"MAN KILLS BUSLOAD OF CHILDREN, PASSERSBY, SELF"

        "I couldn't imagine such a nice young man would do such a thing!"
exclaimed Mrs. Rutgy, his elderly neighbor on the same street.

        "Edward always struck me as a very stable employee.  He always came to
work on time.  He was so nice to the children.  I just don't understand why he
would go off and do a thing like this," proclaimed his previous employer at the
Ludlock County School Bus Service.

        "Edward was a little wild, you know.  Man, you should see him hitting
those drums.  Like he really had some potential.  It's like he had something inside of
him, but he just couldn't let it out.  But this, whew, this is a little bit whacko, if you
get my drift," remarked a peer of his, Jack, who occasionally played music with
him.

        If only any of these people knew what was going on inside him, perhaps
they'd understand.  Or maybe it would be so alien to anything they'd ever
experienced, they'd pull right out and pretend it was some crazy nightmare they
had.

        Edward hated his life.  He hated his job as a school bus driver.  He hated
the place he lived in.  He hated the few friends he had.  He hated his dog, Mango. 
This is a story about how his hate festering within him grew all out of proportion
like one of those viruses that infect computers self-replicating until they destroy all
ability to process anything properly.

        First of all, Edward was ugly.  He could barely stand to look at himself in
the mirror to be reminded of how ugly he was.  He wore thick glasses because his
vision was poor.  He had pimple scars from years of picking at them.  His hair was
greasy and couldn't be tamed.  He was fat and couldn't seem to take off any weight. 
Half his teeth had cheap caps on them.
        Because of this, kids in his school made fun of him.  Bullies accosted him in
halls and on the playgrounds and punched him in the stomach just because it felt
good to pick on him.  He was pudgy and uncoordinated and couldn't defend
himself.
        One time in a locker room, one of these bullies forced him to suck his dick
while the other kids stood around and sniggered.  They all called him a faggot after
that.
        Edward hated being in school.  He couldn't wait to finally get out, so he
could get away from these bullies.
        In the meantime, he played music.  He learned how to play the drums and
keyboards with a lot of different sounds on them.  He got stoned by himself and
listened to his favorite musicians.  He'd look at their pictures and admire how
successful they were, how no matter how weird they were, they could thumb their
nose at the world because they were rich and famous and starry-eyed chicks would
all want to fuck with them.  Yeah, that was what he was going to be when he grew
up, when he finally got out of this bully school with assholes who made him suck
their dicks and dumb teachers who forced him to learn a bunch of shit that had not
a damn thing to do with the real world.  He'd show them - while they turned out to
be factory workers and bank clerks, he was going to be a rock star.

        Perhaps it all started earlier for Edward.  His father worked in the local
factory all the time and could neither read nor write.  He was always depressed
about his lowly status in life and, to compensate, when he got home, he'd get stark
raving drunk.  He would then proceed to beat up on his wife, who was not very
pretty, and on his kids, whom he wished he didn't have to take care of.  He couldn't
stand Edward, who was so pudgy and incompetent.  Breathing dragon fumes of
alcohol into his face, he hit him again and again and again, screaming, "You
goddamn idiot!  Why did you have to be born?"
        Edward often asked himself the same question.

        There was only one problem to Edward's aspirations to be a rock star.  He
couldn't play music worth a damn.  Oh, maybe he'd get it right when he was
playing by himself, but whenever he tried to play with a group or for any audience,
his fingers would start trembling over the keyboard and he'd keep hitting wrong
notes.  Or he'd whack the drums out of rhythm.  The others would shake their
heads and tell him to go home and practice some more.  Then, inevitably, they'd
always wind up finding a replacement for him.
        Besides, he didn't exactly fit the image of a sexy rock star.  Since he was fat
and ugly, what producer was going to be interested in promoting someone like that. 
The groups who he tried to join knew this.  The person they replaced him with was
usually tall, skinny, and muscular.
        Edward growled inwardly at this injustice.  He knew he was a better
musician than all of them combined; it's just that they intimidated him when he tried
to play with them.
        He was going to get back at someone for this.

