I love this guy, it's almost as if we're related, lol.

I still can’t believe that having every news media in the state showing this man’s face and car wasn't at least a subconscious call to arms for anyone so inclined. What other reason could there be, but to incite a perfect storm of violence directed specifically at one so deserving?

They were pushing us to hunt him down, to give him his just reward and while they may complain all they want in their later headlines at our “inhumane” cruelty, this was their intention, indeed this was their very goal. They have the gall to call us immoral as they pander to the beast within us all.

After a few more days of intense preparation we felt ready to go. We had driven up to the area and scoped out several deserted barns that would work perfectly. They were close by, but isolated, exactly what we needed. We drove by his small clapboard house during the day, but his car was always in the driveway, with a lonely swing set deserted out in back.

Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa...

On the evening of the day that we had chosen for the deed, we drove back up to his house, but on this most propitious of moments, the car wasn't parked in the driveway. We decided that we should cruise the nearest taverns, like hawks circling their prey, to see if maybe he was trying unsuccessfully to drink away the pernicious malevolence that he had become. The truck was rumbling along as we slowly drove by those ghastly little buildings, looking out the windows at the very worst of the rural American West.

After an hour of driving around, (with nary a pig to carry in the back) we happened upon his beat up old car parked in front of a forlorn tavern called “The Welcome“. Dusty and dirty, with that look of desperate poverty that emanates from every building in every town in the area, it was a symbol of all that is wrong in modern day rural life.

No sign of Grant Wood in anything here, just pernicious ugliness oozing from every board. We sat there for less than a minute when he unsteadily came out the front door and stumbled into his car.

It was an instantaneous decision on my part to jump out of the truck, rush over to the passenger side of his vehicle and jump right in. Sometimes I surprise myself with these quick and very brave actions, it reminds me of what I once was, young and full of fire.

“Drive or I’ll shoot you!”

“What is this?

“Shut up! I said drive. And you’d better drive slow and careful. Do you have a gun?”

“No, I don’t have a gun. What is going on?”

With the sun setting in the bright orange sky and Jack following us closely behind, we drove toward our pre-chosen destination as easy as could be. I felt elated that it had gone so well. My quick, dare I say youthful, reaction had given us the element of surprise that the situation required and here we were about to fulfill our destiny, one scream at a time.

I’m not sure, but in my overly confident reaction to the situation having gone so well, I could have inadvertently let down my guard; he suddenly slowed the car down, opened the door and jumped out onto the road. I fired several times at his running figure, trying not to kill him, still hoping that we could continue on with our plan. I didn't want to get this close to my dreams only to have another boring shooting sans the ensuing fun.

But he kept running, so I kept shooting. I jumped out of the car and caught up to him in the dirt. He was lying on the ground bleeding from several holes in his body and asking what had he ever done to make me so angry. It was at that moment that I completely lost it, here was this lowlife who so deserved my wrath and through his innate selfishness he had spoiled my noble design. It was at that moment that I pulled out my knife, jumped on him and began stabbing him in an absolute frenzy.

His screaming quickly died down, but I was so mad that I just kept hollering and thrusting the knife into him until long after he was gone. Jack pushed me off his lifeless body and I rolled over onto the ground, still stabbing the dirt maniacally and yelling gibberish at the moon. Some people witnessing my display of well deserved anger might have thought I'd lost my mind, but I was just frustrated at having been foiled in my awesome plans again.

“I think he’s dead.”

“This stupid, worthless scumbag! Now he’s wrecked everything! Look at him, what good is he now?”

“There are a million of them, we’ll find another.”

“I don’t want to find another! All that planning and he’s gone and wrecked everything!”

“Let’s just go drive his car off into the bushes and go out dinner, it’s no big deal.”

So, still carrying the knife, covered in congealing blood, smeared in dirt and looking like something out of an ancient tomb, I walked dejectedly back to his car. The front doors were wide open and the overhead light was glowing brightly in the dark. For the first time, I looked into the backseat and saw an apparition, a tiny being from another world.

“Jack, you better come and take a look at this. We have a real problem here.”

Sitting absolutely quiet in the back seat was a little girl about seven years of age. She was a tiny thing, with long blonde curls, who suddenly had a crimson phantom hovering over her, the boogieman from her worst nightmare had walked right into her life. As I stood there glowing bright red in the dome light she just stared right at me, her eyes wide with complete and utter terror.

