There’s a killer on the loose. He whisks through the night, shooting and stabbing, slaughtering and slashing, slaying and strangling—or so it reads in the paper.
There’s a killer on the loose, who exposes the blurry line that exists between fact and fiction, the line that contorts to the will of the reader through the lens of their wild fantasies.
There’s a killer on the loose, made of ink and newsprint, stamped onto the page in a column as wide as one’s imagination, and at the end of every story is signed the same name, a man branded with an X on his palm...
Charles Foxborough.
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