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rapists, the molesters, the simple country fucks who murdered one another for drugs or for fun.  It was once a job that paid, but in their new world Samson new Al embodied the perfect characteristics to bring home to Moira and the children.  Only it wasn’t just the need to fulfill Moira’s requests that helped him decide what to do with Al, it was the fact that he knew Moira would be furious with him for bringing home a criminal.  “What did she expect?”  He asked Veronica as he cast out another line into the bay.  “That I would bring home an outstanding upper class citizen?”  He scoffed.  “For one, I don’t think they exist anymore.  And basically it boils down to I didn’t think I had it in me to bring home someone that didn’t deserve to die.”
    He continued the story of Al, vaguely discussing the details of how things got messy.  Al had broken his promise to keep his cool, as Samson knew he would.  He had pulled his shotgun out, slamming the weapon into Samson’s chest and knocking him to the ground.  He ordered Moira to undress, slowly, relishing in the misery that he for a split second believed he was inflicting upon the couple.  His behavior had only fueled Samson’s hatred for his kind.  He remembered laughing at him, laughing so much while gasping for the air that had been knocked out of him.  Hysterically laughing on the floor because what Al didn’t know is that Moira loved to put on a show.  Moira was even crazier than Al.  Between the laughter and the grinning, dancing woman in her underwear before him, Al had been confused and distracted long enough for Moira to smash her prized Tiffany’s lamp over his head, knocking him out cold.  Samson’s laughter continued as Moira screamed at him uncontrollably to “shut the fuck up” and “clean up the fucking mess” he’d created.  He told Veronica of the long haul of dragging Al’s heavy unconscious body up the staircase, how the nearer he grew to the closed door of his son’s bedroom, his temporary insanity had deserted him, the noises from inside got louder, and the knot in his stomach grew tighter.
    “How many?”  Veronica asked without looking at him.  She stared at her filthy hands, covered in the rotted guts of what someone might have eaten for dinner on a night that seemed so long ago.
    “Two.”  He listened to the water sloshing beneath them.  “The first one was the housekeeper.  That’s how I knew for sure Moira had snapped.”
    Samson continued his story.  His son, his curiosity getting the better of him and despite his father’s wishes, snuck outside to find out what his father had been doing in Will’s yard on that fateful day.  Moira had been entertaining herself, playing dress up and Samson was freshening up in the back of the house.  His son was completely free to explore.  Before anyone had even noticed he was missing, Robbie burst into the house covered in blood.  Leti, their housekeeper of nearly 6 years began screaming as if she were being attacked.  When Samson heard the commotion he practically flew across the vast expanse of the first level of their once beautiful home.  Keira, his daughter, stood silent and unmoving, not watching the scene in the living room, but scanning the front yard nervously through the cracks in the freshly boarded windows for any unwanted company.  Moira leapt from the staircase and threw herself to the ground beside their son before Samson had reached him.
    “We need more towels!”  Moira hollered and Leti ran to the kitchen to get them.  Robbie lay on the floor, bleeding out from a massive wound on his right forearm.  It was so deep that bone was exposed and chunks of flesh hung from his arm.  Nausea briefly overtook Samson before he arrived at his son’s side.  Leti thrust the towels into his hands and he applied pressure to the wound.
    “Moira, I need you to calm down.  I need you to get me a sheet.”  He stared down at his son’s chubby