For a split second the universe closed up and we were the only two people in the world. Our beings had crossed a chasm so wide that I almost felt I had left this life and instantly become someone else. I stared back at her knowing that this night had gone from bad to worse. The man had jumped out of the car leaving her to a horrendous fate and at that moment I felt good about having murdered him only a moment before.

“This is not good. What are we going to do with her?”

“She’s seen us, we can‘t let her live. You don’t want to get caught do you?”

Is there a greater terror than the all powerful evil that can be imagined by a child? In their minds lurk every demon of the universe, ready to lash out at any moment, grabbing, clutching, carrying you away from safety, only to keep you forever in an dreaded agony that can never be explained.

You can close your eyes, you can try to run, but you can’t escape from those dangerous unknowns, otherworldly beings released from your subconscious and hell bent on an undeserved vengeance, inexorable fear from the fiends in the closet let loose at last.

It was this all-consuming panic that played in her eyes, it emanated from her in a terrific shaking of her entire body, but she never said a word. We stared at each other, conversing only in our minds, with fear the universal language that we both knew so well. I could tell that even at her very young age, she was preparing herself for the end of days.

“Should we just kill her or should we use our plans? You might feel better if all your obsessive thinking doesn't go to waste.”

“I don’t know. I wanted to torture and kill the man, I never thought about some kid.”

“The press would eat it up. It would certainly make headlines and would seriously frighten others. Isn't that what you want?”

“Well, let’s put her in the truck and think about it.”

I can hear the hue and cry now for this innocent in the dark, the ever present chorus of begging for the life of one so small. But where was that same calling for the “deus ex machina” in Jack and my distant past? When did the crowd call out for our brave hero saviors to ride majestically over the hill, indeed, where was this manufactured god who ignored our hollow pleas?

Jack and I called out no less than this for a sympathy well deserved, but in the end it was required of us to become the greater monsters in the room. There was no compassion coming our way, so we learned that we had none to give, we met like with like and prospered precisely because we did.

Our conscience, as limited as others perceived it, was not as undeveloped as some might suspect, in fact it was constructed very exactingly over time by those now clamoring for our sympathy.

In my mind, I became the snarling Carcajou, more animal than human, feasting on the weaker, but with no malevolence in my heart. It was a matter of mere survival, as I lusted after prey. I sat in the truck deciding what to do, letting my instincts take over, trusting that my actions would be absolutely perfect.

“Even a dog knows the difference between being kicked and being stumbled over.” Oliver Wendell Holmes

In my transformation to the feral me, I had taken on a much deeper sense of what was right. At that moment, I had channeled the muse of the wild to guide me forward in my task. It suddenly seemed so easy, everything became clear.

It took my leaving the carnal human world and become what most would deem a wicked beast in order to push me toward an end to my anger. I was sated and at least for this night, I no longer wanted vengeance, the three of us sat there quietly, sudden compatriots in the struggle.

I realized that this innocent was with me in my lonely quest and certainly bore Jack and I no ill will. Sitting there beside us, she had irrevocably become one of us, we traversed the universe together, villains for the good. Tonight I would lift my voice to the heavens and scream out that I had won.

And with those thoughts roiling my head, We drove her to her neighbor’s house and let her out in the road. I saw her run up and bang on the door, while watching me closely from behind. The porch light came on like a beacon in the gloom and her hair turned into gold. As she rushed inside and out of sight, we drove slowly off in the dark.

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“Yes, officer?”

“We’re looking for your brother and his friend Jack. Have you seen them?”

“Jack?”

“Yeah, he was a student of his several years ago.”

Well, he has many ex-students, but the only Jack I know is his dog.”

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“Jack, how have you been? I've missed you.”

“Yeah me too, what’s up?”

“I just wondered if you would like to go on another road trip?

“Sure, where to?”

“New York, I thought we would go out there and free a guy from jail. And I thought we could torture and kill his jailer while we were there.”

“Sounds good. When do we leave?

http://www.theguardian.com/world/201...p-legal-person

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Right and Wrong - The Deleted Scenes

( For archival purposes only - The story begins at Post # 499 with a preface at Post #498)

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One of the earliest (and most contentious) scenes was -

When looking for that A-Fame cabin in the Colorado mountains early on, we became lost on one of those interminable tiny roads, luckily we happened upon a little bar. The bartender knew exactly where the cabin was that we were looking for, so she gave us directions on how to get there. It was later, a couple of days after the killing, that she came forward and gave a description of us to the police.

