Gregson was house-sitting for his friend Murphy—the poor guy had a rare blood infection, after being bitten by a moor wolf. Gregson had several bites, but they were from a woman—it didn’t require a hospital, but sometimes a psychiatrist. The problem was, psychiatrists today are trained to take the side of a woman, and blame the man—especially the white man—for all the ills in society. In fact, choosing to identify as a white man—is a choice today, and a mental disorder in the DSM-V. It didn’t matter much to Gregson—they were all quacks 50 years ago—and they were still quacks today—nothing changes under the sun, except the shadows that quack like ducks, and walk like ducks, and look like ducks, but aren’t always ducks—they choose to be whatever they want to be—Gregson felt it was best to let the crazies who look after crazies be.

He was staring at his cereal.

Why do serial killers need to communicate with the police? He thought. BTK sent a clue to the task force in a cereal box. “Can you trace this disk back to me?” He asked.

“No,” was their reply.

When they caught him, he was enraged that the police lied.

BTK had killed several families by binding and torturing them. He was a President of a Lutheran Church near Wichita Kansas. The human mind is impossible to fathom, and that’s why it’s so interesting.

Gregson munched on his cereal. The house reminded him of Top Gun and Cowboys. Murphy always wanted to fly jets, and be free on the open ranges. There were pictures of F29s, Broncos, and the Marlboro Man. Now, doctors were trying to come up with an antidote for a wolf’s bacteria that wasn’t supposed to exist. Murphy was bitten on the golf course.

Why would a guy who spent his whole life chasing psychopaths choose to live in suburbia, where the school bus picks-up 20 kids on every street corner? Maybe—Murphy secretly wanted to be married and to have a family. He had a good heart, even if—it still wanted to be a bachelor.

Gregson had no pending cases. Madelynn left him for a male doctor—said, he was too immature, despite being 20 years older than she was. Oh well—he wished her the best. Women won’t settle for anything less. Gregson was content with who he was—the women came and went—he preferred that. Once a female started to nest, there were rules—first, he would need to pick-up his laundry—second, he would need to get a vasectomy.

“Women will never get close to my manhood with a knife,” Gregson said out loud— “or their assassin’s knife—doctors have been doing it for too many years to too many men. Heck—they put toxic masculinity into the Mental Health Dictionary.”

Gregson was about to take another bite of cereal, when two gunshots rang out.

BANG. BANG.

“That’s not a drive-by—that’s a rifle!” Gregson peered through the blinds.

A bald man in a wife-beater was on his riding lawn mower with a bullet hole gaping through his chest. A fountain of blood was squirting onto his perfectly manicured lawn.

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