Page 32

Sundrop: August 2023

The Rosemond Ripper was a cute name. The police could have come up with so much worse. Or the newspapers. They hadn’t been exactly unkind. The town of Rosemond was pretty. It wasn’t particularly big but large enough to go mostly unnoticed which is what I liked. As the town’s most prolific serial killer, it was essential. I was as basic and normal as I could manage without going too crazy with boredom in my appearance.

My hair was dark, long and a stunning shade of natural brown. My lashes and brows are naturally thick and dark. I was lucky and despite the passing of time, I was only showing a little grey here and there. I had been excited about the prospect of going grey or white haired.

Recently I had discovered grey pubic hair though, that was truly a shock. I hadn’t even been aware such hair could go grey. No one ever told me that, warned me to watch out for it. It made sense of course, what difference would the hair between my legs be to what grew out of my head. Somehow though, it felt like something else that had been neglected, something else I had to learn about myself and my body alone.

No one ever talked about personal things or bodily functions within my family. Everything from periods to discharge and greying pubic hair had been kept locked away as a secret. If it’s not spoken about, maybe it doesn’t exist. Swept under the rug like everything else that made up who I was.

An existential crisis? Must be Thursday.

Still, I had ended up living in this town much longer than I had ever meant to. Kept being trapped here by others until my roots had firmly planted my feet into its very soil. I was being sucked down into the earth unless I paid it tribute. Ok, I knew I was being dramatic. That was a little untrue, but I liked to think that every time I put bits of a body into the ground of my flowerbeds that I was somehow paying the earth back.

Of course, I knew better than to fully bury a body. To be honest, there’s no truly good way to dispose of a body that is exact and guaranteed to work. Investigating serial killers of the past, the ones that were successful had preyed upon victims that no one cared about. They deliberately targeted the most vulnerable groups; gay and queer people, trans people, BIPOC, the disabled, sex workers, children. They were able to get away with their crimes for much longer because of the prejudices against these groups.

No one cared, no one reported these people missing and if they did, they were met with excuses and no real enthusiasm to care for those who truly did need extra care. It was disgusting to realise that these killers weren’t evading capture because of their intelligence but due to the police being incompetent and lacking empathy for the victims. Those groups needed to be protected; the police departments needed to be abolished.

I killed paedophiles, rapists and domestic abusers. The obvious reason that the police had not realised the pattern is because some of the culprits were not of the usual suspects; women, younger men, men who were ‘proud members of the community.’

Some were known offenders, some were not.

My previous job, the one I had before the library where I work now, had given me a wealth of information and I still had access. Albeit by accident and maybe unintentionally but my access had not been revoked for some of the systems. I suppose that was the great thing about the job role being under the same branch of the local council.

I was able to check the homelessness register which was the first point of call for most violent offenders who were released from prison. Most had to move after being found out, some had no homes to return to due to the length of their stay in prison. Some lived such chaotic lifestyles that they just didn’t have a home. They were trickier to track down but not impossible.

I tried not to rely on these systems though, no doubt even with the Council’s old fashioned computer software, there would be some way to track the information if anyone ever went looking for it.

No, most of my information came directly from the mouths of the victims. In my old role, the one I had happily swapped for my more recent one at the library. I had been trained in all sorts including handling those fleeing domestic abuse.

A lot of the time, victims would come to us in hopes of being provided a safe place to escape. It took so much courage and bravery for them to do this. In training we were advised not to ask about the abuse. We didn’t need to know and weren’t there to upset the victim. Also, we had a policy of believing people at face value (which is exactly how it should be all the time, every time).

However, what I did notice is that this was the first time many people had spoken about being abused in any capacity. Once they started talking, some emotional release would take over reason and good sense. The whole story would all come tumbling out.

If I had a heart, it would be broken after hearing all the stories I’ve had to listen to. The fact is it makes me angry. Angry that these people were abused, angry that they were hurt. There was no need to be. I have never backed down from a fight, but I have never, ok, maybe occasionally, hit first. If I have hit first, it was because someone seemingly bigger and stronger had threatened me and they needed to be shown that they cannot threaten me. I do not accept it.

There is only one man who hit me and got away with it and I can’t explain why.

