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Maxwell Dane · **08-25-2015, 09:47 PM**

I am blank.
Empty.
Soulless.
I have no place in my heart for love.
For compassion.
My heart yearns only for malevolence.
I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds.

Die.For.Me.

There's _Nothing that can^Save You

I was born different
Raised right, was loved
But still--> I'M ME
The truth is this:
You won't understand me
And you never will

Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy, and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My consciousness, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever existed. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this - and I have, countless times, in just about every act I've committed - and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing. -- Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho

~~*~* Leclair *~*~~

~~*~* family *~*~~

~~*~* meeting *~*~~

*^*
I don't know why I do the things I do. I have theories, yes, but nothing concrete and I've never really fancied, nor have I ever really heeded, abstract thoughts. Things either are, are they aren't. No room for the could be's, the should be's, or anything of that nature. The answer can't be found through an examination of my upbringing or early life.... no I didn't have some kind of traumatic childhood that I can fall back on and point to as the catalyst. I'm not pathetic. Though I guess pathetic is, even overlooking those pesky, meaningless shades of gray, one of those "beauty in the eye of the beholder" type things. I see a homeless guy sitting at an intersection, "washing" the windshield of some yuppie asshole's brand new Mercedes for a few cents, I don't look at that like it's some kind of capitalist mission statement.... some kind of call to arms to feel bad for him and shower him in pity and pat him on the back for trying to earn his money instead of just panhandling. I see a worthless human being who couldn't adjust to the circumstances that plenty of others have faced. Let him boohoo over his fate and die in the gutter like he should.

Survival of the fittest.

I like to think I'm doing the world a favor, if only to feed my ever growing ego. Though I'm not some kind of visionary.... there's no order. No rhyme or reason or real bits of thread connecting my actions to one another. No trail, just bodies. Left where they lay, disposed of, carved into bits, displayed, whichever felt right at the moment.... whichever felt right.

Which brings me to this moment.

Here's a joke.

A violent sociopath and her little sister go out to lunch.

If you're looking for a punchline, there isn't one. It's one of those anti-jokes, the ones where they set up the joke and then.... boom! Anti-climax. Out of left field, completely unexpected and thoroughly unfunny.

Which is a pretty accurate analogy of our relationship.

"I'm serious Amy, I think I found him."

I nod, my head propped up on the palm of my hand, disinterested and half listening. This isn't the first time she's found "him", never really comes any closer no matter how many people she's sure are the one, but since I want to come off as a good sister I keep my mouth shut and quietly let her continue her fucking pathetic obsession.

"You're not even listening."

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

It's a second before what she said, and what I said actually register and in the time it takes for that to happen, the mildly agitated look on her face morphs into a scowl and she crosses her arms. She's pissed. In record time too, normally it takes at least until our drinks get here for me to say or do something that sets her off. I'm either getting really good at this, or she's just a lot more sensitive than she used to be.

"Do you ever listen to people or do you just wait for your turn to speak?"

I tilt my head to the side and furrow my brows at her.

"Don't think I'm too good at either, sis."

I smile at her, hoping that she'll drop this fucking topic and go on to something, anything, else. This is not my strong suit.... acting friendly and affable. Even my mask is aloof and a tad cold. But, who'll take the word of my coworkers when my sweet loving sister, with whom I meet for lunch once a week, says I was the gentlest soul she's ever known?

See, if I ever do get caught, I want to play the role of innocent victim. The type you cry for when the news breaks of my arrest. The type that causes mass protests and movements to free me. Because I'm innocent. And I'll shed as many tears as necessary to convince an audience of willing stooges to believe that I'm incapable of committing the heinous acts I'll be accused of and most likely will be guilty of but who knows? Maybe they'll throw in a couple unsolved cases to take the heat off their backs.

Back to her, she's not as entertained by my joke as I pretend to be.

"I'm serious. I think I have him this time."

My mouth opens instinctively, but I clamp down on my tongue and take a moment to think.

"But do you have him? This isn't the first time."

"I swear, I do."

We're both insane, in our own special ways.

I'm, well, me. No real need to go any further than that.

And her, well, she's not all there in the head. Completely and utterly obsessed with finding the identity of one man. The man who killed our father. Drives herself crazy with trying to put the man who might very well be dead or in jail already himself behind bars.

I look her in the eyes and through the fresh-as-it's-always-been grief and burning anger, I sense something different. A look of, understanding perhaps? That maybe we've become comparable in ways beyond blood relation.

I contemplate hinting, nudging, prodding her in that direction with some offhanded comment about this suspicion but ultimately I refrain.

Time isn't right.

Not yet, anwyay.

Maybe later.

Maxwell is, indisposed at the moment. Big things, schedule conflicts all very fascinating things but not the important part of this scenario. See, Maxwell left me in charge of communicating his sentiments on his match this week. A triple threat for the

Championship, though the winner can feel free to rename it to whatever they choose.

Obviously Maxwell is certain he's got this match on lock.

You could say it's arrogance, but look at this. His opponents are Scully and Tommy Wish, two men whose names are synonymous with jokes.

I would wish that in the future, it wouldn't be this easy. Maxwell isn't a fan of this one sided nonsense, but he wanted me to make a few things one hundred percent clear.

He does not have issue with Scully. Scully is mentally challenged and hasn't done anything to provoke him beyond the usual fare for a wrestling match so no, Scully, he will not eat you. I kind of wish he would personally because I'm curious if that'd mean swallowing you whole or something and I should probably be moving on okay next subject.

Tommy Wish. Where to start with Tommy? No, seriously. That's all the direction he gave me here. Just, "say that and then feel free to go off", so I will.

Tommy Wish is without a doubt the biggest shit head I've ever encountered in my entire life. To put a numerical value on his mental midgetry would be like trying to calculate how much money has ever come into Bill Gates' possession, it's a moot point.

He just flat out went on a rant about how Maxwell isn't scary as well as dropping the plot to some movie completely unrelated to his own experiences like this was an essay for a fucking English class. Head's up, it isn't. And also, if you're going to make threats, Tommy, make sure the threats sound, oh what's the word I'm looking for? Oh, right. Threatening.

Don't sound like a slack jawed caveman struggling to grasp the basics of verbal communication, for one. I could hardly catch what you were saying over the heavy breathing and the grunting.

Don't preface it with something silly like whether Maxwell says anything or not. If you want to cut him? Cut him. Cut him no matter what. He's a big boy, he can take a knife. Jesus, situational threats? That's like asking permission to assault someone.

Lastly, don't go off on tangents about video games. Seriously. I didn't think I had to spell that one out but because Tommy Wish is the dumbest, exclamation point, man, exclamation point, alive, exclamation point, I guess it's only fitting he doesn't understand that bit.

How's that for talking, Tommy?

What did I do? Killed them all, of course.

How many Americans have you killed today?

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