She was very close in describing me, even though she described me about ten years younger than I really am. Because she had only seen Jack sitting out in the car through the grimy window of the bar, she could only give a description of him that the police later described as fuzzy.

Jack, reading the police report after the fact and being an extremely proud young dog, was extremely offended at being described as “fuzzy” and refused to cooperate with the story any further unless I excised that part.
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*** Edit - This particular passage was added to further the development of the back story. It related to an event in the classroom that was one of the most important elements of bonding between “Jack” and I when he was younger. Because of the overly personal nature of the emotions portrayed, “Jack” doesn't even want me to share this moment in the deleted scenes portion. I am acceding to his wishes, although I don’t personally feel that he has anything to be ashamed of.***
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Another deleted scene involved a person named while I was ranting about the incompetence of the press. I became overly upset and listed Rupert Murdoch as the greatest reason for these failings, he was even named as a probable candidate for the Antichrist, owing to his, in my humble opinion, despicable views.

It was unanimously decided that the mere mention of his name was too abhorrent, even in a story about serial killers, to be allowed to stay. So his tiny, albeit inconsequential part ended up on the cutting room floor.
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One of the most powerful scenes to not make the final cut was a brief passage in the car when the little girl spoke.
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“Are you going to kill me?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Will it hurt?”

No, with you, I will make sure it doesn’t hurt.”

“Okay.”
----------------------

Jack and I are still debating whether this scene should have been left in. The implication was, in those brief moments of fear, she had come to a resignation of her fate and she was prepared to die for our cause.

These few words became, in essence, a symbolic morality tale, with her bravely giving up her life to save non-humanity, ala “you know who”, a powerful strike against self preservation in order to save the animals who had comforted her in her brief, but troubled time on earth.

It would also serve as a way to kill her and even if we made it look horrific post mortem, still maintain our own innocence; the thinking being that she was complicit in the acceptance of the act (at least partially) and Jack and I were simply fulfilling a “prophecy”, as it were. These are the inherent complexities of writing a story of this nature.
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As an addendum, it should be noted that shortly after her kidnapping, the little girl’s mother met and married a used appliance salesman, who subsequently moved the family to a suburb outside of Dallas. She has recently turned thirteen and is doing well in school, although she can be a bit boy crazy at times, according to her Facebook page. She has been in counseling since the event, but she doesn't seem to have suffered any long term effects from her ordeal.

(On an even deeper level, I have always held onto this dream that someday she would be in contact with ‘Jack’ and I again and the three of us would head out on the road, our newly crowned sociopath becoming a valued member of our little band.)

As a final note, let me suggest to all of you, that you be kind to the animals around you as if your very lives depended on it…

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Good story. Point well taken.

kool blog,the Ted is a great life story. Even if its crazy as hell!!!!

Tylertwo- I cant read your whole blog because my attention span is too bad so what i decided to do is just read some posts sometime and pick them at random. today I read about the dead bees and the bee psychic and thought it was amazing. I hope i never have to smell stacks of dead bees.

Please start blogging again. Your writing is so, so good, and it always made me feel like I was involved, as weird as that sounds.

Couldn't agree with this more!

good job tyler

Thank you so much guys, I really do appreciate it. I feel a little remiss in not being in here more, but it's not for lack of writing, lol. I'm about four hundred pages into the book and it's rolling along so well that I don't want to do anything to slow it down.

I've just been letting it spill out in rough draft form, hoping that it will continue to come out about three to four pages a day. So far, it hasn't been challenging or a chore, I seem to want to get that much on the page to consider my day complete.

It consists of many, many little stories that I am going to put together into a cohesive whole when I get to the end of the mystery. (And true to form, I have no idea what I am going to write, but each day something always ends up on the page.) I guess I really had no clue how you got to the end of an entire (very complex) book, but it seems to be just one day at a time!

The parts that relate to my trip to Woodstock are written and I'm really enjoying writing the fiction parts set in modern times. I'm going to look for a short, not too unusual story from the book and post it in here in the next few days to give you an idea of the nature of my complicated tale. (One of the less weird ones; some of them are a bit out there, lol. I mean, I've described it as Moby Dick goes to Woodstock after all!)

Thanks again!