Feaster part 1

Sometimes the person sitting at your lunch table has the making for a fine serial killer. This is a fictional theoretical piece bases on a non fiction event

Feaster

      It was my first year of college. I had finished a below adequate meal in the college cafeteria. I think it might have been a rubbery burger, thin, dry fries and sugary, teeth rattle punch. I exited the air-conditioned café: trading in fifty degrees of frigid for eight plus of sticky, moist South Florida atmosphere. 

     I walked over to my campus P.O box, which stood only a few feet away at the campus mail center. I turned the digits for the combination and the small door sprung open. There was a letter addressed to me. In my lifetime: I had received very few letters. Most of them came from the folks on birthday and holidays usually with a small bill or check to help me celebrate the day with a meal, beer or anything sub fifty dollars could purchase.   

     I’m didn’t want to sound like a spoiled b*****d, I was always grateful. The letter’s return address was unfamiliar but the name was. Jackson. Kelly Jackson: the sexy receptionist ay my hometown’s local YMCA. 

     She was one year my elder, average height with darker brown skin and a bright white smile that could illuminate any blackened cavern of a man’s heart. She had a constellation of black marks on her face from a fierce battle with acne but that didn’t seem to subtract from her naturally beautiful exterior. I myself had the same war until my mid twenties and can remember skirmished with my skin. 

     I couldn’t tell  her exact weight and could never pin it down, because it fluctuated greatly from thin to thick. Every month it seemed like a different person was sitting in the spinning, elevated seat behind the long rectangular counter. I had seen a few movies with her in the past trying to move past the friendship zone but that was sadly where I would stay. With all the attention she received daily, I was nothing more than a cinema partner. That was the last of my exiting lessons from the great state of New Jersey about women.   

     My education was firmly cemented due to the action of many a female trickster. The comedy was: these girls were not even the players. The few I tried to date and when I say date I mean candy, flowers and long dark stroll in cool, breeze feed parks. 

     That was the group of women that formed me now and I am thankful. Anyway on this occasion my movie buddy felt it was her duty to keep me up on local currant event, even though I was happily gone from the Garden State and I left for a reason, to leave the past in the past but I guessed it was eating at her insides, to send me newspapers clipping of the unsettling events that took place.

But I’m gone! Who cares! Keep your swamps, farms and Heritages!

     I strolled to my dorm room, passed the in ground pool and small basketball courts. I cut through a small sidewalk path and to the front of Mu hall. That side of campus seemed empty, just a few stragglers trying to beat out the three o’clock thunderstorms. I walked into my small room and sat my springy bed. My roommate was gone, so I had the little spaced we shared to myself. 

     I stared at the white wall trying to set my mind to Jersey, then opened the long white envelope when a new paper clipped came out folded in half. There was also a letter. I don’t remember the exact wording but I will try my best to phrase: 

“Hey how are you doing Blah Blah Blah. How is Florida Blah Blah Blah? How is Yon Blah, Blah, Blah?”

      Time to describe to Yon: he was a six-foot, muscular Nigerian American and former friend of mine. We used to be best friends and destroyed many a foe on the South Jersey Steetball circuit. The course of our friendship and lives changed when He went to that little know university in Harlem: Columbia and I attended the prestigious Gloucester Country College in Sewell.

There was nothing Prestigious in a town named Sewell!

     The three of us had a love triangle without the good stuff: sexy, jealousy and that violent cliché fight the two men have over the women. Our story was: we knew her from the Y, He took her to prom and I took her to the Deptford 8 movie theater behind the mall. Neither of us got to first base. I don’t think I knew where first base.

Stinking male Virgins! We should have been sacrificed to the gods of loserdom!

I can discuss the end to Yon and me later. Back to the Letter: How is school? Blah, Blah Blah. What’s going on with you family Blah, Blah, and Blah? By the way: one of your classmates is a serial killer. I sent you the article. I gently took out the swatch cut from the Woodbury Times, which was our excuse for a local rage. It was more of a glorified pamphlet with a sports section. I had seen church bulletins that were worthier to call themselves a new source. I saw a picture of Richard Feaster with his hands cuffed and a over sized orange jump suite looking ahead stoically with the eyes of business. I was shocked at first and then feel back into the real world. I read the article:( postions of article)

     My mind to too

k me back to my high school days as a Gator in the unhallowed, mundane hallways of Gateway Regional HS. I leaned against the wall and let myself teleport backwards in time. 