        He didn't wind up being a rock star as immediately as he hoped.  He took
note of all these guys who made it just after being a musician for a year, and
wondered what happened to him.  
        Instead, he was forced to take a series of dumb jobs, stuff like working in
factories, doing telephone sales, taking boxes off conveyor belts in U.P.S., working
weird hours in convenience stores.  Now this latest gig was driving a school bus
around carrying little kiddies to school and back.  The school bus was parked in
front of his apartment building.
        However, he never quite gave up.  He kept playing drums and keyboards in
his garage, jacked up real loud.  His neighbors always complained about this.  Well,
that's just too bad for them.  What did his neighbors ever do for him?  He played at
all hours of the day and night.  He got some books on music theory and started
studying that on his own to see if he could pick up some tricks.  He got a home
computer and hooked it up to his synthesizer keyboard to compose and record
things and play them by MIDI, becoming a computer expert this way.
        Edward was obsessed.  Edward was on a Mission from his Muse.  Edward
was on the warpath to prove he was better than people seemed to think he was.
        Every once in a while, he succeeded.  A wondrous otherworldly music
would flow from the interior of his garage.  But no one was there to hear.  Edward
was like an alchemist high in his tower searching for the ever-elusive philosopher's
stone.  He was willing to consort with angels, but if he had to make a deal with the
devil to find it, he would.
        He attempted to record this music.  Then he would play it for other
musician colleagues or people he knew.  However, their reaction was stone-blank. 
"It's okay, but really, it's not my kind of thing," they'd say, shaking their heads. 
Gone was the avid foot-tapping body-rocking that people have when they listen to
top forties rock.  Their reaction was like a flower wilting in radioactive waves.
        He played and played, but sometimes he wondered what the hell he was
doing it for if he was never going to have an audience.

        Edward had a dog, Mango.  He had this dog for fourteen years now.  The
dog was beginning to go over the hill now.  He was half-blind and had trouble
telling who was friend and who was stranger anymore.  Mango would lie in the
front yard, alternately barking at passersby, then running up to them and wagging
his tail.
        Mango was filled with mange and fleas.  He stank and Edward couldn't
stand to touch him.  However, Edward put up with him and took care of him.
        Not always, though.  When no one was looking, he would often take
Mango into his garage and pick up a stick and start beating on him for no reason. 
He didn't know why he did this; maybe it felt good to him to pick on someone else
for a change rather than always being picked on.
        Then he'd take Mango for a walk on the leash, as if nothing had happened. 
Mango whimpered and had to be dragged to go out for a walk.  He didn't know
what to expect from Edward.  Mango became scared of him, yet hoped that
Edward would be nice to him.

        When taking Mango for a walk, Edward would bump into Mrs. Rutgy.  She
would always remark on what a nice day it was even if it was freezing rain and ice
was forming on the sidewalk.  She lived in an old people's cooperative household
down on the corner of his street and the main street of town.
        Edward would put on a fake smile and pretend to be civil to her.  She
would always accost him and start telling him stories of her husband when he was a
young man in the navy and then he got blasted by the Japanese and she's always
had such a hard time adapting to living alone.  
        Edward would smile and nod pleasantly, all the while feeling like he
couldn't stand Mrs. Rutgy.  He hated the fake smile he had to put on for people. 
He hated having to make stupid small talk when there were more important things
he could be doing with his life.

        Edward never got laid in his life.  He wished he could, but he could never
find a female who'd go for the likes of him.  Besides, he never knew how to ask
someone for a date.  He figured they'd just laugh in his face, like all the girls in his
high school did, when he had a reputation of being a nerd and a faggot.
        He just jerked off in front of porno vids whenever he got the urge.  He'd
use a dildo and stick it up his butt which made him feel better.  For some reason, he
liked to watch positions where the guy fucked the girl from behind; it felt safer to
him somehow.  He watched the same scenes over and over.  When it was over, he
felt a little embarrassed, then wiped the come off himself and went back to playing
music.
        There was one time he tried to do it with a prostitute.  He saved up his
meager income for this experience.  It was someone he was told who'd do it with
anyone.  She lived in the bad side of town where the houses and apartments were
all falling apart and had stinky garbage strewn all through the streets.  Graffiti
advertising favorite rap groups and local gangs were spraypainted artistically all
over the smoky brick walls and throughout the underpasses.
        He was a bit startled to find out that the prostitute was kind of fat and she
was Hispanic.  Somehow he expected some long-haired blue-eyed blonde with an
immaculate body.  She took off her clothes and had moles all over her.  She had a
big wart on her ass.  She just lay on the four-poster bed that looked like it was
purchased from the local Salvation Army, holding her legs spread wide open,
displaying her hole.
        Edward just couldn't get it up for something like that.  He let her keep the
money anyway and ran out of there.  What a humiliating experience.
        The stunning blue-eyed blondes apparently were quite above his status in
life.  This made him hate his life even more.  He hated those beautiful women
who'd have nothing to do with him.  He hated the crass rich assholes who always
had them on their arms.
        Why did life have to be so unfair to him?  This made Edward hate his life
and everyone in it even more.  He took it out on his drums and his dog.

