West oak street

March 8, 2010
He stood alone. Shrouded by the gathering fog. His face blank and peaceful. This town knew not of what they had done. He intended to remind them. They had angered him. They had mocked him. Now as he looked through the wet gray vail, he twitched his fingers. If anyone had been around, they would have seen him and recognized him. All they would have seen was just the red tip, of a bloody, rusted knife sticking out of the pocket of his red bloodstained jeans.

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