These women, mainly but not exclusively women, usually with children, do not deserve the hatred and heartache of what has been done to them. Since experiencing that myself, I haven’t developed empathy but more a heightened understanding of how wrong and unfair it is. Seeing firsthand the devastating impact it has on them, and the children.

I am dangerous, I could hurt anyone if I really wanted to and never think twice about it. True power comes from using that correctly, not to make those weaker than me suffer. I use it to punish those who are stronger to make sure they can no longer prey on the vulnerable.

The library is a safe space. A place where someone who might not be allowed to go far, whose movements might be tracked. They can speak to one of us about what they are going through. We can then point them in the direction of those who can help, make referrals and phone calls for them. They can use the internet or telephone here.

I don’t know how I ended up here. I came for the books, because I thought it would be easier for me.

This is how I come to be sitting in a small library room with chairs made for children in shades of the rainbow. There is a large, coloured rug underneath the table and this woman in front of me is crying the first tears of her confession. This terrible secret that she no doubt has been holding for a long time. The man, if we can even call him such, will be less of one when I get a hold of him.

Long ago I learned the difference between castration and emasculation. Castration only removes the balls and quite honesty, what is the point in that?

There are two small children hanging from her body. She is practically oblivious to their climbing, their pawing hands. I do my best to keep my face, not neutral but pleasant for their sake. One keeps smiling at me, trying to make me smile along. My smile can be a thing of pure terror, so I keep it to myself.

These children deserve better than the father who beat their mother within an inch of her life. That is abuse, not only towards her but towards the children. It always starts with the mother. Soon enough if he hasn’t hurt the children yet, that always comes. “He’s a good father though.” She stops crying for a moment and manages to say. I can’t help it, “No, he’s not.” I say it plainly enough. We are advised against making harsh statements but it’s not like I have a great hold on my social skills or cues. How I have gotten this far in life without anyone realising what I am is never more of a mystery to me than when I am having to display empathy. I clearly can’t and don’t know how to. No matter how convincing I think I am, it’s not at all.

She stops crying then. The two children are cute. I have never wanted children. Seeing them makes me feel nothing.

Her hair is red, the shocking flame red that I used to always be jealous of. It’s the same colour my grandfather had. The hair is thick and falls down her back in messy strands. It doesn’t look like she’s been able to brush her own hair properly with both the medical attention she has needed and the resulting pain for her injuries. She is lucky to be alive, does she not realise?

Those blue eyes pierce me though, looking at me shocked I’ve said such a thing. “He is though, that’s why I can’t take him away from them or send him to prison.” Not that the courts would probably convict him, not even with evidence or witnesses. They never do.

The conviction rate for rape in Scotland was 24% last year, I should know. That’s one of the driving forces behind what I do. I know that the law, the police and the court system is fucking useless. It doesn’t do what it needs to do. It doesn’t protect those who need to be protected like this woman and these two children.

Who knows what they have seen, what they have heard. I look at them both, their blue eyes as shockingly bright as their mothers but for how long? How long until the light leaves those eyes, and they end up like me? Soulless, lacking in empathy for others because how can you feel empathy towards other people when you are harmed and hurt so badly. When no one protected you or saved you. No one stood up for you or helped you. How can you do that for someone else, knowing no one did it for you? When violence is a daily occurrence, and a house is not a home but a prison? Trapped and never to escape because I’ll always be back in that bedroom, that emerald-green, too young to know and be familiar with vomit and the smell of my own blood.

I don’t hate this woman; I barely pity her. That’s below my abilities but she is testing my patience. I know she can't help it. Trauma affects the brain the same way regardless of what the trauma is. It is not a competition, and I can’t sit here and say that my trauma has affected me worse than her trauma has affected her. I know it has though, if it was a competition then I would win. I can score a perfect 10 on the ACE test after all. How long before her children can say the same? I try to be patient because she needs comfort. She needs someone to help her. I do what I can but mostly, I prepare to make her dear darling Patrick, my newest plaything.

An axe comes to mind for some reason. I haven’t swung an axe at anyone in years! I am excited at the prospects of carving him up with an axe. Hacking into his body. I’ll have to buy one! Where does one buy an axe these days? Is the hardware store still open? My mind is racing with the possibilities, and I am excited, happy to have a project that can make me smile and give me purpose.

