JOURNAL ENTRY 4 - HE WILL BE SADLY MISSED

The first person I am going to kill is an old friend of mine, Martin 'Monroe' Sullivan. Martin and I have been good pals since the last day of spring, 1965, when both of us started working in a Hotel Kitchen near Sneem.

Two summers later, as he staggered home from the Bar, he was knocked down just outside the village of Cullen, about twenty miles east of Killarney, on the Cork/Kerry border.

The driver of the vehicle, who happened to be his brother, came out without any physical damage. Martin, on the other hand, lost the ability to be aware of his own existence about 3 seconds after his brain hit a granite pillar.

Hours later, as he was being transfered by helicopter to Dublin's useless Trauma Ward, I was chopping a womans head off with a kitchen knife up in Newcastle. I didn't know at the time that someone so loving was taken from us like that. I'll never forget the journey back to Ireland. There was only one thing on my mind 'Where did I lose that fucking knife?'.

For thirty long years Martin has been laid up in a tiny ward of St Mathew's hospice, his chubby wife Melda fucking every half-drunk neighbor that will give her some attention. His brother long since at the bottom of some lake in Kenmare. I never liked his family, especially his wife Melda. She had the ability to scare Feral Cats with her presence. Maybe I'll kill her as well, just so Martin can tell all those in Hell what she did. She makes me angry. An uncomfortable rage possesses me when I picture her smiling. Yes, I will, I shall kill her too, or better still, give her severe brain damage so her family can forget about her.

There is nothing worse than being forgotten, far worse than any death, perhaps even more cruel than life. I will make it so she will vanish like a Genie, thats it. I can do things like that, only for my good friends, Martin being one of the closest. Always had time for me, even when he suspected me of hurting his sister. He was a loving individual that spoke the truth to those who did not appreciate it. He was also quite dangerous after a few gin and tonics, especially notable for the ability to actually take a guys eye out with the corner of a beer glass. He occasionally beat his mother as well, for making him feel unwanted, which, in my opinion, was fully deserved.

She was a replica of Melda, his wife, too much beast, not enough lady. Too many opinions, not enough experience. How people like that live so long is beyond my comprehension. It undeniably shows Mans inept nature to those beings that hurt it so much. If it were me, I would have electrocuted her while she was in the bath. Martin talked about it, but he ended up killing no one. Can there be any sadder reflection on a Mans life?