A bizarre and psychedelic murder mystery. Produced via sleep deprivation and manic episodes.
I do not sleep - merely dream. The silken spirals of Violet smoke drift from my mouth and are made reality by candlelight. The murders are fresh - the game is young.
I glance over the photographs - each a mental prism to reflect and refract the light of reason and concentrate the beam of pure concentrated justice upon the culprit.
More coffee is needed.
The first girl - a buxom blonde with a dumbstruck smile like one 'o' clock half struck.
The second - a skinny brunette with teeth like tombstones and eyes blazing with lust and amphetamines. She's an office worker by day - god knows what she does by night.
The third is but a child - too young, too pure, too sweet to be broken - according to the parents. But the camera never lies, and the violet tendrils turn a sickly green as the scent of molestation hits me.
Father or uncle.
The purity is gone - same for the other two.
A lightning chain link, crackling in the obsidian palace between my ears.
Two scoops - no, three - of strong beans. Twenty of sugar. Piping hot water.
Black as midnight, sweet as spring, strong as a crowbar smack to the face on a musty summer eve - THAT is coffee.
So the killer hunts damaged goods - the serpent that passes between my lips turns blue and shivers with anticipation.
Time to hunt this bastard. Time will forge the chains of thunder and yellow lightning, and they shall bind the bastard and save the world.