On real-life monsters

My favorite fictional serial murderer offing a perp.

3:36 a.m. on a rainy Friday. Watching Dexter season 3 episodes. Trying to wash out the grim memory of Thursday the 13th, particularly the rape-slay of that 19-year-old girl in UP Los Baños (just one of the heinous crimes that was reported that day). I checked her Facebook account. Big mistake. Now I can’t look at my daughter without seeing the victim’s face. Who can blame Ronald Llamas, the president’s political adviser, if he wants to own an AK-47 to protect his family?

I like to believe that out there in the dark and rain a real-life Dexter is doing what the authorities, with their politics and bureaucracy and incompetence and shit, could hardly do: finishing off bad guys. Ending the careers of rapists, murderers, robbers, and other such scums who make the streets unsafe for us and our loved ones.

In the most unimaginably brutal way possible, if I may suggest.

Unfortunately, Dexter is a dude named Michael C. Hall and he’s an American actor who’s rich enough to afford the best security for him and his family. Which means we just have to fend for ourselves.

So much for wishful thinking.

And also for these gloomy late night/early morning I-haven’t-slept-yet thoughts.

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