The axe is a traditional hickory handled axe, apparently 800g in weight. Oh, it has a wonderful swing to it. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t swinging it around when the parcel was delivered earlier this afternoon. Zero preparation, no investigation needed, not really. Maybe the odd person I’ve killed is innocent. The thought does come to me sometimes. Truthfully, I don’t care, not anymore. I used to have more of a black and white view of life, or morals or my lack thereof. Now? Now I know that the fun exists in the grey areas.

Maybe it really isn't all men. However, it’s usually a man. The statistics of male perpetrators in jail for violent crimes is ridiculously higher than it is for anyone else. Shockingly so. You can’t argue with those facts. Men are violent and abusive by nature.

I think over every single man I’ve ever known; family, friends, colleagues and every single one has been at best, emotionally abusive and at worst physically the bright colours. Rainbow themed for the children, to make them feel safe and happy and heard. Something they probably never were at home. They would be now though. They’d never have to fear him coming home. Of hearing his voice or listening for his footsteps. They’d grow and heal and learn that it’s not all men.

That’s a lie. It is all men though and they all deserve to die. I do hate men. I barely contained my rage towards them. I liked to piss men off, I did it naturally by just being myself. I do hate them. All of them. I like to hurt them, and I like to see them in pain. I will kill men who deserve it and as we covered earlier, if somehow one of them is innocent, then fuck me. Oops. I made a mistake.

Who gives a fuck though.

They don’t give a fuck about the women and children they hurt. They don’t ask questions about it; they clearly lack the morals and fucking empathy. So why should I care if a few “innocent” men get caught in the crosshairs of my murderous rampage?

This man is not innocent. He died at some point. I notice this now, so consumed by blood and Cole and my general anger at the world. I never noticed when he died. I pick up his severed arm, watching his eyes as I see how glazed over they are. Muscle and ligament, flesh falls in ribbons from what is left of his shoulder AND his arm, now dangling where I hold it.

I accept at this moment that it’s not normal to stare at such a mess and remain unfazed.

I’m glad though, imagine throwing up at such a thing like they do on TV. Sometimes the police who attended my crime scenes would vomit after running from the house in a rush to remove themselves from such ghoulish horror.

Giggling, I waved the arm around. He had a decent sized arm, it was heavy. I believe he must have worked out regularly enough for such muscle tone. It weighs more than the axe which I carefully put down on the blood-soaked ground. I don’t want to damage it by dropping it carelessly. I use both hands and pull his hand up to my face, spotting the bruises and cuts around his knuckles. See, not innocent at all. This is the telltale damage he did to his hand when beating up Marion with the red hair and the blue eyes.

Fucking cunt.

I take his arm and throw it across the room. It smacks into the wall of his living room with a loud thump, leaving a new blood splatter with the impact. I laugh. I’m back to laughing. I like the sound and try to make sure I do more to cause such noises to come out of me.

I see the mess the blood has made on the wall and get a nice, gruesome idea.

I always wanted to be an artist. I attended University and studied Art once upon a time. I used to be good at it. If only I’d had some actual encouragement in life.

My feet move forward slowly, not wanting to rush over to the grizzly arm and oozing of blood that now seeps into the carpet. Fuck, I hate carpets, but they are so good at soaking up blood. I love the idea, like a sponge or something being filled with blood. Not a body of course but taking the blood from a body, arguably where it is supposed to be and instead putting it outside the body. Somewhere it’s not supposed to be.

Right now, I can feel my eyes widen in excitement, I’m almost smiling as I bend down, pick up the arm. Remembering that it’s a little big to pick up with one hand and use both, bringing it up so that it kind of leans against my chest. There are so many good things about being smaller chested, and this is one of them. Less boobs to get in the way.

With my right hand I take my index finger and shove it deeply into the cut-up end and dig about a bit. My black gloves are slick against the inside of his arm. Of course, I can only get the tip of my finger in without making any additional holes.

My warped mind can make anything sexual.

Of course I’d find this sexual.

Well, it’s not like I’m getting it any other way.

Once I’m sure that my finger is coated with blood, I begin to draw on the wall. I’m experimenting and don’t really have a plan. Anything I do will cause the police to lose their shit. They’ve been speaking to everyone and anyone to try and get an understanding of the things I’ve been doing and leaving at the crime scenes. Tarot cards, condoms on bodies, missing body pieces and now doodling on the walls in the victim's blood.

