A/N: This obviously won't be my best work, considering it was a crappy English assignment and that I was freakishly tired. I give credit to my sister keiraliz (check out her work!) for the general plot and such. I consider her story Against Society my "sister story", so go read it. Take note this is my first finished story, so if it's too horrible forgive me.


DISCLAIMER: If there are any serial killers named Michael who drives a Jeep, has been to Deep Creek (yes, that's a real place. It's in Florida. Sleepy Hollow County doesn't exist. I think.), and has smothered people in there sleep, forgive me if you've been more ridiculed that usual.

Michael and His Jeep

There was a town called Deep Creek, located in the rolling hills of Sleepy Hollow County. Crime in small towns-such as Deep Creek-was rare. There were lazy days at the police station and on the road other than the few speeding and red light tickets. The biggest things were when they were helping the larger city some hundred miles away. Crime was unusual and rare, and if any happened, it would make the news.

Michael, considering he was a serial killer, had a pretty messed up life. He never knew his father, his mother was never home, and he had no friends. By the time he was fifteen, he started a life of crime. He became a bully, disregarded his teachers and principals, and never did his homework. He ignored all of the rules. He then became tangled up with gangs. When he was younger, the biggest crimes were maybe some stolen candy and toys, and adults always found a missing dollar or two. Soon it was CDs, DVDs, and video games, then laptops and cell phones, and then he was robbing stores and banks.

It only got worse from there. Soon, they beat every kind of person. The person could be black or white, young or old, healthy or handicapped, and strong or weak. Within a few years, and the beatings turned to murder of every kind. First, it was a gun. It wasn't very satisfying; it was too quick. Then it would be beating to death. Then, it was the slow, bloody bliss of knives. The Joker became their hero.

Soon enough, they all split off, and Michael was on his new phase of killing people in their sleep. He was welcomed into Deep Creek easily enough; small towns never faced murder. He stayed for several weeks to gain the townsfolk's trust. He used his favorite knife on his first few victims. But then he decided he wanted to try something new. He started to smother them, cutting off their very life source. The adrenaline rushed through Michael's veins.

During his final night at Deep Creek, Michael failed to realize that his next house of victims contained a very paranoid police officer. The moment he forced himself through the window of the master bedroom, a shrill alarm went off. This startled Michael greatly, and he quickly climbed down a tree and ran to his Jeep. He hastily started the engine and gunned the gas pedal, the car skidded down the street. The police quickly knew who the perpetrator was, and sped after Michael without a second thought.

Michael left them nothing but a license plate, and was off to the next unsuspecting town. His favorite knife and lucky gun were strapped to his side, waiting for their next victims. Laws and general common sense told Michael murder was unacceptable; illegal. He smirked. Nothing and no one could tell him what to do. It was what he wanted when he wanted it. He didn't care. Not one bit.

Sleep tight, my friend.

Again, sorry for any grammatic/spelling errors, terrible writing, and/or more-than-usual ridicules.