As if I were being followed, but that would be too easy to say. These people. It's the way someone looks at you, bumping into you more  than once, and the artificial cliché with an over observant stare. Almost obvious, they want to say what's on their mind but know that it's not time. I suppose even those trained to hide their thoughts let them slip out through their eyes once in a while. Yes, something is not right, and I fear that my time for apprehension is near.

​This was inevitable, I started all of this with the ending in mind. A man came to my door yesterday and asked if I was Paul Dawson. I slammed the door in his face before he could serve me papers or whatever he intended. At that point I expected the police to bash in the door I leaned against and crush me. Would they beat me? I don't know. Will I be raped in prison? Scary thought. How much does the world know at this point? I couldn't say. Am I afraid? Sadly, no.  
While leaning against the door, I pondered what the future had in store. After some time passed and the door remained intact, I realized that they may possibly be trying to catch me in the act, or maybe build up a better case. This is my window of opportunity, but I am not naive enough to believe that I will be free. I just have to make it go down like I want it to go down.  
I will write more soon. Hopefully my time with the free world has not come to an end so soon, but no one knows what the future may hold. In the meantime I will keep my visibility to a minimum, activity to a manageable level, and pray that the world will not find an empty handed martyr when the time comes. It is no longer about me, nor my loves.  

Shelly. All I can say is dear Shelly. Another blonde with an amazing body. Of course I have changed some aspects in this blog so it would not be too incriminating. We went to school together some time ago. Once again, an omission from the original journal entry. Actually, I have left out several things from the original because they would make it just a bit too easy, as will I continue to do so. Dates, specific locations... the names I will not change, they deserve the only thing that is left of them. But back to business.

She grew up a looker. Even when we were little, all of the boys traded their cooties for crushes when it came to Shelly. Naturally flamboyant, charming, tinctured with a sense of innocence and sincerity. She would listen, I mean truly listen to what a person had to say. As we all became older, her innocence only seemed to heighten her growing sensuality. Something about that idea of her submission seemed to drive us hormone raged teenagers crazy. That didn't really matter though, she had a taste for the older generation.

Quite a thinker too. Shelly was no fool, maybe that was her fatal swoop. Knowing too much too early, armed with all the arsenal she would ever need to make it quick and fast, never tempered with wisdom or patience. We all moved on after she dropped out, but most of us still fantasized about her for years after. Recently, I found out how easily my fantasy could manifest into reality. Sincere Shelly had become a high dollar whore.

As tempted as I was to taste, I held back. Duality must be recognized, for it is the forefather of hindsight. So I waited and listened. All these things going through my mind as I stood motionless in the closet, peering out through a small crack.

Still, she is a beautiful sight. It's funny, one might be inclined to think that this line of business would have some supernatural wear on a woman. Or maybe it is just the stereo type of what they normally look like. Regardless, there was only a woman dressed in class, filling the short, black dress well with the finest of ammunition.

She didn't take the money up front, that's not how she worked. There was no kissing, no sign of interest on her part at all. Just business. She had no idea who this guy was... but I did. To her, he was just another customer. To both of us, he was about to pay in full. He groped her ungracefully. She stood back, then slipped off her dress to reveal the curves of her body in their full glory, then unbuttoned his pants and lowered them to the floor. His head tilted back as she did what she was good at.

He only saw the ceiling as he stared up, she only saw the means to money as she worked. They both heard only one muffled shot. It took him a moment to register the pain of having been shot through the dick. Seems she might of had the better deal of the two. I pulled the silencer away from the back of her head and she remained kneeling for a moment, then fell over. He screamed. Oh, the sweet melody.

I wanted to let him live, to express how much it took two to tango. To explain to the police how he had gotten shot in the junk. Even better, to know that he couldn't hide this outing from his wife like he had all the others. I wore a simple ski mask. He had not seen my face, as I knew he wouldn't before this began. Without any resistance, I shoved a rubber ball in his mouth and then smacked him in the nose with the butt of the gun. He went down. The beauty of these kinds of motels, screaming is par for the course.

