Stan krimnoff was bold and sharp. When he said he was going to do something he did it. He never had enough blood in his teeth. When he murdered poor Percy Winkley, he did it slow and soppy. Still red from death he dragged the body back to his barn where the hay was stacked tall, and the smell was stronger than purification. As he left the barn he whistled a toon that Suzi Fitzgerald had sung before he killed her. The lyrics had something to do with a snake and a curious child, but he didn’t remember them. Soon he would grind his pile of corpses into mush and fertilize the fields. A hard day of work lay ahead. His dogs began to bark. Someone was at the gate.