"Hi Jonas."

"Hey."

"Come in- what's up, buddy."

"Cindy- she's dead."

The look on Dieter's face was all Jonas needed.

"What? Oh my god. How?

"No, wait, not her."

"Jonas?"

They were standing next to a fireplace. Jonas brought his hand up and pulled the trigger and put his hand down all in one smooth motion, like waving at somebody who turns his head too soon and doesn't see it.

The room smelled like smoke and guns. Jonas felt his legs: yes, they were tired. He dropped his gun at Dieter and went out the door. He left it open.

Goddamned door.

A coupla weeks later, like about two months or maybe four. Jonas was on a bus, by himself, except for an old woman and two kids and a guy with a mustache reading the Post and some ladies talking about spiders and another old woman. And of course the bus driver who wasn't gay but whose name was Eddie and not Greg like his name tag said, and a dude sitting next to Jonas wearing a shirt.

Jonas had a great big knife in his hand. He said, "Sarah."

The dude said, "What."

Jonas said, "Sandy. You know anyone named that?"

The dude opened his eyes and leaned away like he was maybe a little scared or uneasy around great big Jonas. So Jonas rammed his hand around in a great big arc and slammed into the dude's chest and it stuck real hard. He gritted his teeth and pulled the knife through the top of the dude's chest. If he hadn't been holding a knife he would have left a great big bruise on the dude's pec. Pectoral.

The bus went whoosh and Jonas got off because it was nighttime, nobody was screaming, and the dude was still leaning away, like he was still uneasy, but, he was also dead. Jonas, Jonas had to take his shirt off because there was some pec blood on it. Tossed it in an alley. Ran really really fast long way, home.

"Shelly!" Jonas shouted, at his house. This was a long time later. A week.

"Jonas!" she shouted back. They were in the same room.

"Oh. I thought you were in the bathroom."

"No." She looked like maybe she was crying on the inside. Maybe about Dieter. She laughed. "Jonas, listen to this," she said, ruffling the newspaper crinkly.

"Where's your fingernail polish."

"In the bathroom. Doctors estimate that three out of four hypochondriacs are healthier than your average adult."

Jonas stood up and went into the bathroom. As he sat there, he lit a candle. Then he painted his right thumb red. Sarah walked by the door, into the kitchen. "Hurry up, I drank too much tea." Jonas loved her. He used nail-polish remover to remove the nail-polish from his right thumb, then painted his left pinkie and his left ring finger. He wiped: dry. He flushed, and waited in the kitchen while Cindy went, then he washed his hands.

The next morning, Shelly got up before him and kissed him goodbye. "Jonas, you got nail-polish on your butt." He went back to sleep.

"I'm not rich."

"The university covers my fees, Mr. Jonas."

"Well, the teacher said serial killers. They."

"Yes."

"Always use the same modus oper and eye. Always choose the same victim."

"Yes."

"Not me. I got Dieter with a gun that Sonia's dad gave me and Dave was with a knife that I bought in a gas station on eye-35 between Des Moines and Mowiston on a Thanksgiving trip last Christmas."

"Then you are not, by definition, a serial killer, Mr. Jonas."

Jonas nodded in contemplative agreement. He was on a couch. "I'm a murderer."

"No, a mass murderer kills many at once."

Jonas nodded. "I killed."

"Mr. Jonas, the gun. Is Sonia your girlfriend."

"Yup. Me and Shelly- we've been dating for, gosh, two years now." Very slowly he pulled a length of piano wire from his pocket: slitherrrrslithhhhherrrrrr.

"Are you impotent?"

"No. I'm not gay, neither."

"Why do you bring up homosexuality, Mr. Jonas."

"Call me just Jonas."

"Please do not change the subject."

"Okay."

"Did you fantasize about killing when you were a child?"

"Sledgehammer. Jonas shouted, "Bang."

"Did you fantasize about killing your father with a great big sledgehammer."

"Yea," Jonas said, liking the idea. "But mostly it was hitting the metal poles in our basement, bang."

"And do you find these fantasies now are like the one you had as a child."

Jonas wrapped wire around three of his fingers on his left hand- the middle finger was already painted. "You. Don't. Believe. Me."

"No, I do not, Mr. Jo-"

"I said call-"

"Do you look in the toilet before you flush."