        Mango was an idiot.  Years ago, someone asked Edward to take care of him
and then vanished somewhere.  Thus he was stuck with the insipid animal.  Mango
was an old dog who'd bark half-hearted at people and then start wagging his tail
real friendly.  Stupid animal didn't know where he was half the time.  Sometimes
he'd wander into other people's homes thinking that was where he belonged, and
they'd have to bring him back to Edward's place on a leash.
        The dog loved Edward for some stupid reason.  When Edward was at home
watching violent slasher movies, the dog would curl up next to him or try to get
Edward to pet him.  This irritated Edward and he'd hit the dog.  The dog could not
understand why someone he loved so much would be so mean to him.  But he was
old and stinky.  Who else could he turn to?

        One day Edward decided he'd like to have a gun.  He always saw characters
using guns in the movies he watched.  Beautiful women always slept with them. 
Guns are a way you can eradicate people you hate.  Edward wanted a beautiful
woman to sleep with him and he had a lot of people he hated.  So it made sense for
him to buy a gun.
        He saved up a lot of money and went to a sports store where they sold a lot
of guns.  He had to get a special license to get the kind of gun he wanted.  It was a
real beauty - fired off a lot of shots automatically, should make big holes in the
victim.  It was previously owned by a Nazi skinhead, so it had the right vibes for
him.  He liked the feeling of power it gave him as he held it in his hand; if he'd only
had this when those kids in high school made fun of him!  He could point it at them
and say: "Hey, who you calling fatty!"  He told the store owner he wanted the gun
for "protection"; there were a lot of dangerous people living in his neighborhood.

        Edward went to the firing range as frequently as he could to learn to shoot
the gun.  It wasn't as easy as he thought it would be because the gun made a lot of
recoil and made it hard to aim correctly.  He found by holding it with both hands
he could aim it better.
        As his bullets approached closer and closer to his target, he would mutter
under his breath:
        "Take that!  You goddamned bullies who ruined my life!  Take that!  And
that!  Keel over, you faggots!  I'm the Master Race around here!"
        His shots began to hit dead center in the middle of the abstract rendition of
a victim's head.

        One day, Edward was having a quart of beer with Jack who came to visit
him on Saturday afternoons.  They were taking a break from playing music
together.  Edward was showing him his gun.  He was proud of it.  He kept pointing
out how big it was and how much damage it could do at a close range, mentioning
that it could just "blow that sucker's head right off".  Edward acted like he'd just
bought a Mercedes Benz and was driving it around town just to show it off.
        Jack swallowed hard.  He sweated profusely under his armpits.  He did not
like guns very much and wished that Edward would change the subject.
        All of a sudden, Edward swung the gun outwards and pointed it through the
window facing the back yard.  He then proceeded to fire it off at a bunch of
squirrels, pigeons, and swallows in the yard.  He succeeded in knocking off quite a
few of them.
        "What the fuck did you do that for?" Jack asked dismayed, looking
horrified at their innocent bodies lying all over the place.
        "I don't know.  They were just getting in my way," muttered Edward.  "I get
tired of seeing them all the time."
        "Well, listen, man," his friend said hastily, "I think I'll be heading off now." 
Edward never heard from him again.  This suited him, because Edward thought
Jack was a stupid person to be a friend with anyway.
        The police, having been called, came out to his door, wondering what was
going on.  Edward said he was "target-practicing" and proudly showed them his
results in the back yard.  The police, in a tone of complicity, indicated that they'd let
him go this time (and undoubtedly they do this kind of thing in their own backyards
all the time on a Sunday afternoon barbecue) - but next time they'd have to have
him fined.
        Edward slammed the door behind them.  They were all a bunch of wimps,
the idiots.

