Kyle Mylan heard music thumping somewhere. Somewhere else still, he heard screaming. An argument. Kyle's rage was hungry. He went to his pantry to choke down some aspirin, then the refrigerator, chug down a Coke, then to sit and watch some T. V. He stared-zoned out, zombie-like, at nothing. That is how he felt, with the exception of the rage. A little later, Kyle Mylan cooked spaghetti, scarfed it down and picked at a second serving. He was unsure of what to do. All that noise, all that noise. Something needed to be done. He went upstairs, hungry still. He went upstairs to the screaming room. He stalked up there. The couple in there, still screaming. He walked in on them and his rage became someone (something) else. It walked beside him. A slavering, mindless, slaughter-minded super-beast. The rage told Kyle to go downstairs while the people were being massacred. Rage laughed. A disturbing, visceral sound. Rage gripped the man. Rage extended his bone claws and ripped off the man's face, blood spraying and dripping all over. the place. Rage licked his chin and chucked the still spasming body out the window. The woman screamed and screamed and ran. Rage followed and plunged his lethal hand into her chest and ripped out her still beating heart. Rage laughed.
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