The words over at Three Word Wednesday are alter, fond and tranquil. Something short, and not so sweet.
That he had been in-utero during the Cuban Missile Crisis seemed to taint Tony Breslauer’s future life as something of a worrywart and a fine purveyor of the macabre.
Not in a convention sense, however. No, Breslauer was tranquil as a Hindu cow on the outside, like he always had been. This included an idyllic childhood where he successfully learned to ride a bike without a fall, was elected eighth-grade class president (nobody else ran against him) and attending his senior prom with one of the junior class’ most popular your ladies, Jill Gallagher (he even managed to get to second base, fully holding Gallagher’s tiny A-cup breasts in both his palms like a man offering fruit to a crowd).
He couldn’t really say if his college education laid the groundwork for the awakening, what he termed his “altered state,” where he could finally see life for what it truly was – a twisted, burning car wreck in agonizingly slow motion. But that’s where he first practiced his art, which is what he called it, and everything went so very fine and he didn’t get caught and so many got hurt.
It was therapeutic. It was a calling.
Breslauer was fond of saying - and only to himself in the dark, the sheets pulled tight against his chin in balled-up fists – that the time was ripe to speed up the ruin and bring about something of a rapture.
Not The Rapture, of course, that was for the true believers and he was pretty sure he’d be one of the wicked left behind to burn for their sins anyway.
No, Tony Breslauer wished for a euphoric state of blood-red murder, screams, the look of horror screwed onto every face in every corner of the world.
Oh, he was doing his part. Not everyday, of course, that’s how you get caught doing the sort of nefarious things he was known to accomplish.
No, Tony Breslauer hunted selectively, within his own demographic: Single, white, successful, fearful.
“Business is so very good,” Breslauer said, flipping the plastic visor down on the motorcycle helmet he wore as he commenced to run a hacksaw through this middle-aged-man’s ankle bones.