In a rundown tenement,
Littered with old newspapers and assorted garbage,
The light of a tv flickers,
Splashing the dark room with color

In front of the tv,
Sitting on a worn leather recliner,
Stooped and weary with age,
Is a man

His face is creased with worry lines,
And he has not shaved in days,
He sits on the recliner,
And sips from a glass of whiskey

On the tv the news plays,
A family of four were found dead,
Brutally murdered in their own home,
The police were currently investigating

The news didn't report the details,
But in that quiet little house in the suburbs,
Blood ran like water,
Splattered all over the walls

It was as if the killer thought himself something of an artist,
And only blood, was that perfect shade of red,
The father had been found dead,
Propped against the wall of the master bedroom facing the bed

His eyes had been gouged out,
And on the wall next to his head,
Written in his own blood,
Were the words "Watch Me"

And on the bed,
The mother and her two daughters,
All stripped naked and covered in their own blood,
They had been mutilated and *****

Back in the tenement,
The man has set down his drink,
And he is wiping tears from his eyes with the heel of his palm,
Weeping for the poor family

On the tv the reporter is heard to call the killer a Monster,
And the subheading follows suit,
Reading, "Monster still on the loose",
The man looks at this, reads it, taking it in

And a flinty determination steals into his eyes,
He gets up in a frenzy,
Knocking his drink from the side table,
And he begins to speak to himself in a low voice

"That man, that man IS a monster,
He doesn't have the right to be a human being,
And this world doesn't put up with monsters does it,
No, no it doesn't"

Still talking to himself he says quietly,
"We **** the monsters...."
He begins to stride around the tiny apartment with purpose

Rifling through drawers and cabinets,
Grabbing things as he goes,
After he has filled his arms with items,
He arranges them on his meager table, and stands appraising them

An assortment of knives,
All sharp enough to cut,
But the man looks at them for a minute

"No", he mutters, " Not enough, it isn't enough unless he suffers slow like they did.",
So saying he passes over the contents of the tiny room once more,
This time slow and methodically,
And finally he comes to a stop

Picking up a hempen rope,
He wraps an end of it around each leathery hand of his,
And he pulls on the rope,
Until the veins in his forearms stand out

It holds,
Giving a satisfied nod and a grunt,
The man ties one end into a hangman's knot,
Pulling it tight

Speaking more to the world then himself,
He whispers,
"Watch me **** the monster",
He stands still for a second,
And then looks up at his still ceiling fan

With the help of his chair he ties the other end of the rope about the fan,
Pulling and prodding at the knot,
Making sure that no matter what,
It wouldn't give

He paused for  a second,
Breathed in deep,
Placed the noose around his own neck,
Tightened it

And with a fierce kick,
He knocked the heavy chair out from underneath him,
Dangling in the air like a hooked fish,
His lips white as the muscles in his face strained

His eyes bulged in their sockets,
Looking as if they would pop out at any moment,
But they didn't, they stayed where they were,
Just like the man

And ever so slowly,
His twitching grew weaker,
until it finally stopped,
His face going slack,
And his limbs swaying in a nonexistent breeze

The universe looked on,
and watched,
As the faint line that separates the monsters from the men,
Faded just a little bit more