Ultimately, I do these things because in the moment it amuses me. I do these things because I can and decided why shouldn’t I? The average person won’t chop off someone’s arm. Forgetting that the person might die from their injuries and then use their arm to draw with blood on the walls. That’s not what a normal person would do, but me? I had the intrusive thought, and I followed through on the intrusive thought. For me though, I suppose these are impulsive thoughts.

There are still some lines even I won’t cross, even when the intrusive thought pops into my head. Those ones I lock away and say no thank you and just move on.

I could be such a bigger monster; more people should be grateful that even though it seems like I don’t have a grip on my sanity, I keep a good level of control always. There are times when my temper has shown through, when in the moment I have reacted. It is however a small fracture of what is inside of me compared to what would happen if it was ever unleashed. That’s the true test of my strength, that I can keep the monster always contained. No matter what anyone does to me.

That’s how I know I would hold up under torture. Because this is nothing in comparison to what it could be. I want my gold star for behaving as well as I can be expected to.

I realise I’ve drawn small red hearts in his blood across the pale beige of his walls. I hate this colour. The hearts are a little feminine, maybe that’s too girly, too close to home even for me. Maybe I don’t care anymore and don’t care if I get caught.

I realise I don’t care, never have. I remind myself I must make myself care. I need to survive, so I can go on murdering more shits like him. I take his arm and press the bloody wound directly against the wall and smear it across my little doodles.

I may as well have just written “Cole” in blood repeatedly. Three times, then three times again. Always in patterns of three, always for good luck.

I think of the old pair of converse trainers in my wardrobe, the one that has a bloody heart on the side. A heart Cole drew in his own blood. He had a pair of trainers with a bloody heart I had drawn in my own blood. That was years ago. There’s no way he still has those shoes.

I feel sad again and determined not to ruin a good night. I throw the arm back towards shithead’s body and it bangs to the ground. I lean down and pick up my axe. Deciding that I am enjoying throwing his arm around and should do the same with the rest of his body.

I go over to his body and decide to start with his cock. I bet he has a small cock, something terrible looking. Maybe it flops to the side like a dead worm. It will be a small one, most men who hit women have small cocks. Literally or figuratively. I believe that a big or small cock on a man has less to do with the physical size but is in reference to his personality. So, this man, regardless of the size will be deemed to have a small cock.

I stare at my axe and puzzle over whether the blade will be too big to cut off his penis and instead wonder if a knife from his kitchen will work better. Hopefully this asshole has knives.

Something sharp, maybe scissors will work.

I pause then and think about a blunt pair of scissors, not good ones but like blunt kid's craft ones. The type I remember from primary school; thick, plastic and brightly coloured. I fantasise about what it would be like to have someone completely awake and lucid. How long it would take and how much pain they would be in if I were to use scissors to cut their cock off.

I’d have to get stronger, thicker gloves, I wouldn’t want to be able to feel the cock. That gives me the ick. Somewhere inside of me knows I’m full of shit with that statement. I would need to get a good strong grip of said penis with one hand and use the scissors with the other.

These are my favourite kind of daydreams.

Not today though, that is a plan for another man, another time. There will always be someone who needs to have their cock cut off. And I’m always happy to do it. I volunteer!

I think back to my ‘misandry makes me horny’ t-shirt and how Cole had laughed when he read it that day. The words spread across my bigger tits in hot pink font. I giggle, I’m doing that more and more. I’d be worried but I’m not seeing things that shouldn’t be there. There’s no shadows or bugs or beings. No voices except the one I always have inside of my head. That one that suggests all the awful things that 90% I put into practice and have fun doing so.

So, I park the idea about the scissors and go back to the adventure at hand. I gently place the axe back down and straddle him, sitting across his thighs. Sometimes I strip my kills, sometimes I don’t. This time I didn't, which is why his arm has pieces of material stuck into the wound from both the arm and his shoulder. Or what was his shoulder. I know I’ll have to get in some practice with the axe. It’s difficult to aim and hit the same place twice.

I think about Rose and when she made her practice move to free Jack and the second swing was comically miles away from the first. It was supposed to encourage laughter and peril; however, it is true. To someone not used to wielding such a weapon, it’s hard to aim and strike true. Granted, I don’t have a sinking ship to contend with but I’m afloat in a sea of red, nonetheless. My own personal ocean, a hell to others and peace to me. A holiday of the soul.

