Fred lay in bed, unable to raise a finger. The quack said he had some unpronounceable illness. He was dying. Slowly. Death could come in a year. Two even. He had his off days. Today was one. All he had to cheer him up were memories. Like when he slit that little girl’s throat. His final kill. 76 years old and never been caught.
A male nurse burst in, sobbing. “She shouldn’t have said that. I’m not a loser. I’m not a nobody.” He opened a jerry can, splashed petrol about, threw a match. Flames erupted. “I’m not a nobody!” he growled as he stormed out.
Fire tore at Fred’s feet like a sulfuric lion.
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