Just this once! Just for kicks! Remember we are escaping the past!

      I was a Gator: a recently transferred Gator and did a stint in two Catholic School before.  I wanted to see what the public school kids were doing, so settled on a school in the district. That school happened to be Gateway Regional. 

     It was a medium sized school, bland and lifeless in every possible way. The student body wanted to be anywhere else, but they weren’t the class cutting type. It was New Jersey in the winter time, where could a student go? It was either: snowing, raining or the gloom hung in the atmosphere, weighing hard on the teenage depression. The students could not leave the campus so it was home sweet home for eight hours. 

     The girls weren’t pretty: only a handful decent and the other students in general boring. Keg parties and smoking in the Lavatories were the only events members of the mediocre student body could look forward too. It was like an un-colorful, teenage wasteland: victims of puberty doing time. I traveled the hallways in a daze. The only thought that even a rose an interest was basketball and that dream had come and gone on the ferry called hopelessness.  I drug myself through the building in a bored stupor. 

     At lunch I sat with a table of nerds and geeks, before they were cool. Randy was a missionary who recently returned from Brazil, Decker was a six-seven swimmer, Smith was an all A student, who would eventually become a Doctor. The last was Carl who computers and numbers of all sorts. The conversations were forced and clinical. There was no laughter. The smugness and conceit were almost breathable. 

      The high point was Donut day on Friday: that was when someone at the table had to bring donuts into lunch on Friday. I did it one time. My mother drove me to the cheapest, interstate donut spot on the way to school and I selected twelve under adequate, mealy grease cakes with hole. Needless to say I fell that day in the sight of the nerdish clan. I hated that table, but it was either that or the library with the Milf librarian, with the big nose, tight sweaters and short red hair.

     One day out of the blue, while in study hall, Tim came up and asked why I sat with them. He was tall, blacked haired and meaty. He was a happy go lucky type of guy who cracked jokes during class and had a line for every girl in our grade: the popular ones. We were in a few periods together when he heard my comedy routine, I spouted in class between bouts of sleep.

      In the morning PE class he inquired, why I sat with the outcasts. To be truthful, I didn’t know. Somehow, I wound up at their table though the invisible works of the universe and didn’t know if I was invited or just showed up, but was there and accepted my fate. Like an Albino Aligator. I don’t want to mislead anyone dear reader. I was not homecoming king or captain of the football team: that was not ever going to happen. I was just the kid who made people laugh with some well-timed jokes and being on the basketball team probably didn’t hurt. Yet I never sought popularity but it was a device to make the day go quicker. I was still, thin, poor and covered with acne scares but I had found my niche but knew my limits and was aware what high school was to me: just a place in time: a building to keep me off the streets and out of bed.

     Tim said to sit at his table during lunch and break bread with them. I agreed and tried to remember where they sat. It came to me quickly: at the back near the double door leading outside. In high school seating was everything: the more incognito: the cooler you were. I resided in the open with the geeks for all to see and occasionally throw food and insults and next to the table full of the internal detention candidates.

     That afternoon I waited the lunch line and bought a paper bag lunch; which was all I could afford. I never ate a hot lunch the whole duration of my educational stay. The brown bag meal consisted of a piece of fruit, a bologna and cheese on a roll and milk, but it was heaven to me. 

     I found the group of Football players and nervously sat down at the front of the round table. There was Dean the six seven three hundred pound German Neanderthal Tackle from the football team. He lived down the street from me: a good natured, jolly fellow sort of an old soul, a great person through and through. He called me Wild Dog, the name I picked up in Wilkerson’s English class. 

     There was Dave, I knew him from Spanish class, when we had gotten into an argument that almost turned physically. He had blond curly locks, wild blue eyes and slim, muscular build. Brian: my co-captain from my basketball team was a rich boy, whom I heard used to be fat and slimmed down into conceited. He had a country boy gawk planted on his face as a cowlick sloped down the front of his face and then Feaster.  