        You see, Edward couldn't think very clearly due to some unfortunate
circumstances in his adolescent development.  This affected the way his brain
operated.  
        There is a certain part of the brain right between the eyes underneath the
brain in the emotional center called the "amygdala", shaped more or less like a pea. 
This pea is very important in determining aggressive behavior; it is a primary factor
in initiating the flow of neurotransmitters that make the brain excitable.  One of
these neurotransmitters is adrenaline.  Studies have shown that ordinarily placid and
docile laboratory rats who have their amgydala stimulated by electrodes react in
continuous rage against the most common irritants.  Pictures of these rats are
particularly illustrative; they stand on their hind legs with bristled fur, their claws on
their forepaws extended for the fight.  They look more like pissed off cats than
scared rats.  On the other hand, if the amygdala were removed the rats would seem
to have neither fear nor anger.  Apparently it is the source of the "fight or flight"
response in animals and humans.
        Edward had some sort of problem with his amygdala.  It was generating far
too much adrenaline.  Thus he was over-reacting with anger at anything or anybody
who stressed him in any way.
        It's too bad nobody knew about this.

        Edward started acting rather strange after this event.  It felt good to kill all
those animals in his backyard.  It made him feel how much power he actually had. 
He had fantasies about going into a production studio with his gun and using it to
force a producer to make a record of his music.  He would like to find every one of
the ex-classmates who called him a fat faggot and blow them away.  And their
wives (after raping them).  And their children.  He would find the asshole who
forced him to suck his dick in the locker room and torture him slowly.  Then he
would puncture him full of holes making him lick his asshole all the while.  For
some reason, this gave him a hard-on and he liked to masturbate while having such
fantasies.  (The amygdala is located next to the sex center which would explain why
sex and violence tend to be so related.)
        He became convinced that he was a mutant of some sort and he was
superior to the rest of the human race.  The rest of the human race were like apes
compared with him.  Thus there was nothing wrong with him killing them off to
make room for him.  Since he had German blood in him, he began to become
impressed with the works of Hitler and Nietzsche.  Yes, it was true!  He was one of
the Master Race!
        If he only had enough power, he could take over the world!  All he had to
do is will it and it would become true.

        Edward was playing his drums with a vengeance.  He played and played for
hours.  He punctured one of his drums in the process.  This made him pissed off
and he started kicking the drum around in the garage he practiced in.  He stomped
all over the drum, crushing it like a beer can.  Why can't they make drums that
last?, he thought.  He just knew they were deliberately making drums so shoddily
just to aggravate him.  Maybe he should make a trip to the drum factory and shoot
some of those fuckers that made the drum.  The thought of spilling their blood
made him feel excited.  Then he could have the pleasure of stomping on every
drum in the factory.  Maybe he'd blow up the factory for good measure, so they'd
never produce a shit-ass drum like that again.
        Mango walked up to him wagging his tail.  Edward got sick and tired of the
dog wanting him to pet him.  "Leave me alone, you stinking maggot!" he screamed,
then picked up a mallet and bashed the stinking dog's head in.  He kept smashing it
and smashing him as his brains splattered into the concrete floor.  Then he got a
kitchen knife and skinned the dog and carved the body into pieces.  He put the
pieces into a big stew pot.  That would be his supper.  Edward laughed.
        "Goddamn fucking dog!" he kept muttering, as he breathed heavily. 
Edward was getting more and more excited.  He jerked off over the brains.
        What a rush!  He'd like to do that to people!

        One night he had trouble sleeping.  He kept hearing voices in his head.  He
heard lots and lots of voices and it sounded like a bunch of radio stations all playing
at once and he couldn't sort out one wavelength from the other.  One voice kept
speaking directly to him, however:
        "You must bring your music on the school bus.  You must show them how
good you are.  You will prove to the world that you are the greatest drummer who
ever existed.  They will admire you for it and they will worship you.  Then you will
be able to take over the world.  You can then execute them, every last one of them
- except for your choice of beautiful women, of course.  Then you can propagate a
Master Race of Edwards that will bring in a New Millennium, a Utopia that will
bring Heaven on Earth."
        Others have been promised this vision, of course, and the voice that spoke
to him was that of a certain trickster demon, a malevolent thought-pattern.  Such
malevolent thought-patterns love to feed on humans who have their
neurotransmitters running all helter-skelter.
        By dawn, Edward saw the light.  He loaded his instruments of music and
his gun onto the school bus.

