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body and twisted brain. The hideous needs the holy because without the holy it would have no hope for redemption. Likewise, the holy has an interest in seeing to it that there is a proliferation of hideousness. Happy, beautiful people have no need of God. It is only when people are debased by degeneracy of the mind or body that they consciously seek me out. And I desire to be sought out. Worshiped.
    For God to be relevant, degeneracy must reign. And it is not enough for the number
    of deformities to grow over time. My wish is to bend the human genome in the direction of deformity. The deformities of each generation must be more grotesque than those of the generation that preceded it. Each child should be more appalling than its parents.
    And so the cycle must continue and escalate until – at the end of history – we arrive at a destination of ultimate deformity; the place at which humanity has reached the peak of perversion. I shall perfect humanity in the only way it can be perfected, by making it perfectly monstrous. By placing it in a position where it can no longer be self-sufficient; a place of constant need. A place at which it must cry out in constant supplication.
    You can see, then, how important Lori’s child is in the vast scheme of things. Our
    son – and all my children – are steps along the path to perfection. He must survive into adulthood. Not only survive, but copulate. Preferably with a conjoined twin, a
    microcephalic, or some other genetic wonder. That is my goal for him.
    Eleanor planned to commit suicide with Lori because she thought she’d be damned,
    anyway, after indulging in pleasures with a woman (and she could no longer restrain
    herself from seeking out such pleasures).
    She was foolish. My wrath against the adulterers had nothing to do with the fact that they both happened to be women. It had to do with the fact that Eleanor had chosen the wrong woman to run off to West Virginia with. Lori was mine. Exclusively. Reserved for my use as I saw fit. She was my property, and no one plays with my things without my permission.
    No one.

    Captured

    Trooper Connelly took a deep breath. He’d been called to the Morris house way too
    many times over his career. Always for the same reason – the daughter. Hot piece of ass, but nuttier than a squirrel turd. Each time they dispatched him to that house, he took Lori Morris away in handcuffs and dropped her off at the hospital. Didn’t seem to solve
    matters, though. He was always called back in a few months. The whole thing seemed
    pointless.
    The mother wasn’t a bad lookin’ gal herself. Maybe ten years younger than him. Had
    the same eyes as Lori, but with crow’s feet along the side of them. The same nose as
    Lori, only with a pair of bifocals perched atop of it. The same big boobs (except hers
    sagged more, which was understandable). There was now a nasty cigarette burn on her
    cheek (courtesy of the nutty daughter). But from a distance, it looked like a beauty mark.
    All told , Connelly thought, she was a slightly flabbier, more wrinkled version of the hot daughter . But Connelly would tap it, if given the opportunity. He’d go after her before he’d go after the daughter, in fact. The daughter might be a seven or eight out of ten, but you had to deduct five points due to her nuttiness. After accounting for that penalty, he reckoned she was only a two or three.
    The mother’s voice was hoarse. She would sometimes cry convulsively and it would
    sound like coughing. Connelly hated it when they cried. “Ma’am...can you try...try...to
    calm...ma’am...”
    “G-go after h-her...” the mother said.
    Connelly stretched. Took a pad of paper out from his shirt pocket. “We’ll find her.
    We always do, don’t we?”
    The mother blew her nose and gave him a few slow nods as an answer.
    That was good...calm her down. Let her stop bawling before taking her statement.
    “You and I, we’ve known each other for a couple of years now, haven’t