     He was the only one that I didn’t know. His first name was Rich and he was over six foot, muscular with a dirty blond mullet. He had light freckles and the Jersey I will kick your a*s Anglo expression. He always wore his football Jersey and a pair of shorts. Dave and he were joined at the hip, Dave being crazy and Rich calm. I was not forced to speak but just listened.     

     Dean was the only one from the River town, but he was not cut from that cloth as the locals. Brian was from Wenonah and Dave, Rich and Tim were from Woodbury Heights, down the street from my grandmother’s home. 

     The only thing discussed during lunch was the girls they wanted to screw, what weights did what to various parts of the body and different people they wanted to beat up. I was a fly on the wall: who ate, listen and occasionally threw a joke or validated a story of a humor happening in a class. Sometimes, I was so invisible the word n****r would slip here and there but: ‘my bad dude’ would quickly follow. In the River city the word N****r was a noun, adjective and pronoun, so the sting was not a bad one. It was forgotten about after I finished my milk.

      At the table one might have though Dean was the leader, because of his height and size but it was Feaster. He had a confidence about him, which reverberated with his words and clung to his actions. He eased back and scanned the cafeteria, while his mind traveled.

 Somewhere else. Somewhere dangerous probably. 

      Through sporadic conversation we found someone in common: his cousin Billy Burns. We both played on the freshman basketball team at Gloucester Catholic. Billy was a wild, fire haired, skinny, Gloucester boy. He appeared like a mean Howdy Doodie with a great three point shot.   

     Billy Burns was crazy and fought at the dropped of a dime. He never had a problem with me, which was rare for Gloucester boys. He always called me by my full name when he saw me.

David Josephhhhhhhhhhh!

      The last time I saw him was during a summer league basketball. My teammate was at the other end of the six foot six, black center’s ashy knuckles, struck for tossing N bombs his way. 

     Billy caught so many lefts he asked for rights, but at least he fought him. If it were not for the black player’s Mother running onto the floor after hearing whisper from Jesus. I believe doom and gloom were in his future and his dentist might have been able to afford another BMW.

Feaster laughed, “You know my cousin Bill?”

“Yeah we went to Gloucester Catholic together.”

“He said he knew you. Said you were a funny dude. I was telling him about his dude at my table.”

     From that point Feaster and I, were on speaking terms not friends but cool.

Once when I was walking around my grandmother’s neighborhood I heard a voice,

“Yo David Joseph.”

I turned worried: it was a fifty-fifty shot it was a friend or foe.

    It was Billy Burns with his had jammed in the window of an upstairs window of a two-story rancher. Feaster’s head popped into the window,

“Josephhhhhhh” he sang.

I said my hello and some other things, Blah, Blah, Blah then I was on my way to where ever I was going.

 Blah, blah, blah.

      We all served our time, did nothing great and were evicted to the street in a ceremony called graduation, which took place before the thunderstorms of all thunderstorms. After I snatched the sheepskin the water came. 

God’s buckets washing the class of 89 away!

     Jersey was a mental blip, six years pass and I get the Clipping. I read it slowly deep inside and at first felt bad for Feaster, but I hadn’t seen the fine print.

      In the summer of Ninety two, while I was in Tampa, Dave and Feasters were in Jacksonville. Rumors from the high school grapevine were they became male strippers. I imagined them in a country western themed bar, dancing off beat and stiff to an AC/DC song, while a size twelve, blonde MILF’s stuck dollar bills, in their G-strings as they ripped off their leather chaps.

      They quickly left the state of Alligators and orange groves and returned to the Heights. I heard they separated and went separate way. I tried to picture what drove two twenty year old male strippers to leave the warm beaches and tanned, female, Florida flesh and rode up the Ninety five back to the Tomatoes and Mosquito’s. 

     The first thing I thought was they screwed a good old boys wife in a cheap motel on the side of a dark Florida road. The husband caught them, stuck a gun in between their gums and commanded them to take their Yankee a*s back up north. The second scenario was also off another rumor I overheard from some alumni. There were talks of cocaine use and late night binges.    