        The kids inquired about why he had his drums, keyboards, and guitar
packed on the bus.  Edward smiled weirdly and explained that he had a gig to go to
right after he dropped them off.  The kids thought that was cool.  "Are you a rock
musician?" they'd ask.  "Yeah," he said.  "I'm gonna be a rock star today, you'll
see."
        After he had picked up the last kid that was supposed to get on that route,
he had the doors secured shut and he drove the school bus out into the country to
the end of a remote road.  This would be the perfect spot for his testing operation.
        "Hey, how come we're not going to school?  Where you taking us, Eddy?"
        "Well, kids, I tell you what.  I just got tired of taking you to school and
we're going to play hooky today!"
        They all cheered.  At that, he set up his drums and keyboards in the aisles
and hooked his speakers to the microphone.  They looked at him, puzzled.
        "What are you doing, Eddy?"
        "I'm gonna play you a few songs.  I gotta practice, you know."
        He played for awhile, doing the best he could with his missing drum.  Then
he played his keyboards, then his bass guitar.  The kids looked at each other and
made puking motions with their fingers up their throats.  A few of them circled
their forefinger around their ear.  "Whacko," they'd whisper to one another.
        "So what do you think of that, kiddies?"
        "Uh, that was pretty cool, Eddy, but could you let us out?  If we're gonna
play hooky, we'd like to go out and play, you know?"
        "I think you better stay right where you are, kids.  You goddamn suckers
don't know good music when you hear it."  He played a few more sets.  "How did
you like that?"
        "That's okay, I mean, that's really great, Eddy.  But could we go now?"
        "YOU MEAN YOU DIDN'T LIKE IT?"
        "No, uh, we really dug it and all that, but we want to play outside now."
        "NOBODY GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE UNTIL THEY REALLY
HEAR MY MUSIC!"  With that, Edward pulls his gun out from under the drivers
seat where he had it concealed.  The kids all started screaming in panic.
        "SHUT UP, YOU LITTLE SHITS!  DON'T YOU THINK I GET TIRED
OF DRIVING YOU LITTLE BABIES AROUND AND AROUND ALL THE
TIME WHEN I AM DESTINED TO BE THE GREATEST ROCK STAR OF
ALL TIMES!"  He played a few riffs on his bass guitar.  "NOW WHAT DID
YOU THINK OF THAT?"
        An older more bold boy speaks up and says:  "Eddy, I think that sucks.  I
think you better let us out of here or the cops are gonna be on your ass."  That kid
was so bold because he watched a lot of cop shows and the cops always won.
        Edward simply fired a shot point blank in the middle of the kid's face.  It
made a satisfying crunch as skull fragments broke in.  It sounded a little like kicking
over a Halloween pumpkin and stomping it in.  The kid reminded him of one of the
bullies who'd picked on him in school.
        "Now does anyone else want to disagree with me?"
        A little girl kept bawling:  "Please let me go.  I don't want to die.  I want to
see my mother again."  Edward could not stand to hear her cry.  Her crying just
made him more and more pissed-off.  He shot her in the heart.  He never did like
whining kids.
        This set the other kids off screaming in panic.  They started clawing the
windows and trying to get out the door.  Edward didn't like this; the show wasn't
going on as expected.  He was hoping the kids would worship him for what a
powerful being he was and here they were all trying to escape from him.  He had
no choice.  He was going to have to execute them all.  These weaklings were
certainly not fit material for his Master Race.
        One by one, he shot every one of them.  Who knows?  These may have
been the very same kids who would have called him a fat faggot if he had been a
kid among them.  This thought gave him tremendous satisfaction in doing his
gruesome duty.