Very quickly Jonas stood up and walked to the doctor, his head graying with head-rush. He got behind the doctor and wrapped piano wire around his neck and pulled very tight. The doctor calmly put his hands up to stop Jonas. His glasses fell off.

The doctor died. Jonas put the man's glasses back onto his face and noted the wire had cut into his neck. Jonas left it there. He noted that the cut released blood in more of a stain than a flow. Jonas had hoped for a stainflow

Stain-flow.

Shoot. Shoot shoot shoot. Daryl wasn't dead yet. Jonas swung the sledgehammer again, grunting with the effort. After all, it weighed about a million pounds. It went fwack and splashed into Daryl's head. Jonas was trying not to cry there in the dark, it smelled so bad. Daryl tried to gurgle but laid himself still on the cold basement floor. Jonas had his shoes off. It was supposed to go in one swing, but Jonas had bounced the sledgehammer off Daryl's head and broke his shoulder first.

First, Jonas went to the police station. He squared his chest and walked with his head high up to the desk sergeant who was fat and smoked a cigar and had a mustache, just like on television. "I killed, sergeant."

The sergeant continued writing in a big book.

"I killed Dieter and then I killed, um." Jonas squinted his eyes, ".Eddie, and then the doctor."

The sergeant looked up. "What?" he growled menacingly.

"I said I killed Dieter and I-"

"I heard what you said. What do you want."

Jonas scowled. "I killed Dieter and Tony and Doctor-"

The desk sergeant leaned in very close to Jonas and almost put his nose to his nose. "Get the hell out of here."

Jonas stuck out his bottom lip and walked over to the bench and sat next to an old black woman who was sleeping with her eyes open. He took out Sandy's nail polish and painted his index finger on his right hand. He blew on it too make it dry, and after awhile, the old woman woke up and blew on it to help him too.

Jonas got up and went back to the desk. "Umm. Can I. Borrow your gun."

Without looking up, the sergeant shouted quietly. "Get the hell outta here I said."

Jonas left.

He went to Daryl's house. He opened the door, and Daryl was asleep on the couch. He woke up. "Hey, Jonas."

"Quick, Daryl, there's um. A fire in your. Basement."

"Jesus." Daryl got up and walked past Jonas, stumbling to the kitchen. He went down the basement stairs. "Where is it? Jone? I don't."

That's when Jonas whacked him a good one with the sledgehammer.

Jonas got off the bus. He walked into his apartment building and up the stairs. he went into his apartment. Cindy was there. "Jonas, we're out of bread."

Jonas went into the bedroom and took off the clothes he borrowed from Daryl's and put on his clothes of his own. He went back into the living room.

"Yea, I guess Dieter is dead."

She was looking intently at the television, standing in front of it. "Yea. Go get me some bread."

"Did you, um, did you ever sleep with, umm, you know. Dieter?"

Shelly shrugged. "Sure. Me and him used to go at it while you slept in the spare room that time you had the flu and snored so much. Now get me some bread."

"Seriously."

"Seriously, I want a toasted cheese." She flipped channels

"Well, Dieter got shot."

"Drug dealers. Make sure it's Wonder and not that cheap store brand."

Jonas stuck out his bottom lip. He went into the kitchen. There was no bread. He went into the bathroom, used it, washed his hands. He went back to where Sarah was. She was still staring with great big wide eyes at the little t.v. "Sonia. Let's rent a movie."

"Jonas. Go get me some bread."

Jonas went to get bread.

The thumb should be a good one, Jonas thought. It should be a good one and not boring or stupid. Jonas went over to his pal Doug's house. "Hey Doug, let me ask you a question."

"Just a sec, Jone." Doug was very rich and did heroin. "Oooh. Goood. Ummmm."

"Okay, here's the question."

"Fuuuuck. Go away, Jone."

"Let's say you want to, maybe sort of, kill a guy."

"Aaaahhh."

"Do you use a gun again? Or maybe a plastic bag."

"Jooooone. Get me that bowl."

Jonas got it. "Or maybe some kind of knife? You know? The neck?"

Doug put the bowl on his chest. "Jone. Use a. yea."

Jone rocked on his haunches. "Fire?"

Doug giggled softly. "Shiiii."

Jonas decided to use a gun again. He took Doug's

Maybe a fortnight later, maybe thirty three days. "Jonas, your hand."

"Yup."

