Human blood is always different. Never the same. I've seen it many times and it's always different. Just like people.

"This the room?"
"Must be. Just a minute."

This story has a lot of beginnings...

Victim is a caucasian female... 18-24 years... extreme struggle apparent... multiple stab wounds... wearing a wedding dress.

...from her perfect mouth... the mother-of-pearl handle of a straight razor.

....suppose the world makes no sense. No sense whatsoever. Say that all human life is idiotic, all human feeling, an Absurdity. Effect without a cause.

Say that to weep at the death of a child after the death of a million children -- centuries of mothers wailing, gone berserk, each father turning, his heart startled, mistaking a sound for his dead child's voice -- say that it is all a shameful humiliation, not to be put up with.

"So who's the acrobat?"
"Looks like her fiancee."

It's hard to be a policeman and keep God out of the picture.

We detectives have a dream. When we die we get to haul God up before a judge.

A detective imagines this God in our court pleading, "Guilty with an explanation, your honor."

Thus began The Crow: Vengeance.

P.S: Recently updated:
3/9/2002 entry.
4/9/2002 entry.