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Arsonists, pyromaniacs, whatever you might call them, they're a danger to our unique and complex world. A five year old could see this. Deeds of these filthy putrid souls are not taken lightly by citizens. The waves of fire when they extend and smoke is nearly as frightening as a gun. Personally, the gun sounds more merciful than ths sharp sting of an open flame.
I sat in my living room, my children watching Spongebob Squarepants, when my wife walked into the room. She held a knife in her hand, blood all over its blade. "Dinner's ready." she said. It was time for some good old fashioned steak.
"Come on, munchkins!" I laughed. "Time for dinner!" My kids dashed to the doorway to get to the kitchen, when there was a loud bang in the distance. Gunfire? This band was far too loud to be simple gunfire. An explosion. Of what? "Stay in here." I commanded. I walked to the door, walked outside to the curb, and peered in the distance. Smoke arose in the distance, sirens wailing, neighbors concerned. Looking toward the tradegy, I realized that this was no ordinary house. It was Frankie's house.
Frankie was involved in a social movement allowing the local law enforcment to ask anyone, accuse anyone, or interrogate anyone, if the conversation is relevant to crime. A lot of people disagreed with this movement. A lot of people wanted Frankie wiped for beginning this movement. Frankie was my best friend. I ran down to the scene. No one followed. A cold air whisped the back of my neck.
When I arrived ai the scene, I reallized a propane tank exploded, and gas was poured all over the property. The fire was near unstoppable, but being tended to properly. A saw a sleeping bag, sipped to the top. Frankie was gone, but I did not remourse his death. In the suburbs of a small town so far from big cities, only the wisest make it. I was not wise.
I cried, walking back home from the wreckage. I could hear the water escaping the firehoses behind me, when I felt the cold, hard, steel blade of a knife. It pulled away, a hard punch reaching the back of my head. I was out.
I awoke, tied to a pole nearby. It was late in the night, so no one could hear my hushed mymbling behind the duct tape. I saw the perpetrator pouring gas on the roof of my house, the gas soaking the gutters and the walls as well. I saw my family tied to chairs sitting in the doorway. "HMMMMM!" I tried to scream. Hopelessness filled my heart. Tears began to stream doiwn my face. I could see the glint of tears on my children and wife emnating from the lamp post. "HMMMMM! HMMMMMMM!"
I watched the man pull out a match, light it, and throw it onto his head. But not before he poured gas all over his body. He stopped, dropped, and rolled in the gas he poured all over the roof. He was on fire. The fire spread quickly. Hope faded. I watched the smoke rise. I heard the sirens. I watched my family burn to death. The suicidal pyromaniac killed them. "HMMMMMMMM!"
As the house fell apart, I realized that i would never see them again. Their guardian angels failed them. I watched them burn, not able to look away. I screamed under this dect tape. I cried, I fell apart, my life falling before my eyes. When the firetrucks came, it was too late. They had left this world, for the better ir worse.
When I was released. I saw their burnt corpses being carried in sleeping bags. I was surrounded by people. "NO!" I screamed. I fell to my knees, weeping in sorrow and anger. How could this have happened How? "NO!" After the fire, after everyone left, I still kneeled on that road, crying. I refused to leave my home. I loved them.
Before they left though, I had to ask them the man's name. A name I would never forget. A name that would never leave my thoughts. Every time I would fall asleep, I would hear this ticking like a clock insife my head: Frankie Malchovich.