Sin post, first post, yippideedoo

CAN YOU GUESS WHICH ONE IT IS?!
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Although the young Derren Anderson was not the kind of man who frequently got in trouble, he had, as of late, found himself with an increasing dislike of the local police. The reasons for this were simple: as someone who had committed a murder, he had to actually pay attention to the police's activities and insure that no one found out, and as someone quick to anger, he found himself rather annoyed at the presumptuousness of it all. Rather that he just slip away; it wasn't like he was going to do it again, right?

Right.

Regardless, it was summer; a hot, terrible summer, with wind drawn from the breath of hell itself, and that too annoyed Derren. He had spent the day before the murder stomping about the Corgrove Falls municipal park, giving any who would not flee immediately a well-packaged rant on the evils of humanity, how their stupidity and short-sightedness had led to this, and in ten years we'll all have to live underground in air conditioned caves, just you wait and see, and it's probably your fault too you know! And the people would typically cower in terror, at which point Derren would be so disgusted with his listener that he would stomp and sweat and slime his way somewhere else.

But that's not really where the story is, is it? What you'd like to know is, how could someone -- even someone as quick to spark as Derren -- commit a murder? Anger is one thing, but violence to match! Well, as I have already said, it was summer, and summer makes madmen of us all. Although, trampling through gardens for a full day without stopping to drink (the water fountains were absolutely foul) was probably not particularly good for young Derren's mental health, either. He had had truly fitful dreams that night; of the icecaps melting and crushing his extended family, leaving their money to him; only to find that the money they had promised was in fact a single giant cigarette; which, upon smoking, released a foul smoke that became a living thing hunting him; and, finding no escape; no escape at all. Began. To. Cry.

It is said that all humans have some measure of empathy and of that fleeting emotion we call love. Even the most monstrous of the monsters: Hitler, Stalin, Genghis Khan; even they must have, at some small corner of their blackened and shriveled hearts, felt longing and desire and fear. Thus we must assume it is so for Derren Andersen, although it makes it hard to understand. He woke up in a panic, angry at himself -- angry at himself! -- for having such a sad and pathetic dream. He wrote it down, though, as he wrote down all his dreams, for memory and for clarity and to chart his emotional growth for the psychologist his father had appointed him, that old bastard. The diary was small and bound in black leather, and since it sat at the side of his bed he didn't have to get up. And so he didn't.

Instead, he thought forwards, to the wonders of the day and the good things it might potentially bring. Yes, it was hot. Yes, his small one-bedroom apartment's air conditioning had broken two nights previous. Even so... even so... his mind struggled to come to terms with his situation.

Even so...

Ah, yes! The delightful Catherine Jones. She would be working at The Hub today. She hadn't shown her much kindness in the past, but her drinks had always been cold and well-mixed, and she actually talked with him instead of cowering like some stupid sissy when his voice got that trademark growl that indicated extreme anger was about to emit from his body like beta radiation. There was, in fact, a bright spot in his day. And so he fixated on it. When he brushed his teeth, he thought of using his mouth in ways not fit for proper publication here; when he looked in the mirror, he could see the fine oak panels of The Hub behind him.

This continued for some time. Unfortunately, it is not particularly interesting to watch a man waste the day writing letters to the newspaper and looking at online forums, so we shall skip ahead somewhat.

Evening had fallen, a silky velvet sky wrapped luxuriously across the city. It was surprisingly clear; although the local bar was some distance between street lights, it still reflected the twinkling of stars and the moon finer than any jewel. It was this jewel where the angriest residents conglomerated, where stories were shared and letdowns commiserated. The Hub. It was an old, old structure -- or at least, built to look that way -- about twice as long as it was wide, with the bar itself a dark gray slate upon which innumerable glasses were stacked. Tables dotted the area beyond the bar, and followed the wall east to the bathrooms; these were, naturally, of a simple wood, for simple patrons. Most people came in groups of 3 or 4 and sat down at one of these tables; sadly, the bar itself was not typically meant for patrons to linger near.

Young Derren Anderson, however, had a very good reason to linger, and although it was uncomfortable to stand for hours on end with little more than a countertop to rest one's weight upon, Derren did just that, and time and again attempted to make conversation with the delightful Catherine. She had beautiful twinkling grey eyes, and a small nose that wrinkled in empathetic disgust as Derren explained in an uncharacteristically deep voice how poorly treated at work he was (which was, in and of itself, not entirely a lie; when he had chance to work, some time ago, they had indeed been mostly indifferent to and ignorant of the young man, which caused him no small amount of vexation).

"Wow," she would explain, or perhaps "Jeez" every once in a while. Derren's smile was growing, and for once in his life, he found himself running out of things to complain about.

The realization that such stupidity was as finite as it was rampant hit him, and so the next time Catherine walked by, Derren asked if she would like to come home with him after work. She smiled, bittersweet and cold, and said in lyrical sonnet, "Y'know, that sounds like fun, but I promised my boyfriend I'd meet him instead." Derren walked away.

How could this be? Well, no, that wasn't quite the question the young Derren was looking for -- it was pretty damn clear how it could be. Rather, how could that bitch have led him on so well for so long? Fucking slut! It was ridiculous to have fallen so foolishly for such a dumb stupid goddamn fucking bitch, and he let himself know it. Pacing outside the Hub's side entrance, his hands clenched and unclenched in a steady rhythm. He was talking to himself, so fast and so low it sounded more like a moan of anguish than the stream of expletives it had shown itself to be. How? How?

He picked up a glass bottle -- Malibu Coconut Rum -- and slammed it fruitlessly against the brick wall. Naturally, it shattered, and small bits of glass peppered young Derren's hand. Miraculously, the head of the bottle remained, a twisted jagged thing that reminded Derren of his heart, before he realized how pathetic-sounding that was and made it remind him of his anger. Retribution. That's what it looked like. This bottle of Malibu was the flaming sword of retribution. He'd dealt with stupidity before, and it always stared at him with blank eyes. He would take those eyes, he would take those stupid fucking eyes and --
The door opened. As The Hub was, despite its ancient accoutrements, a modern and well-kept sort of pub, it did not creak. Catherine walked out. Had she heard? Would she apologize?
Unfortunately for us, Derren did not give Catherine enough time to do whatever it was she was going to do, and that little fact has slipped into history. He jumped, and managed to wedge a particularly wicked part of the bottle into her neck. Her wide beautiful eyes (grey) opened, and then went blind. Derren Andersen grit his teeth, he breathed heavily through his nose. Stupid bitch deserved it.

He ran.

Which leads us to now, several months later, with fall fast approaching and Derren still unseen by the local law enforcement. Which was curious, because as he saw it, being cautious was annoying and frustrating, but in many cases it still wasn't enough. Why hadn't they come for him yet? The anger boiled in his stomach, but he hadn't eaten in three days, so he had nothing left to vomit up. A knock came, sudden and violent, causing the much-aged Derren to jump in his seat underneath the table. He clutched the bottle handle like a mother cradling a child, and got up to answer the door.