1Epilogue

February 10th 2014

It’s so good to be alive again, really alive. Just to feel the wind against my face, to watch the sunset, reminds me of everything that now seems so overwhelmingly alive. When you’ve seen death, you will feel alive. I understand now just what my father meant. I am alive, and Mexico is just the ideal place for living. In Saint Parrish it would be below freezing by now, but not here.

I’ve been drinking Tequila for days. It’s a bit hard to do anything else when college ass is being thrown at me left and right, and God knows that’s all they want to do. Get drunk and fuck. Hey, it’s good with me. There’s nothing else I’d rather do.

Which one will I choose tonight, the pretty blonde temptress with that seductive smile, or the brunette that’s a bit quiet and always orders the Pina Coladas? The fact is I’m not so sure last night can be outmatched on any level.

I had a scandalously good time. One I shall not soon forget. Two gorgeously tanned blondes, fake blondes as it were, shallow co-ed’s, fake in every aspect, joined me for a nightcap. We were already drunk as fuck. They were a bit drunker than me, but even still they loved me. What can I say? I am not someone that will be denied.

The shorter one, Brianna, or Rhianna… either way, she was a kinky girl, who provoked the whole thing. I could tell she liked to be the one in control. She had eyes like a tiger, green and feral. That’s why it pissed her off when I let her know that I wanted to be in control.

Her hair shaped a heart over her pussy. How I hate that word. It’s so improper for such a wonderful part of a woman. It was a first for me, and quite cute. I complemented her on it all night. I think her friend was a bit jealous but she didn’t say much.

Then again, how could she? Through duct tape words are always a bit muffled. It sounded kind of like: Mmm, Mmmmmmph… mmm, or something like that… And… well, that could mean anything, couldn’t it?

Just to keep spirits alive I constantly poured tequila on her, and watched her choke as it poured into her nose, and burned her pretty blue eyes until the whites of them were red. I don’t think I meant to kill her, not so soon. Like my father I like to drag things out, and take advantage of a moment to the fullest measure. But that’s what the girl with the heart-shaped pussy was there for.

And that short “in-control” bitch, I feel I got more power from her. I admit she had a lot of control, but not as powerful as me, and not quite as strong a will as one would suspect. I am not only powerful, but evil. “Born bad,” as Vincent once told me.

Micah, I imagine, would be right beside me now. We were partners in crime from the beginning, but really she was too much baggage. I knew she’d mess things up. She was young and stubborn, but I’ll love her to my dying day. She helped me plant the irrefutable evidence on Josh, even her death ended up helping me in the long run. I mean, she had his skin and blood beneath her nails, and his mother was killed the same way. Even Josh, the brave hero, helped me.

I suppose I’m the last of my father’s bloodline, unless there’s another illegitimate child out there. With my father, you could never tell when the end of anything was. He seems to live on somehow. Passing me this dark gift like some kind of disease. That’s what he called it. A disease. There’s something for you Psychologists to ponder for years. Why do people forget the names of the victims, but always remember the name of their killer? How very twisted the world is.

I guess my father’s story hasn’t ended yet. Perhaps with my death it shall. Not all of us get caught. And in our brutal nature, are we really that unusual? We are everywhere. Who knows who’ll be the next corpse they find floating face-first in a river, a victim to their own trust, and a lesson learned too late. If there’s one thing Dr. Watkinson must have learned… Killers are both born and made. Maybe I’ll see you soon.

My Father’s son,

Julian Angeloro

Julian shut the small journal as the girl walked passed, obviously eyeing him as she did. He was older now, and much wiser; a tanned, slightly taller version of his father, and a much better killer even. How many kids failed to return home after vacationing there? If he had to count, he’d say somewhere around 23. Coincidently, he was 23 years old then, so it was a hell of a start.

“Hey, excuse me,” he called out to the pretty girl, with a perfectly tanned body, exposed by the barely-there, sky-blue, string bikini. Julian soaked in the sight of a new possible victim.

The pretty brunette with soft, golden high-lights streaking her curly hair turned and offered a smile, shielding her eyes with her hand from the bright South American sunlight.

The End?