Do I have a soul?

Using both hands I open the button and zip of his jeans and pull them down, moving myself as I do. I realise I’m not just removing his cock but both his legs too. I think as I move that I should completely take off his jeans and… I then wonder if this disgusting creature is wearing boxers or any kind of underwear. My face makes that over emphasised look of disgust that sometimes, no matter how often I practice. I can’t stop myself from reacting.

Disgust, an emotion I do feel in earnest. The revulsion is caused by people, their smell, their lack of basic hygiene and simple things like not wearing underwear. Especially under jeans. What a fucking weirdo.

This is someone I would feel disgust for and then promptly forget about.

My lip is curling upwards through, and I can feel my forehead crease. I shake my head, feeling my face move back into a place of neutrality.

He does have a small, ugly cock. And he smells bad. You know, like rancid, sour semen?Men.

I shake myself again and carry on my task, more convinced than ever to remove his limbs with the axe. I stand and pull the rest of his trousers off. Despite the puddle of blood he’s lying in, they come off easily enough. I discard them somewhere behind me. I don’t care what happens to them.

Smiling now, the bloodlust taking over at the sight of his half naked body and the predatory gaze I have of needing to remove his tiny little member. Ok, it’s perhaps about 4 inches. Probably an average size for most men. I like to humiliate them, even in death. Talking down to them, insulting them. I would do it to their face, alive or not makes no difference to me. A thrill runs through me and my body starts to warm up.

I sigh deeply and take hold of his cock in my left hand, grabbing hard enough that if he had been living still, he’d be crying. Begging me to let go, or maybe he’d scream names at me. Call me bitch or whore or something dumb and poorly thought out. The same stupid shit.

I stretch the penis in my hand, it’s half hard and on a normal night I might have used that for something else but not tonight. I feel like I have my scientist hat on this evening. I am curious about his body and how it works and what it looks like. This is why I wanted to be a mortician. I wanted to cut open dead bodies and find out all its secrets.

Necrophilia too. Even back then I knew that I just didn’t actively accept it. However, mostly because I wanted to be the one to figure out how these victims had been killed, to help catch people like me.

I ruined that though, I’m smart enough but being intelligent only gets you so far when you’re mentally impaired like I am. One straitjacket short of a full asylum set.

I pull his cock up hard and see how far I can stretch it. I laugh out loud, unable to help the joyful noises as I watch it ping back and fall against itself. Not quite like a spring but it’s funny to watch.

Without much warning I grab a hold of it again and pull upwards, taking the edge of the axe, a silver before it got soaked in his blood. I aim and watch closely, taking it back and slowly bringing it to his cock. I do those a few times to practice and finally swing.

The axe gets embedded in his crotch just at the base of the penis. It’s not severed and luckily neither is my other hand, but it’s not off yet either. This might take a few times.

I sigh again, bring the axe back and chop again. I think of dads in Christmas movies from my childhood. Of going out and cutting down their own real Christmas tree. I think about the disastrous date I had when I was asked about my father. “Oh, I don’t have one of those,” I said.

I laugh now, no wonder he had only made one more date before running for the hills. Especially when I commented on the van he drove saying, “Well, I’ve never been kidnapped before.” Men never understand my humour.

Cole did.

The voice interrupts

I want to call him. I want to message him. I REMEMBER THAT HE HAS BLOCKED MY PHONE NUMBER AND BLOCKED ME ACROSS EVERY SINGLE SOCIAL MEDIA ACCOUNT HE COULD FIND. HE DOESN’T WANT TO TALK TO ME.

I severed the penis fully with that thought and accompanying swing. Picking it up, placing down the axe, I brought his (what was his name again?) cock closer to my face so I could inspect it. There’s a little blood coming from the wound at both ends. Not as much if I had cut it off when he was still alive, his heart still beating. The pumping blood would have gushed and sprayed everywhere. I think about how much blunt force trauma it would take to make a man pee blood.

I can’t get caught yet; there’s too many things I want to try.

It’s an ugly looking cock, the type that in real life I wouldn’t let near me. This is not a cock I would put in my mouth or my pussy or my ass. I wouldn’t touch it lovingly or roughly. I wouldn’t do anything to it except cut it up in bits.

Which is exactly what I do to take my mind from drifting back to Cole.

