Excerpt
The riffling, rumbling, and idle chatter of the impatient audience slowly fades when I approach the podium, and the room falls silent as I begin reading;

“Craig was careful to steer clear of street lights when he turned into the cul-de-sac on Desouris Lane. He hummed a classical tune by DeBussy as he slipped onto the porch and rang the bell. He liked to think of himself as a happy man, one who didn’t see the necessity in worrying as it only gives you wrinkles before your time. He flashed a toothy smile when the porch light came on, because he knew that a smile always put them at ease.

It was late, half past eleven when the doorbell rang, and Roberta, a robust, warm-hearted woman, though nervous about opening the door to anyone that time of night, took an instant liking to the young man standing on her porch. While observing him through the peephole, she was captivated by his boyish features and charming smile. He looked to be about twenty-one, the same age as her Bobby, whom she hadn’t heard from in over a year now.

This stranger with the face of an angel, ringing her bell in the middle of the night, claiming to have news from her grandson, prompted Roberta to immediately let down her guard, and under the false assumption that everyone is as well-intentioned as she, let the man in.

He flashed that thousand-watt smile as he stepped in and backed away, allowing her to close and lock the door. He was still smiling as he helped her to her recliner, and pulled the tattered old hand-made quilt across her swollen knees, and when Roberta asked what the urgent news was from Bobby, that smile was the last thing she saw before the young man pulled out a switch blade and slit her throat...”

The excerpt from my book, "Dark Images" a rousing success, culminates in a standing ovation from the thousands of attentive listeners whom society deems literary geniuses, hooting and hollering, whistling and clapping.

It is strangely exhilarating knowing that I have just outlined the perfect murder, confessed to an audience of thousands, all of whom are oblivious of the fact that, this perfect murder will in fact take place later tonight.

More often than not life will sneak up and proceed to kick the crap out of you. So why should I feel guilty about the choices I've made? If I don't use this gift somebody else will.

Poor grandmother... Bobby was always her favorite, the spoiled, selfish little prick! She never loved us girls as much. I always knew that one day he would be the death of her. I just didn’t know that I would be the one wielding the blade.

How will they react when they pick up tomorrow mornings paper, turn on the early morning news? Will they fear for, sympathize with me? Perhaps New York's finest will offer round-the-clock protection while they probe the underbelly of society for potential suspects.