Kevin Killian, p.3


The job unfinished. The killer's POV. Long hair blowing in the wind
(nameless) an excellent target for bazookas. Thunderous goblin music.

At the moment between now and faling asleep the ghosts rush in. I'm
45, time for ghosts, the dead fluttering their scarves

like Isadora. Duncan. Snap. Head popped off, sails across the screen
like popcorn fresh in the big glass warm box, boy's nose pressed
against it watching

to the thunderous goblin music. Grabs the boy, curiously not kicking,
perhaps a bundle of rags, and drags him up the side of the house

aross the roof, avoiding the mansards

down the other side of the house. Through the east windows the
beautiful woman is writing her name on a misted porcelain surface
with her last breath

I blow on it, the text disappears, the name of the killer.
Up over the house. "I'll call him my 'HOUSE BOY," the killer laughs,
to thunderous goblin music. Maybe it sounds more realistic in
Italian. I hate it when they can't afford real babies or boys

and have to use dummies made of rags, you always know
that's not a baby

the cold air fills the hot wet room like an eraser blanket, now I
can't read the killer's name. All she can write is H

and looked at it another way it is I

and upside down, kicking, V

I am reading these signs of the infidel hates me