I've been thinking about serial killers lately. And how weird it is that I've never met one. I mean, according to the world of fictional film and books, serial killers are everywhere, stalking our friends and neighbors, waiting in the bushes, and always watching. And yet, strangely, I can't recall the last time my path has crossed with an electric drill-wielding maniac or a cross-dressing cannibal. Maybe I should get out more.
Or maybe it says something about our fondness for conscience-free killers, naughty-by-nature villains who stalk, torture, murder, rinse, repeat without any obvious motive. Or without any motive at all. They're just born that way...