A quick note to our readers: This was intended to be posted yesterday on Friday the 13th, until my WiFi went haywire after about 40 minutes online. But it’s still an awesome piece, and it’s going live, because, as they say – it’s better late than never!
Winter is Murder
By Lou Rera
It’s two below zero in the dead of winter in the dreary city of Buffalo, New York. I could bundle up and stroll down to the mission district and slice the throat of a homeless man to spare him the misery of waking up on another useless morning in this long Chinese water torture of a winter. His blood would freeze as it spurts out of his neck—an art installation as an homage to John Carpenter’s, The Thing.
I could do these and many other hideous atrocities at the stroke of midnight on this frigid February, Friday the 13th. A day to celebrate the irony of life and the popularity of murder. I write about these things because my mind is drawn to the horror that is built into the cynicism of life that inevitably crawls toward toward finish line of oblivion. I imagine. I dream. Then write. And that’s what separates me from the madmen who actually commit these crimes.