This fic is the sequel to Mind of the Madman. As before, these characters belong to me, and anybody who uses them without my permission will have their behinds sued off.

As before, the composure of the work is loose to build feeling.

I’m going to assume that you have read the preceding piece, but if not, you’d better, because otherwise this one will make no sense whatsoever.

In this episode Fing realizes a horrible truth: The cell cannot keep him going much longer. He decides to take action against his evil self and take a ride through town…



A further look into the mind of an insane man.

Written by David Macintyre (and I still think it’s bad)






The wind snakes its way past me. Touching, feeling at my form…

My skin burns the eyes of frightened onlookers as I walk by. For I am not tan. I am not pale. I am not pasty. I am…

I am….


They have every right to be frightened.

*I have a confession to make…*

For I have done a very frightening thing…

And soon enough…

I may do it again.

*For father, I have sinned.*

I may strike again…

The worst part is, I am not to blame.

The breeze pulls at my mop of red hair. Today, it is not tangled and wild as normal. Today, I have actually left the cell long enough to have myself a shower…


The water seeps its way around me. I warn you not to try and picture me in the shower. For I am not exactly much to look at. Nor anything someone would WANT to look at.


I am walking along the path, clothed in my black trench coat and sweat clothes. I hang my head, my nicely combed hair whipping in the breeze.


People stare. Children point and berate…

I smile.

I do like children.

I smile to one nearby. His mother shields him away from me fearfully. Fearing for the safety of her little boy.

I cannot say I blame her…

For if I were to get any closer to that child on this day, the things I may do to it…

Could never be forgiven.

*I am ashamed DEATH, PAIN, SUFFERING of my sins, father …*

For if I were to touch that child…

The woman is limp over her child, clutching it to her breast and crying. Sobbing. Bawling. However you’d like to put it. It makes no difference to me. Any way you state the obvious, it’s no use crying over spilt milk. ‘Tis only meat.

Only children cry when the fowl is taken to the . And ma’am, may I say, that if you are a child, then I am merely putting the son out of his misery.

The child bleeds.

His red spills along the concrete as onlookers either run away terrified, or stand in a petrified fear. I give them all a warning look as I approach the mother…

A moment later, she bleeds too. She does not scream. She no longer cries. Peaceful. Nice and peaceful.

She now bleeds with the child. Like mother…

Like son…

I partake of it. Like a fine wine… It soothes my worries. The taste of a child’s blood.

So young. So innocent.

So virgin.

I shudder at the thought.

No. I cannot let that happen.

If I were to touch that child…

“I am THE POWER TO JUDGE IS MINE ashamed of my deeds…*


Do you find me insane?

Do you find me frightening?

Do you find me heartless, cruel, a barbarian?

It makes no difference to him. It is I who takes the blame. So why shouldn’t he have his fun?

If another person would take all the blame for your actions, would you not take advantage of it?

Of course you would.

I see a pair of lovers on the park bench. Kissing. Sharing a moment with each other…

How I envy them.

*I am I AM THE FORCES OF HELL, father…*

Thinking back on my life, on my actions, on my sins, I feel that I shall never love. Nor shall I be loved.

Not for the things that I have done.

*For I have MY WORD IS LAW done the unspeakable.*

I watch.

I wait.

They share a kiss. A moment together…

I watch.

I wait.

I savor.

I long.

For I have only once ever experienced the soft warmth of the lover’s lips against mine….

I wish to feel it again.

But I dare not try. For that would be wrong, to steal his one and only away from him… it would be wrong indeed.

I watch them…

*I have taken a life.*

But I do not get too close.

For if I did….

I approach aggressively.

The man breaks the embrace reluctantly.

He smiles.

How quaint.

I have ruined his moment and he smiles. Up at me. Like I have done nothing wrong.

And I have not.

It is he who has sinned. Not I.

For he has committed an atrocity…

“Yes? Can Iâ€"well, weâ€"help you?â€