"Not just prison, man. Prison for life. Convicted murderer. Tell me that doesn't sound dope as f---."
In the grey light of morning, four black shapes dropped out of the sky and landed in a cornfield. They had not come to make a meal of ears alone, however, as they gathered around the cadaver laying in the crop.
“One a week,” the inspector mused.
Was that a lot? He didn’t really know. Perhaps it was a Herculean effort or maybe it was the sort of thing you could dash off in a lunch hour.
Today's pukka. I've got through a box and a half of cones and it's not even two o'clock.
“I’m telling you, Jeff. I dug the plot, alright? I did it.”
After establishing himself as one of the foremost proponents of the classical school of poisoners, Bassom shifted direction in 1972, eschewing his previous methods and embracing what he termed the “New Brutalism”. This excursion was marked by the savage beating of Claude Bastopoule, whose body was found in Montmartre on 4th October 1972. In this excerpt from an interview held at the Annual Symposium on Premeditated Death, he talks to Peter Cohen about his dissatisfaction with traditional ideas of class, the ennui of contemporary murder and his attempts to redefine the notion of premeditation.
Given that the whole building is based around an oven, you would have thought it would be warmer.
Transcript of recording. 4th May 2012
MP: The time is 4:47 pm on 4th of May 2012. I’m Milton Povey, medical examiner for Maynard County, conducting an autopsy on a caucasian male identified as George Withers. Subject is 170cm in height and weighs 164 pounds. I would estimate his age to be in late forties, early fifties. Hair is brown, eyes brown. There’s a small birthmark on his left patella which looks to me to be in the shape of… let’s see… a horse’s head. Uh…
MARIETTA, GA. William Jefferies was found guilty of four counts of second-degree murder at the state court yesterday. His case received nationwide attention after Jefferies was involved in a series of bizarre incidents that saw him attempting to take his own life, but killing others in the process.
This is Terry Hollins. We know him. We know what he looks like. Now his mortal form has died, but his energy lives on in other forms. He’s here with us now, listening. Have a seat, Tel. Tell. Tell us about the other man.
What is it that distinguishes murder from manslaughter or mishap? Is it motive? Intent? Forethought? Sometimes, it’s nothing more than a moment in time - a few seconds that make the difference between life and death and, by extension, innocence and guilt.
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It had been on Peter’s “to-do” list for some time now, so when he saw the tent at the village fete, he took it as a sign that he should stop talking and roll up his sleeve. He walked in and and said, quite clearly:
“I’d like to donate some blood.”
Nando’s was neutral territory and had been ever since it opened. People needed a place to chill, talk or take their kids for birthdays without having to worry about somebody stepping up and trying to start something. So, it was understood - no matter how bad the situation, no matter how bloody the feud, you didn’t start anything in Nando’s.
Tonight we take the Obsidian Gauntlet. It’s all I’ve been able to think about all day, throughout the eight depressing hours at the office and on the train ride home, all I’ve wanted to do is log on and get started with the raid.
Man, I really didn’t mean to do that, you know? It just, like, happened so quickly. We were out in the field, talking about this year’s crop and he started going on and on about how we had to get serious and have, like, a business plan and shit. I mean, that’s not my scene at all, so I thought I would just let it go, but he kept on and kept on and before you know it, we were having a fight. That’s a real step back for me, you know? I left all that violent shit behind me years ago. Anyway, words turned to shoves and before you know it, I’d grabbed the pitchfork and, well, now he’s got three holes in his chest and he isn’t moving.
When I get to the garage at 6:30, I see Dad’s yellow Peugeot parked outside. He doesn’t wave or raise a hand as I pull in to park, nor does he say hello when I get out of the car and walk over. The only affection he shows is towards my dog, who bounds over to greet him.
“Hello Tyson, hello boy,” he says, scratching the bull mastiff’s ears.
“That’s Buster,” I say. “Tyson was the dog we had when I was little.”
In previous chapters we’ve covered the preparation, assembly and control of your Killbot. In this section, we’ll explore the basic principles of programming and write a simple control script. Programming your Killbot has a number of advantages over manual control, as it allows the Killbot to operate to peak efficiency, leaving you free to deal with other tasks.
I THINK SOMEBODY USED MY PASSATA
(BY ACCIDENT, I'M SURE!)
i can hear them ticking. all of them. at first i thought it was just mr green next door, but then i heard it in the milkman and the man who came to read the meter. i left the house to get away from them, but everyone is ticking just under the surface.