Sandy shook her head. "You're weird."

"No I'm not."

"How come you only painted those three nails?"

Jonas shrugged. "It was hard. I had to use my teeth."

Shelly shook her head. "I'm calling Doug. You want?"

"Naw. I got."

After he had left Doug's Jonas had gone to the park with the gun and waited for someone to walk out of the little park bathroom. After a long time a little kid walked out, and then like a half an hour later a little kid walked in again, and he was followed by a greasy pervert in a trench coat. Jonas went in, too.

The greasy pervert had the kid up against a wall. Jonas. BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM click click click click. The kid pulled up his pants and ran out real fast. Jonas wanted to shove the gun down the greasy pervert's throat but couldn't find it.

After that Jonas was in the basement of his mom's house. The old dear. She was out shopping. Jonas labeled a box and put postage on it and got some tape ready. He had his thumb painted, biggest nail of them all. It was dry, and all of them looked good. Jonas picked up an axe and with all the force he could muster brought it down on his wrist. Damn, missed. Hurt. he brought it up and held it high, screamed as loud as he could before his felt his throat tear and brought that sonofabitchin' axe down on his wrist. That did it. Hand severed. He picked it up with his other hand and put it in the box, and managed to get it closed and the tape pressed down. Mailed it.

Now he watched Sarah call Doug on the phone. "Doug. You got?"

Pause.

Jonas decided to go finish his other two fingers.

They arrested Jonas, at last.

He walked into the holding cell. There was another guy there, with dread- locks. He peered at Jonas. "What the fuck you know 'bout killing."

Jonas stuck out his bottom lip in contemplation. "Read about it. Saw it on T.V. a few times. Did it some. Seen it in the movies."

"Fuck, man, how about this- I myself been killed."

Jonas sat down on a bench, cradling his arm. "Foul mouth."

"You got the foul mouth."

Jonas didn't say anything. He scratched the scar above his wrist.

The man sat on the floor, hugging his knees. "You ever been killed or somethin'?"

"Naw. I once o.d.'d on cocaine."

"Didja die?"

"Naw, but I bled out of my nose for about a month."

"Me, I got shot real hard in the back by this cop who don't like me because me and his name is the same."

"What's the name."

"David."

Jonas shrugged. "I'm out of fingers."

"You the one with the foul mouth."

A little bit later a burly man in plainclothes came by. "Jonas."

Jonas stood up.

"Follow me."

He followed.

In one of those interrogation room you see all the time in the shows, Jonas sat in front of the burly cop and another, skinnier cop. "So, you say you're the one who killed Dieter Anderson."

"Yes sir."

"And you killed Michael Killinger."

"Tony, Eddie. Whatever."

"On the 3-27 bus."

"Great big knife."

"Doctor Howitzen?"

"Stain-flow."

"Piano wire."

"From my mom's piano."

"Daryl O'Brien.

"Bang."

"A John Doe in Deer Park."

Yea, he was a pervert, I think."

"Killed anyone else recently?"

"About 85 people."

"How many people today, Jonas?"

"About two hundred people."

"Two hundred's more than 85."

"Yea, I was busy." That was a pretty good joke.

One of the cops brought up a sheet of paper. "Wanna sign this for us?"

"Okay." He signed it.

"Where's your hand, Jonas."

"I mailed it to you."

The trial was a week later. In it a man in a suit said, "Your honor, Mr. Jonas has admitted to killing ten people in four days time. The DNA from the hand matches his, and his prints match those found on the guns, the knives, the sledgehammer, the blowtorch, and the piano wire matches exactly with his mother's piano. That evidence suggests Mr. Jonas was in a drug induced stupor should be of no consequence. Neither cocaine, methamphetamine, lysergic acid diethylamide, nor phencyclidine provide a sufficiently psychotic state to absolve Mr. Jonas of his responsibility. The state requests that your honor gives Mr. Jonas the death penalty."

And he did, too.

In a cell on his last day, a great big guard asked Jonas what he wanted for his last supper.

"I want beans and wieners, a egg salad sanwich, some rice a roni, lime Jello."

Later, as he ate it, a priest sat with him. "Confess."

"I did it."

"Why, son."

Jonas held up the sandwich with his hand. "This is a good sanwhich."

The priest was confused. "Did you do it for the sandwich, son?"

"Of course."

Jonas got fried.