        Edward drove the school bus full of dead kids through town.  At full blast,
he was playing tapes of his self-recorded music out the loudspeaker in the aisles. 
People came out of the shops wondering what was going on.  The cops were
alerted.  They pulled up behind him running their sirens, indicating that he should
pull over.  Tranquilly, Edward ignored them and turned up his amplifier even
louder to drown out their sirens.  Yes, he was the Master Race and they had no
power over him.
        He stopped in the center of town where the main square with the park and
its war memorial was.  He proceeded to play his drums and keyboards.  He spoke
into his microphone over it like a rap chant and the power of his voice jacked up so
loud gave him shivers of pleasure:
        "HALT YOUR ACTIVITIES, PEOPLE OF THE WORLD!  I AM THE
MASTER RACE WHO HAS COME TO SAVE YOU FROM YOURSELVES! 
HEAR MY GLAD TIDINGS ON THESE DRUMS FOR I AM THE
GREATEST DRUMMER WHO HAS EVER LIVED!   THE SOUND OF
THESE DRUMS IS THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE MASTER RACE WHO WILL
MARCH UPON YOUR GRAVES!"
        To emphasize his point, he shot down a few stray passersby who had come
to gawk at this unprecedented spectacle.  An old lady carrying a bunch of bags
went down.  The owner of the pizza store was thrown against a brick wall.  A well-
dressed insurance agent with his briefcase landed on the sidewalk.  Weaklings, all
of them, he mused sadly to himself.  Yes, they need him to show them who's boss
around here.
        People ran and hid after this, while he played his instruments of unworldly
music.  Yes, they were listening in awe now.  They were worshipping his
Greatness.  This was the moment he was destined for.
        "COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS HELD HIGH!" he heard a voice say
from a megaphone in the background as he continued to play.  "IF YOU
SURRENDER NOW, WE WILL NOT SHOOT!  YOU HAVE NO CHANCE
OF SURVIVING!  YOU ARE SURROUNDED AND WE ALL HAVE GUNS
AIMED AT YOU!  YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO SURRENDER!  TEN... 
NINE...  EIGHT...  SEVEN...  SIX..."
        Edward sighed and put down his instrument.  Obviously he had no choice;
it was him against all the rest of them.  There seemed to be no way he could get
away from all the bullies in the world.  Well, he wasn't going to let them have the
satisfaction of having him.
        He picked up his gun and stuck it in his mouth.  He took one last look at the
destruction he had wrought on the bus and it was good.  As the announcer was
saying, "ONE!" he pulled the trigger.
        The final image he saw in his scrambled brain shutting off was of the bully
in the locker room saying:  "Suck me off, you fat fuckhead!"  His teeth clenched
from the recoil of his own blast and that of hundreds of bullets going off. 
Dreamily, he imagined he was biting the bully's cock off and watching waves of
pain sweep over his face as he gasped in shock at the spurts of blood pouring out
between his genital-less legs and collapsed to the greasy locker room floor with the
sheer pain.
        Edward finally had his revenge.

        Edward came to.  Where the hell was he?  He was supposed to have died. 
He vaguely remembered flying through a long tunnel embedded with leering skull
heads.
        He was surrounded by gloating demons.
        "Who are you guys?  And where is this?"
        "We are the Masters of Illusion.  Our job is to keep the Real Truth
concealed from you.  You won't be ready for that for awhile.
        "And this is the Court of Karma."
        "I thought I was dead.  I thought the story was supposed to end back there."  
        "Ha!  You fell for it, Eddy!  Boy, did you really do it this time!  Man, you
put on quite a production down there!  We'll have footage of that to show off for
all of eternity!  I swear, this is going to be a major hit in Heaven and Hell!  And we
gotta a deal with a major ex-Hollywood producer who wound up here from
overdosing on drugs, sex, and rock n' roll!"
        "Yeah, Eddy, you gonna be a Star!"
        "Huh, what, I am?  You mean, after all that effort down there, my dream is
finally going to come true?"
        "Sure is, man.  There's only one catch, though."
        "Ummm, what is that?  Something I didn't read in the fine print?"
        "Well, you see, you're gonna have to go back and be those victims you
knocked off.  You see, you did such a great job being a homicidal madman, now
you gotta play the victims, too.  We're not sure we got those characters quite right
and we've decided you're just the turkey to do the performance."
        "Hey, I wanna talk to my lawyer about this!"
        "Oh, I'm sorry, he's doing time in Hell right now.  Turns out he screwed too
many clients - and too many of his secretaries."
        "You can't do that!  I mean, I can't go back there again!"
        "Sorry, what the Karma Accountant says, we gotta go with.  Toodle-loo,
sweetheart.  Have fun getting all shot up, having your dreams being short-circuited
by some crazed murderer."
        "Yeah, one of those kids was supposed to grow up to be a talented
computer musician who would create an entirely different genre."
        "And another would had discovered an anti-aging formula that would had
enabled humans to live a thousand years and eliminate cancer entirely."
        "And, worst of all, you'll have to be a dog that nobody wants and the only
person he could turn to murders him ruthlessly.  All he wanted was love."
        "Shame on you, Eddy."
        To his next ghastly birth, they dragged the howling spirit of what had once
been Edward away.
        
       

        
        

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