My dear Shelly. A part of me wanted to pay, to have completed that fantasy from my adolescent years. After seeing her on the floor, for what she really is, I knew I had made the right choice. Everything is right where it belongs. Duality has been sanctified in a single, silenced shot.

We shall soon see, but I sincerely doubt it. For what end  would come from tracking down someone like me, the person who does the work they wished they could do? Really... cops want to protect? Deep inside, swirling beneath the calm exterior there must be a darker reflection, struggling for power. They are desiring the respect that comes from one true source. The ability to exercise authority.

It is kind of funny. I exercise authority over the living, though they simply do not know it. My maiden voyage in the sea of beauty. As death, I come when least expected, bringing salvation and an end with nitrile gloves. Don't you see that it has always been this way. I am not the first. 

There is more than what would be let on. I am only original in my presentation and my foresight. Murder is the core of humanity, spreading like wildfire not only through everyone's imagination, but through the world. I am not the first. Consider this, look at the autism rate in one area. Your area, your school. How many children are in the "special" class in one school's zone? Five percent of the population of the school, maybe even ten?

We are the unseen seed, cultivated with societies blessing. Like those hidden away from obvious eyes, we make up a portion of you. Weeding out the weary while we slaughter the gluttonous. It has always been this way, and will continue to be so until the end of time. There must be gardeners in the green house of humanity. I simply trim the leaves.

Pity me now, or do you truly pity yourself? Unwilling to make the choice to change the world, sitting there with a remote or a mouse, or even a smart phone, thinking that there is truth or validity in the electronic expressions. Unmoving, unmotivated.
  
 I have shaped the world. I am an artist, carving the ugly parts away and chipping unmercifully at the vile. I am making this world beautiful for the children to play in. I have removed the chaff and given the talented a place to have hope. Touch my mind if you dare, from a far away and desolate locale. If you truly want to make a difference, stand up right now and take a life. This is what is necessary. Kill the evil. Not the idea of evil that media proposes, but the evil you know deep within. Go out right now and eliminate it.
    
This is the only way. This is my voice. You can stare and accuse all you want, but in the end, Mr. and Mrs. Society, I have taken the steps you were unwilling to take for the good of us all. I have suffered the sights of disease and made the decision to alter the future. Can you do the same?

Though I’m slowing down, there will come the time when I cant handle the repercussions aThough I’m slowing down, there will come the time when I cant handle the repercussions any longer and will slip into the devils own trap.  <!--more-->This is inevitable and is to come, I know, but I can't give up. Even through wrong it wouldn’t be right, to change the paths while being pushed by that paranoid whisper, the same voice that at times comforts and brings reassurance.  The simple prayer I have held onto throughout my life "Within my stumbling, let me do the right thing. What is meant to be, so I can bring down the light of your justice."
ny longer and will slip into the devils own trap.  <!--more-->This is inevitable and is to come, I know, but I can't give up. Even through wrong it wouldn’t be right, to change the paths while being pushed by that paranoid whisper, the same voice that at times comforts and brings reassurance.  The simple prayer I have held onto throughout my life "Within my stumbling, let me do the right thing. What is meant to be, so I can bring down the light of your justice."

    How to bring the storms below to a halt, I do not know. Yet that same effect would render me useless. Without those broken parts within, spinning and weaving through my mind, I would not have the courage to perform the much needed service to the world. I will not. No, I refuse to take that away from those victims, those waiting for the release of this world. Through their own actions, those that I have chosen have proven it so, their desire to meet an end. Whether with subtlety or an utter open conviction, they have made their own decisions so long ago. Far before I have ever come along and ripped the final breath from their bodies.
    
    My demise may be set in stone, ready to be written with accusing fists and heavy browed eyes, but it will only be a part of what I have planned. For certain, they will not stop what has already come to pass. One day they will see. Although it may only be at the blood stained hands of someone like me that will open their eyes enough for them to realize.

