Dear little beePear, please rememberWorry little about the journey, enjoy.
Hobo HeartHomicide Report-Detective McMahonBadge number : 1025August 26, 201411:34 p.m.544 NW Tarrant St.One deceased female age 26 Large entry wound to chest. Heart removed."Hey Jason what we got this time?""Yeah it's another one." the CSI officer said shaking his head "Same M.O. chest crushed ripped open heart removed. Human heart from previous deceased present at scene.""How many does this make?" the detective asked"Are we counting the one at the lake?" Jason inquired." No not yet anyway." replied Detective McMahon"Five then, but there's no way we can deny they are at least connected." Jason said to the detective squinting his eyes."Yeah I hear ya, but there was no heart present. It's his calling card there's no way he'd leave out that little detail. This guys sick it's his ritual. They may be connected, but it may be a copy cat. I'm not giving him the credit till I'm sure." The detective pulled out his lucky zippo rubbed it with his finger as he examined the apple engraving on i
Necrophiliac"You, yes you! I need your help. I'm bound by something deep inside my corrupted black soul to tell my tale of horror night by night, so wake up. *shakes your shoulders**nodding* Yes I realize you probably don't care about my demons. About the things that keep me awake all night. But there isn't anywhere you can go dear friend, so I guess you'll just have to listen. *wags finger*It was back in 92', I was just a boy about 15. My mama always said I was a naughty little boy who tried doin' all sorts of adult things way before I should even be thinking about them. I see that look on your face you fithy bastard, *laughing* no I don't mean sex. I was hornier than you'd ever believe and all the girls in my class were prettier than all get out. (Or maybe that's just how I remember them.) And I don't mean smokin' and drinkin' though I did a little bit of both. I'm referring to my obsession with death. I liked watching that show about the lawyers and cops in New York,
El arte maldito de SteinmanEl buen arte, así como la buena música, son universales. Y nada más universal que el arte producido por el alma sensible de mi querido amigo; el olvidado Milton Steinman.Millones de alabanzas eran comunes dentro de la pequeña burbuja de snobs que le seguían como rémoras intelectuales, buscando despojos de su popularidad para tener una existencia más allá de la media, aún si eso significaba no tener una identidad propia. Pero mi amistad con él era muy distinta; es más, me atrevo a decir que fui su amigo más entrañable.Cuando me refiero a que Steinman era muy cercano a mí, no lo digo con frivolidad, sino al contrario. Para la fecha en que nos conocimos, ya era un respetado pintor, ‘El Andy Warhol de nuestra década’ según los críticos… quien, sin embargo, no era más que un simple drogata atrás de la galería en la calle Armand, donde solíamos encontrarnos
On the wallThe end is near little one.