Chapter Sixty Four: A Thirst For Blood

He can feel the familiar urge again. The desire to strike. The need to shoot. And the immediate comfort of the thirst for human blood.

There is something wrong with his senses lately, especially the curious manifestation of the depth of his imagination and his seemingly impaired visual appreciation of a lot of things. He knew in his heart that his morals have been completely compromised, but his mind seems to lose access to his superego or the utility of his conscience, an important element of the process to create a more perfect picture needed that is appropriate to what the circumstances and the stimuli are actually demanding to induce a certain response.

In the midst of this personal dilemma is a strange voice coming from within himself. He suspects that it was this kind of voice that created more urging of his strange desires lately, that it was telling him that he was meant to positively heed the call, and kill more lives as it instructs him to do so. It was through this method that he learned to triumphantly liberate himself from the slavery of the laws and the ridiculous caprice of the establishnent of the ruling class.

And so he went on his way tonight, and killed a Taxonomist yet again. He did it in the most painful way; the cry and anguish of his victims are music to his ears and the sound of cruelty excites his senses, and it gives him the feeling of extreme euphoria and unexplained sexual pleasure.

This particular dead Taxonomist, the newest victim of his pursuit for ideological freedom, deserves to die from the most ruthless manner possible. He is a hypocritical animal just like all of them, the type of person who can manipulate the current system to gain personal favors from illicit affairs on his behalf. He was practically begging for it, to die; and he must suffer a very painful death. It was decided by himself as a form of justice from oporession, and it will be done.

The murder has been made; the hypocrite was lying on the floor in his pool of blood.

As always, he stooped down to snell the blood even further. It was exhilirating to the senses, in strange ways that he cannot explain. Words fail him when he was searching for freedom and liberty.

That is because he was a Werebeing himself. Or an Illustrator, if one may argue a different case. There is no substantial difference between the two, anyway, at least by way of visible comparison or inherent ability.

He immediately fled the scene once he was convinced that the Taxonomist was already very dead. He carried out the murder by taking another form of an attractive human being. He succeeded again in following the instruction of the hidden voice within his soul. As always, it was speaking to him with pretended sincerity. This voice was called "the Sovereign" as far as he can remember, and so this particular obedience from his valiant efforts have gained him another extreme favor.

One day, he will reach to that particular person he needed to eventually neutralize, and then this personal mission will soon be over. That is the best way to becone sovereign, he was told. There will be no more prejudice, no more hunger for existence. No inequality, no inferiority, and no more social status. No killing of dreams, and no trampled dignity. 

Everyone will then be free.

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