by cynthia ring
Church basementâ€™s unlockedâ€” those exit signs glow like some messiah-manâ€™s busted lip. steering wheel canâ€™t catch fireâ€” Iâ€™m a townsperson. My jobâ€™s to walk through pitch-black hallways, and Scream at texas-chainsaw-reverse-dracula doppelgangers while the invisible canary atop Rebekahâ€™s shoulder sings â€œBaby, donâ€™t hurt meâ€ to that tall boy When they crawl under a plastic fold-up table. SOMEONEâ€™S DEDâ€¦ He whispered in Rebekahâ€™s saran-wrap ear, so she died at 22:35, only to rise up again like a funhouse figure, move both popsicle stick legs like a rusted wind-up toy stuck in the â€œintimatesâ€ section at wal-mart. MUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRDEEERRRR! Sarahâ€™s sprawled out on a jesus company conveyor belt. Rebekah speaks fluent kazoo: â€œLast night, Sarah was hit over the head with a hymnal â€˜Cause the killer didnâ€™t like her fatherâ€™s preaching! (Who did it?)â€
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I’m guessing Esau-Edom). He had motive, means, and opportunity.