I am the misconceived unconnected son of an ordinary woman who baked as many cakes as your Mom, loved me as much. My father went to war, saved the nation, came back shell shocked with medals and memories he cannot tell. Something went wrong with me. It was not the boyish pranks, soap on your windows, Halloween T P on your house or car. I am evil behind a mask, the guy who breaks into your house, microwaves your cat, leaves a note, “I just had to see.” I feel no remorse, it’s all good fun. I’m the unknown gunman of the drive by shooting, hitching a freeway, waiting with a rifle, dropping a cinder block from an overpass… Tense, clean-cut, overly polite, the All-American type at the 7/11. I pack a 38, take a bus to Nashville and murder six people in the mall for the thrill of it, the fun, the fame. I am the unexplained American dream gone nightmare destined for the black print of the newspaper — The brute in us all, the reason you bolt your door at night.
*Cover Photo by Gwyn Henry