not put up much of a fight. His face now pale, and skin quickly turning clammy and cold. He tied Brandon’s feet up to the footboard of his bed, followed by his hands in the same fashion. He paused for a moment capturing even more pictures of Brandon’s misery. He cut the rest of Brandon’s clothing off of him, with is blood covered knife, and used that same knife to split his penis down the middle of his shaft. Another jolt of pain sent up Brandon’s lifeless spine. He managed a slight whimper. He applied a leather covering over the now split penis, and used the long leather stings attached to the cover, to tie it up to the ceiling fan. Again more pictures.
Job well done he thought, as he created the last piece of his majestic art work. He laid a gift box on the top of his chest. The box was purple and blue with a red bow around it. No words. Not even a message tag. A few more pictures then he left the room, after packing up the remaining items he needed, and flipped the switch to the ceiling fan turning it on. The last whimper of pain Brandon would ever make was released.
***************************
The night was dark and dreary. Not a single star in the sky. No moonlight to guide his path. The killer, dressed in his black hooded robe, made his way down the streets of the oaks. The Oaks was a quiet residential neighborhood, filled with middle classed residents, of Ville Platte, Louisiana. The lightning illuminated the night sky casting beautiful shadows of the hooded bandit. He always admired the immense power of severe thunder storms. He pulled his hood fully over his head, as the rain began to make its way down. He pulled out, from his cloak pocket, a compact digital camera, and attempted to capture a photo of the lightning bolts that blasted through the sky. He was a natural photographer. “I’ll add this to my collection at home.” He said to himself. Proud of the natural wonder he just captured through his lens.
He propped himself up against the stop sign at the corner of Norward and Sue Streets. He thought about the victims. About the pictures that filled his cork board on the wall in his basement. He only attacked after midnight, and as a general rule it had to be a stormy night. March was the perfect month for attacks in the Deep South. Thunder storms were frequent and violent. He used a photo shop style program to make collages of his victims. The background of the collage was pictures of stormy weather captured before the time of attack. Each particular background reminded him of every unique innocent victim. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was cleaning the city out of messengers for the horrible ring he was once a part of.
It was a shame that innocent people had to die, and that his art work was a result of their pain. As an artist, his main goal, was to combine photos of human pain with the pain that Mother Nature inflicted upon her people. Many times the background of his photos was of damage caused by the storm. Other times they were of the actual storm in all its force, the lightning, the clouds, the wind in the trees, the fallen signs on the side of the road. How beautiful he thought.
The boy’s name was Brandon Conner. As with all the victims, he was not technically a boy, he was in his early twenties. The killer watched his every move for close to a month. He knew when his mother left on business. He knew what time he got home from class. He also knew that Brandon had been a starting quarterback for his high school football team before he graduated. A stunning good looking young fellow thought the killer. He knew Brandon worked at the grocery store a block away from his home. He knew he was making only minimum wage to sweep floors, and clean up after closing time. Most of the boys caught up in the ring did what they did for the money. Usually five hundred dollars cash per run.
Each delivery was accurate, and timed according to the mail carriers schedule. The leader, whose face was never seen, by the messenger had everything planned out. The documents to be delivered were in a thin yellow envelope with specific instructions of date, time, and location of delivery. The messenger didn’t receive payment, until he picked up the conformation slip placed inside of the mail box of the delivery location. It was all innocent. The messenger didn’t even know what was being delivered, or what type of work he was doing. The five hundred dollar cash prize was all that mattered.
Being an ex-member, and at one time assistant to the leader, the killer knew what kind of danger the messenger was getting himself into. The boy would be killed eventually, if not by him, then by the leader. The messenger was also not aware of the people he placed in grave danger, after he delivered the documents.
The rain continued to bear down on his back. The back pack, swung over his shoulder, was getting increasingly heavy. He glanced at his watch, and prepared to make his move. It didn’t matter that this was his fourth victim, his stomach still turned with nervousness, every time another victim was taken. He calmed his thoughts with the fact that his cork board would have another addition to it, another masterpiece, another work of grand art.
He peeled himself away from the cold wet stop sign, and proceeded towards the home of Brandon Conner. He watched as the light from his bedroom went completely black. He knew just what door had trouble locking, and how far that door was from Brandon’s room. When his parents were away, he slept in his mother and father’s bedroom. He pulled the leather mask from out of his shoulder bag and placed it over his face, and slipped on the bulky leather gloves. As he walked, his shoes swished, as a result of the rain that accumulated in them. Deep breath lets do it he told himself.
He jumped the fence leading into the back yard, being careful not to make any noise. He slowly and quietly approached the back door, and pushed it open. The loud sound of the thunder above created a mask to the sound the door made when he entered. He crept down the hall looking in every corner taking in everything the nice house had to offer. Finally he arrived at Brandon’s door. He placed the knife in his right hand, and pulled the door open with his left. Brandon didn’t move when the killer entered the room. The killer’s breathe now became labored. The sounds could be heard a mile away coming from under the mask. He pulled out his camera again and said “Ahh a deep sleeper” almost to himself. Brandon still without movement, he managed to capture of few pictures of the young good looking broad in front of him.
Suddenly, due to the flash of the camera, which is what the killer wanted, Brandon awoke.
“Who are you and what do you want from me?”
The killer remained quiet. and Brandon asked louder this time, the same question.
“Don’t worry little guy. You won’t remember a thing that happened this night.” The killer was now approaching him with extreme force.
Before Brandon could move he jabbed the sharp knife into his stomach. Brandon sat straight up in his bed. Blood now pouring out like a fountain in Italy. His hands fell across his stomach in effort to stop the constant pouring of blood. He yelled into the silent stormy night.
“Why!”
The killer, thrilled with Brandon’s pain, pulled out his camera again snapping several shots of the slain boy in bed with blood gushing out violently.
The killer pulled him down by his thick hair, and placed his bag on the floor. He stooped to pull out yet another mask along with leather restraints. He placed the mask over Brandon’s head. Brandon did not put up much of a fight. His face now pale, and skin quickly turning clammy and cold. He tied Brandon’s feet up to the footboard of his bed, followed by his hands in the same fashion. He paused for a moment capturing even more pictures of Brandon’s misery. He cut the rest of Brandon’s clothing off of him, with is blood covered knife, and used that same knife to split his penis down the middle of his shaft. Another jolt of pain sent up Brandon’s lifeless spine. He managed a slight whimper. He applied a leather covering over the now split penis, and used the long leather stings attached to the cover, to tie it up to the ceiling fan. Again more pictures.
Job well done he thought, as he created the last piece of his majestic art work. He laid a gift box on the top of his chest. The box was purple and blue with a red bow around it. No words. Not even a message tag. A few more pictures then he left the room, after packing up the remaining items he needed, and flipped the switch to the ceiling fan turning it on. The last whimper of pain Brandon would ever make was released.