She jogged daily to keep up the facade of beauty to her deluded mind, but in truth what appeal she had ever had was gone far before her third child. Wrinkles began to set in and her act of arrogance, a failed attempt at confidence, only made her uglier. Sure, some lonely guy at the bar might not throw her out of bed the next morning, but he certainly wouldn't buy her breakfast. Unfortunately for the husband, she was married. People around her wondered whether it was lack of sex that caused the cold, callous, and indifferent attitude towards others, but most just didn't care and dealt with her as little as possible. As I watched her from the end of the bar, apparently it wasn't sexual frustration that was the rotted root.
    
    Drunkenly, she threw herself at almost any man on Thursday nights down at the local pub. She probably claimed girls night out to her husband, or maybe he just stayed for the kids. Who knows, but one thing was certain, she had pissed on the wrong cow patty today. I waited, I  watched, and I listened. In truth, this side of her was almost enough to let it go, just let her drown in her own lack of self reflection. That wouldn't be fair to her family though, I thought, they deserved a chance to start over new, away from this soul sucking gutter slut.
  
     I wore an old ball cap and throw away jacket. Besides my endeavors, I rarely drank, especially at bars, so there was not much need to conceal my identity. She wouldn't recognize her own sagging tits at this point and no one in the bar knew me. I slipped out an hour before closing and hid in the alley across the street. This kind of prostitute deserves a special ceremony, one remembering the acts of a legend.
    
    The bar lights "Open" flickered out. People had been filtering out for the last hour and from the count it seemed that there could only be a handful left inside. That's when I saw her. She had her arms around another drunk, shoving her face to his in an attempt to be sensual, but it was sloppy. Why do people like that always drink so much, I thought, as I pulled out my blade. Oh well, it was an unlucky night for both of them.
  
     They stumbled back towards her car parked on the side street. I had already used a slim jim to get into the car, pop the hood, and cut the battery cable. They got into the car, then after a minute the man got out and pulled up the hood. From behind, I brought a chloroform rag around to his face and he went down without a struggle. Too much booze, or too much juice, either way he was out for the night. As I came around the front of the car, Lannah rolled down the window, too drunk to make the distinction. Just a little punch to the jaw and she was out. No worries about bruising, they wouldn't be visible beneath the slits I carved into her precious face.
    
    The man probably awoke when he was being drug out of the dumpster and slapped into handcuffs. Dizzily, I can imagine that he could only ask what was going on. Looking over, he would see a blood stained sheet over a body next to Lannah's car. Maybe the cops would give him a little beating, maybe just throw him in the car. I don't know, and don't really care. He would be let go after the toxicology found the chloroform, as they would find in her. That is irrelevant.
  
     What they would find in missing from her would be more important. Her throat was slit with surgical precision and the intestines were stuffed mostly inside, yet some still dangled out loosely. Admittedly novice work, but efficient none the less. They would discover her uterus, both nipples, and  parts of her vagina stuffed in a stapled manila folder within the trunk. A blood streaked signature of "Jack" signed with nitrile gloves marked the outside of the container. Ode to Jack I like to think, when I remember her. Placing her ugliness inside for the world to see, layering it on top of her failed and misconceived beauty she let slip through her fingers so long ago. She is now the treasure she strived for. Another media mayhem, all centered around her.

Light that forms in the eyes. Some shine with anger, some cloud with regret, others marvel in curiosity. Regardless what signs the sparks throw, I watch it fade away and each time look to another world waiting after this one. Every single sense, I touch again when I look back. The scent of fear in its purest form, just before death. The taste of the metallic blood, splattered across my lips. Nothing can escape the murderer's  memory.
  
 I could assume it is this way for all of our kind, but I cannot say. Can one assume that everybody will see through to the artistic advantage? Live and let live or take life and suffer. Yes, I suffer with each one. No matter what ecstasy may come from the most beautiful moment, death, of another person's life, I still suffer. I will always suffer, yet they do not always suffer me. I remember and I will not forget, which is more than some of those that are closest to them might offer for  their quenched prayers. I will not lay in wait for an inheritance, I will not joy at the removal of burden, and I will not stall for the final day. Out of all of this, the most important gift I can give, I will not forget.