     I sumised all the money from the male revues went to South American snow. Maybe, one day they came up short and got a visit from a Haitian drug dealer, who kicked in their door, with his gold teeth gleaming and long dirty dread locks  fell from beneath a Jacksonville Jaguar’s cap. He probably put his foot in the back of my classmate’s head and asked for the money. 

     Unable to pay, they promised him the money tomorrow. The drug dealer might have ransacked the place and took a few things. The Haitian and his friend probably beat the two and left. The third thing I heard was short and alarming. Whispers from the grape vine talked about murder and death brought the two back. 

What else would have two friends escape paradise and break apart going on their own paths?

     Feaster came back to South Jersey and had aspirations of becoming a Marie. He probably came up with that during the long ride from the Sunshine state. He wanted to be the first to fight: the first to kill. I could picture Feaster with that thousand yard stare on the battle field of some second world desert country, crouched behind a deep camel decked out in head to toes with brown camo and a hundred pound back pack, deep in the s**t.

     The story about the Feaster death goes as the following way. He returned home and started hanging with a group from the river town who frequently drank and did cocaine. In the Rivertown it seemed everyone did beer and drugs or was it drugs and beers. Ever since my younger days the town was filled with burnouts and alcoholics with broken down cars on their lawns and hate in the hearts. 

     The article said Feaster didn’t start hanging with his accomplice, until after high school. That was due to the demographic, there was no racial divide so our school chose a social divided. Feaster was a jock but his friends crime were also Burnouts, Metal head or druggies: whatever you want to name them. 

     They were not amigos in the no frills hallways of the suburban high school but were from different tribes, yet when Feaster picked up the new habit they had a common bond. The Rivertown drug circles were a hard group to break into, but Feaster was always looked up to as some sort of cul-dee-sac demigod. People would abandon themselves become disciples. Well at least that was the Feaster, I remember sitting at the table, scanning the lunch room with that vacant, empty stare.

     No one really knew what happened that late October night. The stories vary. I’m from that world so putting together the dots is not that hard. I mentally tried to put the puzzle together. This is how I think it went down…

     The owner of the Family station in Deptford New Jersey owed Feaster money: big mistake to owe any psycho addict money. The pale white horse would find them and make them pay. The bill would be settled with a pound of flesh. Feaster probably touted around loudly too anyone who would listen.

“I’m gonna get my money dude. I’m going to rob that prick!”

He probably repeated this time after time. At the coke parties: at the keg parties: passing a joint among the river clan. Each time getting braver. Each time gaining more support from his pack of druggies, as he told more tales of being ripped off. 

     One evening at the Colombia Café in the Rivertown, someone probably challenged his legacy testing the myth. That was what usually ritually what happened, when a group of men performed drunk tough guy theater for a group of females positioning themselves from Alpha to Omega. He reacted violently to the challenge.

      Maybe a pushing match ensued near the pools tables. The idea of the robbery probably Festered in his beer lodged medulla, as it was settled inside, he would get his money and his pound of flesh for the trouble. Two weeks prior to the murders he had sought out the weapon. Shotguns were not hard to find in the Rivertown

     He called on of his friends/followers up and asked him to rent his twelve-gauge shotgun. The men in the town loved their shotguns. They carried them on their shoulders, as they walked proudly through the public streets. As long as you had an orange hunting tag, a person could hoist his double barrel for all to see and fear.

      Everyone in the Rivertown had some sort of gun: it was a hunting town. In Feaster’s town the Heights: not so much. They were upper middle class kids with the Brady bunch lives and afternoon, after school activities. In the Rivertown afternoon activates were surviving and forgetting. Watching the Delaware river rush by…

     The lender probably showed Feaster the gun before after a drinking session during Half time of an Eagles game on a boring afternoon. He probably aimed it in the air and smiled thinking of all the living creatures he killed. His fingers stroked the metal shaft. When he planned to get the funds owed to him that shotgun popped back into his head like a past girlfriend. The plan was coming together as illicit plans usually do. It’s the ending that always needed work.  He paid the guy a hundred in cash.