Cole. Cole. Cole.

WHACK. WHACK. WHACK

I bring the axe down upon the penis until I reduce it to a mess of blood and skin that resembles mush. There’s not much poetry in the hacking up of a cock. It looks nice to me though. I take my index finger and begin making swirling patterns around the blood and tissue, a smile coming over my face as I do.

He’ll never hurt anyone again.

As I finish up, I reach into the pocket of my jacket. There’s an extra-large pocket I have sewn myself into the inside left of the leather jacket. It’s a newer one, since I had to replace the last leather jacket I had. I’m not even sure if it’s real leather, probably not. The pockets on this jacket were never big enough and I hate using bags. They are fiddly and get in the way. Besides, I’d need a backpack if I were to carry all my tools around.

So instead, I made my own pocket in the jacket, on the left. The stitching is fucking strong but doesn’t look particularly good. It’s functional, practical but not beautiful. I had once wanted to be delicate enough to stitch pretty things, make things but I rush, and my handiwork is always easy to spot as a DIY job.

The pocket is for the tarot deck that I use for the murders. I have a fascination for tarot decks, I respect the craft and love the artistry of the different decks. I have a collection of nearly 88 different tarot and oracle decks. All different styles, colours, some with beloved characters on them.

This deck is a basic one though, it’s gold and is crafted from the Rider-Waite artwork that was commercialised across decks in 1909, it’s basic and nothing fancy. That was the point, nondescript. It’s just a silly little game for the police. Let them wonder and speculate over what each card means and what potential relevance to this person or their death is.

There is absolutely none.

My very first murder, the accidental one. The one I did for survival. When I robbed him for his ID, hoping he’d have some cash in his wallet, because I believed I was stranded and had no way to get home. He had this deck in his pocket, and it came out when I took those other things. That first card fell because the stupid bastard hadn’t closed the packet correctly.

Ever since then I have left one card at each murder, at random. Because why not. As someone who knows what the cards individually represent, because I have been studying them since I got my first deck from my mother as a present at the age of 12. The cards I shuffle on the spot and pick one at random. I leave it behind somewhere in the mess of blood I’ve created.

It is something I do to throw the police off a bit, how they have their prejudices and call it “satanic” or “unholy”. I am preying on their lack of knowledge to push them off in a different direction.

I shuffle the cards now, the pack and cards themselves worn from being constantly reshuffled, I do this in bursts of threes like I do everything else that is important to me. It just feels right like that, I must let it feel right before I proceed. It’s hard to explain the uneasiness in my brain otherwise. Shuffling, I pick my card and turn it over, the flash of gold from the back of the card being replaced by the picture on the front.

The eight of cups. Now, this card represents walking away from something, a painful ending but a necessary one. Maybe that’s a little too on the nose for me today because isn’t that all I’ve ever done? Walked away, eventually of course, I’ve always been someone who has overstayed their welcome in people’s lives. Never able to tell when someone no longer wants me around. I do walk away though and when I do, I move on like I forget they exist.

Of course, I lack emotional permanence, so I literally forget they exist. Gone. Dead. Buried…

I stare at the card, the back of a figure with their walking stick in hand heading off into the mountains. Adventures unknown unfolding before them. A path opening that wasn’t there before. In the foreground, there are eight cups, chalices, that are knocked over and have spilled their lifeline of liquid; wine, blood, water who knows. Whatever it was is gone, and the card suggests that change and moving on is good. Change brings new and new is better?

I put the cards back into their little cardboard box and stuff it away in my pocket, closing the little button. The eight of cups sits in my hand and I allow it to balance there, contemplating life as it is now and how different it is from what I imagined as a child, as a teenager. I let the card fall onto the floor and I watch as it sits atop the blood of this cunting piece of shit and I stand there, mesmerised by the blood as it begins to seep into the picture. The red spreads across the card but doesn’t stain it fully, even if it gets swallowed up by the ocean of blood it rests on, I’m sure the wonderful police department will make out which card it is.

I don’t really care; it’s not the point.

The point is to make them remember that I am an insane killer on the loose that they’ve failed to figure out or catch and how fucking stupid is that? I’m almost bored at this point in my life. Bored with being better than them. I shake myself and decide it’s time to leave, that I need to plan my exit. I watch the card for another few moments and then move onto the next part of my evening. ?