An Extract.

A part of the book I am writing. I need to improve a lot, I know. Still, enjoy the murder.

...I have always hated the homeless who crowd our city. Those cowards who have no life left to speak of. They, who go on zombie-like, their eyes devoid of emotion and their visage empty of expression. Their motherfucking vacant gaze gets on my nerves. They are the people who have given up, who refuse to fight back against the shackles in which they have been bound and trapped by the world. They are already dead but refuse to leave their physical form.

Well, I guess, I should do something about it.

Ronny found him in an alley. A homeless guy whose wrinkled face and shabby clothes were so caked with the accumulated dirt, that his features were barely distinguishable. He was sleeping, the sleep of a man who has had his fill of cheap alcohol, defeat and probably, nothing else.

Ronny walked the length of the alley, found no one in the alley. The streets at that time, which was nearly two in the morning, were absolutely deserted. The alley was dark and the one street light it had, was broken.

Ronny wore a black raincoat, perhaps to make him self, blend more easily with the night or because he had seen many killers in the movies, over the years, do the same. On the other hand, maybe he did not want to get his clothes bloody. Ronny took out the butcher knife, from one of the deep pockets of his black raincoat, the gleam of its blade being the only source of illumination in the dim alley, apart from the crescent bloody moon.

He went up to where the homeless vagabond was lying in his drunken stupor. He kicked him in the ribs with nearly all his strength. The hobo groaned in response to the excruciating pain, but did not wake up. He kicked the hobo again. The hobo was too defeated in the spirit to acknowledge the pain he was feeling, with anything other than with a feeble moan.

After a number of kicks delivered to the various parts of the hobo’s anatomy, Ronny was finally able to place himself and his knife in the center of hobo’s attention or somewhere close to the center.

“Look at me.” Ronny rasped, being out of breath after all that kicking and his mouth dry with excitement of the approaching kill.

The hobo tried to focus his gaze upon Ronny and then with some effort blurted out, “Who are you?”

“You know what you remind me of?” Ronny asked rhetorically.

“Who are---?”

“You remind me of shit. You represent the people who have been excreted out of the civilization and you know why?”

“Who are you?” the hobo managed to ask again with some considerable effort.

“Because you let everyone dump their shit on you, until you were so covered with filth, that there no longer was any difference between you and crap.” There was a hint of rage in his voice.

“Who are you?” The hobo, muttered, eyes already drooping shut, the alcohol in his system fighting to put him back to sleep, where the dreams took him to a land in which he was still happy, sometimes.

The irritation that Ronny had been feeling at hobo’s lack of attention, now transformed itself into a cold rage. Ronny, positively delighted in it. For him it was as if God spoke to him through the medium of this uncontrollable rage.

“Well, it seems to me, my little filthy, defeated friend, that your stay on this planet is about to end. You don’t really want to live and I don’t want you to live either. So, anything you would like to say before this little knife in my hand gets to know your neck intimately?” Ronny asked in voice devoid of emotion, expression, devoid of every hint of humanity.

“Who are you?” the hobo said bleakly, some of what Ronny was saying seeping through to his muddled brains, finally realizing that something bad was about to happen to him.

Ronny goggled at the hobo, amazed at hobo’s inability to articulate his feelings into any sentence other than a ‘who are you?’ He could no longer look upon the hobo as another human being. The hobo repulsed him to an extent he had not thought possible.

He replied in a calm, cold voice. “Who am I?” He paused, and gazed steadily at the hobo.

“I am Spiderman.” He cackled coldly, as his knife began its grisly work upon the hobo. For Ronny time stood still as he purged himself of a small portion of hatred, he had collected over the years.

The dreams that Ronny had that night were not very pleasant. He dreamed that he was a hobo, one very similar to the one that he had slashed out of existence earlier that morning. The scenario was so plausible and it so disgusted him, that when he did wake up, he had to rush to the bathroom and throw up...