     Feaster then needed a driver. He probably went through his mental Rolodex. Who could be intimidated enough to ask no questions and to complete the task at hand? It was pre planned but the request must seem spontaneous. He found him; his best friend. Probably first met him at a coke session at the dredge. His love struck eyes probably couldn’t hide, when Feaster approached him for a knuckle bump. The poor fool probably made the mistake that night under the influence and said he would be anything for his man crush. That day he paid the piper for the words from his foolish lips.

     October 6^th that would be the faithful day the plan would happen. He pick-up the shotgun and stored it in a duffle bag placed in a female friend’s trunk. That night, he stopped by the Columbia Cafe, downed a few drinks and shot a few games of eight ball, every once in a while checking the score of the Phillies game on the bar’s tube.

      He then asked his best friend (the driver) for a ride to collect his cash. The friend took his cold Bud to the head and followed Feaster. That sat in the car and did a few bumps of Cocaine to get hyped for the act. Feaster found the females friends car. She was inside as he popped the trunk and retrieved the gun. He put it in the back seat and climbed into the passenger seat.

“You ready man”

“Yeah dude.”

“You know how to get to Family Station? It’s on 45 in Deptford on the way to the mall.”

The Driver paused coolly and started the ignition.

“Yeah I think I seem it. Why that’s where dude had your money.”

“Had it. I’m getting my money tonight.”

The car pulled onto Columbia drive and out of the Rivertown.

      They drove down route 45 on the night that would change their nights forever. The big stir in such a little, uneventful pond. After twenty minutes of tense silence, the driver pulled up to the gas station: The Family Station in Deptford.

“Keep going. Drop me other there to the side.”

He pulled the car to the side of the road. There was no sign of the potential victim.

Feaster pulls out a baggie of coke and took big hits with driver. The white power stayed under his nose leaving a temporary Colombian frost.

“He’s probably inside. Dude I’ll be right back don’t leave no matter what happens. Okay?”

“Yeah man. I’ll be here.”

     Feaster carefully grabbed the gun from the rear seat and removed it from the duffle bag. He lightly handles the death stick already pre loaded to save time, after being at the station several times he knew the lay of the area like the back of his hand and already had the plan etched in his memory. He crept to the side. He crept in the shadows. Feaster peered into a window. The gas pumper: a medium sized, dark haired man in his thirties smoked a Marlboro Red while listening to the radio, probably some type of rock song: maybe Zeppelin, maybe Motley Crew, probably Black Sabbath. The only thoughts on his mind were the Phillies, Eagles and a slice of Pizza with sausage from Pats. 

     Feaster came though a back door he probably knew would be unlocked. He stealth fully moved inside and pointed the gun to the side of the attendant’s head. The poor, chain smoking fool never saw it coming, which was inside out mercy. With the barrel of the weapon a few inches from his ear, Feaster pulled the trigger. Brains and blood hit the other wall creating a morbid stain. The would-be robbery reached in the dead man’s pocket and pulled out the wad of money gas station attendants are known to carry. The whole time he moved with incredible speed but his subconscious absorbed it all. Every second of the murder was mentally recorded to be reviewed later, probably several times. 

     He exited into the brisk autumn night. Sprinting to the car. The same way he did during football practice: past the thirty, past the forty and past the fifty. He caught the driver off guard while he played with the radio trying to take his twisting mind off the even at hand, soothing his own conscience.

“Come on!”

He flung open the door and jumped inside. The driver pulled off quickly turning to Feaster and noticing little specks of blood on his sweaty brow. Feaster nervously exhaled, as he glared back in the rearview mirror, the scene from the living horror movie now in the past and getting smaller.

“I did it man! I blew his f*****g brain out! All over the place man!”

The driver could only look at him through the rearview.

“Dude are you serious?”

“F*****g A!”

     Feaster pulled out the knot of money and shows it to the driver who turned away, as his hands started to shake on the steering wheel. The gravity of the situation had just hit with full force, while the words: accomplice echoed in his head. He knew he had to keep a steady mind and a poker face. He was riding on a carry with a murdering maniac.

