The demented police officer honed his knife as he waited for his partner to come out the side door of the very dilapidated shack. He knew George was

Probably gorging on what was left of the food. They hadn't eaten in two

days. His thoughts were scattered, his wild eyes glowed in the dark.

He was getting fed up with George's dallying.

He ripped the scratched antiquated door off it's hinges and stormed into

the living room. He held his knife in front of him. While keeping his

eyes ahead he took his flashlight from his black belt. The yellow light emerged from it as he turned it on.

Something caught his eye. A half empty bottle of opiate spilled on the coffee table. Next to it he found George passed out. His eyes flickered to his knife.

This was his chance. Holding the pointed knife above his head he attempted to bring to George's heaving chest. A felonious crime he thought. He would be in prison for life if he did what he was about to do. To be in court pleading his case. Having a caricature drawn of him. Having the public see, he couldn't bare the thought. He brought the knife down by his side. His conscious coming in contact with his infected mind.

The reporter's would beleaguer him if he did this. Thinking only of himself he slipped outside unnoticed.