Excerpt: She Dies At The End

I walk over and close the doors, locking them all tightly. I giggle to the camera, then point it at the dead secretary. She's lying beside her chair, as if she drunkenly fell off it, and that's exactly what you'd be a-thinkin', if it weren't for the bloody mess around her.
I already got a start going on the paraffin, and laying it more and more around the floor, I know my work is all done. I don't need to think about this too much more. I take my suitcase in one hand, and the camera in the other, and go up staircase one.
I give the bottom floor a final goodbye glare; the art annoys me. So pretentious, all abstract and surreal and somesuch jazz.
The flames are nearly explosive, which is fantastic. Everyone loves fire.