“Dude lets go back to the bar!”

I pictured the driver throwing up and pissing himself. He was not built for this type of show. 

     Feaster had the feeling of a god. He took a life and if everything went as planned he would get away with it. The plan was perfect.

The car drove down route forty-five on its way back to the Rivertown and the cult of Richie awaited his return.

Feaster walked back into the Colombia café and bought a round. All his friends were still there due to the fact: he was only gone an hour’s and the night was still in full swing. Mike came up and with a grin expecting to hear some new. Feaster shoots him back a hard grin. They sit down at a table with a picture of Molson. After an hour or so the crew was drunk on beer and a few shots. Feaster could not contain himself any longer.

“Dude let’s go back to my house”, said Mike.

     Feaster stood and drunkenly blurted Mike and whoever was in ear shot that he shot him and brains and blood were all over the place. They left the bar and went back to Mike’s house to hit a few lines and for Feaster to let Mike in on all the gory details of the night. How does one keep that in? He had to tell someone. No one can keep that inside.

 “Come on man let’s get the f**k out of here!’

The driver fumbled with the keys and skidded out of the parking lot as Feaster laughed and celebrated. Filled with fear his heart raced but then gave way to euphoria. He had killed a man that had been on his bucket list. Feaster felt joyfully orgasmic with the previous act playing in his morbid memory played with the radio looking for some Black Sabbath on WYSP. The driver shaking and nervous his eyes glued to the road. The ride back to Mikes house was a quiet one. Mike did not ask and Richie did not tell. They just listen to the music.

“I can’t believe I did it man. I blew his brains all over.”

Mike did not answer but kept his eyes on the road. A slight fear filled him even though he was drunk. He wanted to get back to his living room as soon as possible. It was only a few streets away. The Rivertown was always quiet this time of night. No action. No noise. Just dark and a occasional horn from the Texaco refinery.

The car pulled into the drive way and the two made it inside his house. They went into the living room and Michael turned on the TV. The both sat on the sofa and watched the Eleven o’clock News. Beverly William probably came on the screen, ‘breaking new in south jersey; a gas station attendant was murdered tonight hours ago.

Feaster’s hands began to tremble, as he realized this was not a bad dream. It was very real. A person lost their life. A person he knew. A person with family, friends and people whom loved them. He was now a killer of men and broke two of the commandment from the ten he was taught at CCD classes down at St. Margret’s.

“I can’t believe it man! I f*****g killed him! Brain and blood and s**t all over the place. F**k man!” 

He half laughed and half cried. What could Mike do? What could he say?

They both sat and stared at the floor model TV hoping the sport would hurry up and come on the screen.

A sinister though must have come across Feasters though process. He was a celebrity in a place that boasted none. He had become a big fish; a killer fish. They only had killers in Camden, Philly and AC. Here was Richie the land of Wawa’s and roadside tomato stands, a great white killer fish. A probably felt remorseful for a little bit, but that hunger would be calling again. The hunger he had to fill. Guilt came calling again has he said again to Mike,

“I can’t believe I did this. Why me?”

Mike and him jumped in the car for the ride back to Woodbury Heights. While in the car probably listening to WMMR, probably listening to Ozzie, Maybe Judas Priest and probably Ronnie James Dio, Richie tearfully said again as if he had not control over the actions he had performed.

“I blew his head of dude!”

Tears streamed down his eyes.

“Mike I can’t believe I did this s**t! Brain went everywhere man! Blood and f*****g guts. Why me?”

Mike could not answer, but he nervously stared ahead at the road watching for police and feeling very nervous for his friend and a little for himself.

The driver now knew how deep he was in and how the man in the passenger seat whom he worshipped had turned to a monster. His tried to remember a bar.

“Which one?”

Feaster turned to him feeling the vibes. He could feel the driver breaking.

“The same one we always go.”

Feaster stared at him a little longer, his eyes penetrating him from the side.

“Dude you okay? Dude don’t do anything stupid!’

“I’m cool man. I’m f*****g cool Rich.”

Feaster slid back and laughed to himself.