As a general rule, you don't do people from work. That concept can take many forms, but I felt this one was justified. I knew his route home. That was not hard to figure out, the address was on his paystub that I would sometimes distribute. One night I put a few nails under his tires so when he backed out of his parking space, they would penetrate. I was waiting on a dirt road with my lights out. He passed by and I waited a few minutes, then pulled out. It was only a few miles before I saw the emergency lights reflecting off  a dark, unlit road.

The lights blinded him and they concealed my identity. He spun the back wheel to loosen the next lug nut. Raising his hands up in front of his eyes, he couldn't make out my face. It didn't really matter, he wouldn't be able to tell anyone. My heart began to beat faster. I normally enjoy special moments like this with women, but there was a very prominent, vile anger that begin to rise in my chest as I approached him.

I imagined his internal conversation as he had jerked so many people around. I could hear his simple minded rationalization about how this was just the way of the world, how he had to be. How he had to do others before they did him. All that bs. It angered me more. No one has to be anything to make a living, they just have to show up and try. It might not be permanent and life is unexpected, but trying gets you a long way.

He said something in an annoyed tone and it turned my sight red against the darkness of the night. I produced my stun gun as I came closer and he froze. By this point I was only a few feet away. Whether he knew what was coming, I didn't know or care. Shoving the gun into his neck and pushing the switch, he fell back to the ground and tried to resist, but it was pointless. Just like his existence.

After about a minute, I let go. He attempted to get up, but fell back, weakened by the shock. I wore nitrile gloves, not rubber. You never know when someone might have an allergic reaction. Placing my hands on the sides of his head, I began to push my thumbs into his eye sockets. He thrashed with what energy he had left, but it was not enough. I kept pushing. One eyeball slid under my thumb and the other to the right. That didn't stop me, I just went deeper. Even though I wasn't punching him, I felt the power that one feels when they have a person on the ground after a fair fight and keeps on pounding. To beat them unmercifully for ever trying to attack or harm. He would not get up.

The twitching stopped. I sat beside him for a moment, then got up and lifted his body into the driver side seat. Pouring gasoline over him and the interior, I stepped back and looked at the simple menace that would never be again and smiled. This is deserving.

Looking back in my rear view, the flames licked the night air. Of course, they would realize that this wasn't an accident. They would question everyone, but I have always been exceptional at playing innocent. A small inconvenience to pay for this justice. He burned and I laughed all the way home.

I breathe hot on the nape of her neck. She quickly draws her head back towards me and I can hear a slight laugh, as if it had tickled her in her sleep. As she is slowly rousing, I caress her cheek, soaking up her innocence as she moves slowly, trustingly.

Her hands reach up to my hair, then run down the side of my face. She touches my chin and squeezes slightly, as if she was tugging on hair. She stops and I can tell that she has made the sudden realization. I suppose her boy toy had a beard or a goatee, but I am freshly shaven. I didn't really pay attention when I slid the knife into his neck.
    
I am not her lover. Just as she tries to let out a scream, I clamp my gloved hands around her throat and squeeze. This is the love that I wanted, her flailing and weak beneath my body. No matter how hard she swings, I am in control. I own her, she is mine and will always be for the rest of her life. I apply just enough pressure to keep her sounds muffled, but from there, I apply more pressure slowly. Just as they taught me so long ago, breath out as you pull the trigger, I exhale and tighten my grip on her. Her swan song so quietly sung to the choir of pillows and now she is gone. I slip away.
  
 My name is Paul Dawson. I created this site to see just how long it would take. Capture is inevitable, our kind are always "brought to justice". Unfortunately, I have just been too insightful to realize this before I began, and so I transcribe pieces of my very own, very special personal journal upon this blog site I have labeled "Blood Into Blog".

The ones labeled Blood Into Blog will come from this journal, and I am glad you have at least enough fortitude to want to walk this journey with me, at least temporarily. I am waiting in plain view to see when the hammer will fall and just how fast the system can catch. All to entertain, can we really do more in this world? In the end, those great ones before me are just stories and sliding pictures, set up to entertain the normal ones.

The ones like you that have the capability to go through this world and not take your frustrations, hatred, and anger out on the unsuspecting. So much like I was when I wrote the first entry into my journal with crimson stained, trembling hands.