from: Sir Edmund Plovos 7/19/00 ::: 8:43:07

Criminal record sealed after eighteen -- memories of youth are limited by this one uncommonly profitable, lenitive law. One title I savor (subject to no power but my own) more than any other: conductor. The caboose leads; wheels are oblong, causing cars to tremble and steel to cough grinding complaints; smoke ascends with colored tendrils caressing the blackest scrapings of hell; the locomotive eludes view. Few could not recognize my train, disorderly, begging for derailment with its uncontrollable speed, but the thought remains mine. Now of age some illusion is employed to convince the gentry of my origin from the right side of the tracks; unfortunately trains sometimes blast through crossings, making short work of any obstruction. Despite unerring guidance I sometimes meet the unexpected, and now is one such time, as a member of your flock collides. Nugent hunting ripped off one of the many scabs of my childhood memories, letting forth a crimson trickle of air-guns and weekends spent alone.

The rifle I owned was accurate, never failing to force an ejaculation of down (resembling hearty, colored snowflakes) from feathered victims, who would fall to the ground while mellow drafts set to toying with their shattered coats. 600 feet per second meant the .177 caliber projectiles were sometimes inadequate to fell my prey, so I would set upon the wounded and lower my boot over their warm mass (pressing into their bodies such as bricks set on wet mortar), crushing and popping the feeble structure enclosing brain and heart, and shudder with bliss as the last struggles of life flapped the wings up against my sole and down against the earth--a hopeless flight to death. The innards and marrow release one of the most peculiar and genuine smells, quickly eclipsing Hoppe's rifle grease and wafting forest potpourri (dead leaves, wood, stone, dirt), the odor would encompass my nostrils such as tequila down my gullet--smooth, inoffensive, quickly intoxicating.

I delighted in raping nature of all her creatures, while scoffing at bag limits, day and time restrictions, methodology of stalk, or any other such nonsense The Department of Natural Resources had expected me to follow.

Game officials listed my practices as unlawful "wanton waste", I preferred orgasmic massacre. Some may hunt for sport, others for utility, fewer still for population management, but I shall hold no reticence in expressing what my intent, and that of many must be: murder for pleasure.

Still thinking, Sir Edmund Plovos