     The police could not solve the crime. It was one of the small town mysteries. A dead Gas station attended and money missing: they probably blamed some Puerto Ricans or Blacks from Camden. Murder was not a common thing in Gloucester County. Sometimes, death visited the Rivertown, but among drugs, alcohol and poverty that is to be expected.

Not that much time passed. I always wondered what made people kill again. Getting away with murder in itself is a major accomplishment. I have been told it comes with a certain rush. I know nothing about this I can only go on what I have heard from documentaries on Serial Killers. Sometimes I think that the art or murder must be a skill. How does one get away with it over and over again? How does one even do it again? Any crime. I remember shop lifting a pair of pants while at college was worse than death. I remember the fear was almost paralyzing. After getting away with the sin, I never did it again. It was horrible, I felt ill afterwards. That was enough for me. I write this to say I wondered where my dear High School tablemate got the balls to do it again. It seemed that he still had the residual from guilt and shame. 

Author's Note

Comments please......This is one of the new stories from my new book Backfeifengesicht ' You need a pipe in the face'

Reviews

[Dayran]

A new twist on the old ' so what are your plans after school? ' It does bring a reminiscence of the buddy system we enjoyed as teens and the quizzical ' so what happened to Feaster? ' It makes for quite a shock when you realize so much can take place so quickly.

I figure you got your heart in it, son. It certainly is your usual fare of interest. But as a ' coming of age ' theme it gets too rough too quickly, leaving the reader wondering where these kids come from? My perception is that we all come from the cradle and from there to a killer, takes a lot of doing. As author you could have done more on this piece to make it meaningful. Take a ' try again ' ... that's tequila with lots of milk.

[Judas Hammer]

I sent you a message...

[Coyote Poetry]

The story is amazing. You have the ability to make the situation and the characters and situation to come alive. I hope you had a good New Year. I hope you great success in 2014 in whatever you decide to do.
Coyote

[Judas Hammer]

Again thank you everyone for your reviews and comments

[Layla J Omorose]

I have to agree with the previous comments when it comes to the font size of the story. It is very small and made it a little difficult for me to read since i had to squint a little to see it (bad eyesight sometimes). I'm glad the margins are fixed so I wouldn't wonder what was going on. As far as editing it goes I didn't find a lot wrong with it. The content is good as well, just a lot happened relatively quickly. Though while a persons development into a serial killer may take a while to fully develop, the actions that happen during that time happen fast. It provided a kind of rush to the story. Actually its funny because yesterday my co workers and I were discussing the stages that serial killers go through. Like taking the life of a pet to see what it is like to take a life, even if it is an animal which is easily disposed of. Good work.

[TL Boehm]

another gritty urban tale from the master. I read for content not so much for editing - I agree with the edit comments - editing is one of those things that is kind of never over.
Its a great story - serial killers is a deep subject to explore - how someone who seems remorseful at his actions could become one - will have to be developed by the story teller - or as you said at the end - you the story teller wondered how someone gets that way.
Dialogue is solid and always your witty - cutting side makes the read a pleasure. Nicely done.

[Barbara Walker]

Well, I tried, but the font is just too small for me. I'm sorry.

[Leslie Philibert]

Despite technical problems I followed this and enjoyed it.Judas does what he does very well with smart one-liners and lots of fast action based on well observed backgrounds.(Check the spelling on your new title ! it is normally spelled Backpfeifengesicht,literally a cheek-pipe-face,someone who you have to slap !)

[Judas Hammer]

LOL thank you for you advice and the correction to the title. Thank you for the read and comments again.

[Ency Bearis]

Might be a good story but the problem is at the right margin words are unreadable, cut off, so I can't comprehend what's going on. If this will be published you will have a problem with formatting and of course with the publisher. If you submit this to Createspace for publication they will let you redo
the manuscript.

[Judas Hammer]

I fixed the format, thats for the creativespace advice. Are you on it?

[Marie]

I'll bet this is good, and I can't read it. Part of the right hand margin is missing.

[Judas Hammer]

It took me hours but I fixed it...

[Marie]

Okay, I read it. The font is awfully small; I was able to make that bigger. This is tough, exciting stuff. But you need to go through and edit it.