HemoRage.

Gordon.

The insurmountable discrepancies of disinhibited notions, are the infamous impediments of sustainable rapport, in the usual strain of my relations, and when reserved to private counsel, I feel an unusual sickness pervade my mind. It is the sickness of misanthropy, a rather unrequited burn of bitterness, and loathing given to the profane temptations of will and practice. It is as if I have been abandoned by the very cause of intercourse, and a ghastly veil of black hate, has usurped my prospects of a mutual society. I fear that in pardoning the transgressions which have bestowed many unfortunate wounds, upon my bosom, I shall at length become a perpetuate resort of abuse. There is something that I feel, it is the husbandry of glomerating passions, at the expense of abeyance, it is the extraodinary anticipation of immature caprice, it is sick, it is satanic and yet it is true. No true salvation has ever been realized, without the vindication of slaughter and blood, and it is upon this outcome that it is made absolute. I shall first ring the telephone and inform a nemesis Victor, of an open invite. See how well I treat the lad, and how sudden I slay him in the quiet of my precinct.

Victor.

It is not usual that I receive a call from Gordon. We have not at all times agreed, on the casualties of employed philosophy, but it is a pleasure to meet a man of such passion, and unorthodox precept. He is especially a pleasurable character when given to the rhapsody of rather exclusive interests. This is the mark of his portfolio. Regardless we are good friends, but not so much to warrant a call so late at night! I have made promise to meet him and it a gentleman's disposition to surrender to amicable volition, without perfunctory consideration of circumstance. I have alighted from the cab, and am upon his threshold. Poor Gordon, such a gloomy fabric to inhabit. it is imbued with that lethargic nihilism of depressive appeal, and yet the peculiar charm of most things unusually horrible lies, in the eerily quiet expression of untamed remark. It is only a thud that I give, and he immideately opens the threshold, as if for some uncanny reason, his presence had been lingering behind it.

"Welcome, welcome, such a lovely night it is, come come, yes you must come, do not worry, I have something to show you." He professes, with a conspicuous costume of artifice. His contour is taut with a dramatic grin, and his person almost passionately quivers, something unusual considering the calm nocturnal weather. I fear he is ill, or has taken some remedy of paradoxical superinducement. He leads me with his arm, and upon ingressing the precinct, I feel an unusual prick of intuition, and the lurid sensation of the inauspicious.

"I hope you will not mind, I have already made tea" and in declining the offer, perhaps due to the grotesque juxtaposition of his manners, and the corrupt semblance of their conveyance.

"Have you not something to show me" and with this as if some profound epiphany, of arithmetic alignment has suddenly arrested his fragmented mind, he points ahead leading me down a narrow dark staircase.

Gordon.

I have accomplished what has been necessary of my performance. He does not suspect, nor dream of any inconvenience on my part. I saunter behind him, as we near the basement floor. It is colder than the devil's bossom, or should I rather, without amy particular signature of humor say my own, for the blood in my vessels, is not singularly mortal nor is it redeemable, to any gospel of purity. We have reached, yes! I linger behind him, and he has not, given notice to my procurement of a pitchfork, idle upon the floorboards. Here I thud his caput with it, until he falls, on his back, and gazing at the wild intensity of the horror in his eyes, I drive the silly thing into his neck. The blood is profuse, and my redemption glorious!