Tales of the Blood Moon

Luna, In Scarlet Couture

The red moon castsdown at me its scornful glare, defying me to capture its fieryessence on something so banal as canvas. If it could speak, I amfully convinced it would string together such a litany of derisivepejoratives concerning my puerile aspirations as to leave mestupefied. I do not often critique my own skill as a painter, thoughI feel I can claim (with all necessary deference to modesty) aninherent mastery of the craft rivaling Picasso himself. Lest my zealfor my own artistic competence grants me braggadocio ill-suited tothe task at hand, I return to my labors, ever mindful of theprodigious task set before me.

My assistant growsweary, clearly finding my venture arduous beyond her limits. To bein the presence of brilliance such as my own bears its own burdens, Isuppose. I persist, undaunted, and take up the brush. I cradle thehandle as delicately and passionately as any lover caresses hisparamour. Swirling the bristles in the crimson medium, I move withan adroitness that would inspire envy in even the most accomplishedin the field.

Invigorated by thecrisp autumn air, I deftly apply a flurry of strokes both bold andsubtle, revealing the essence of my subject. Incontrovertibly, Ihave wrested from the red moon all that would cause one to exalt itssplendor, and cast it onto the canvas. Unleashing a thunderousguffaw and exhorting my victory at the glowing, red orb above me, Itake my leave.

...

"It'sa cherry pie that exploded," says the shorter police officer as hescrutinizes the painting.

"Oh,c'mon," the taller man replies. "You've got cherry pie on thebrain. All you've been talking about for the past hour is a freakin'cherry pie. When we're done here, we'll swing by the gas stationdown the road. You can get a pie out of there. As for that," hesays, pointing at the painting, "it's clearly an exit-wound."

Thepair turn from the canvas toward the teenage girl, still hangingupside down from a porch rafter. A small table holds a soup bowl,filled to overflowing with the blood that, at one time, poured fromthe neck of the girl.

"Parentsgo out for the evening and something like this happens. Hell of athing," the taller officer says.

"You'renot kidding. This has got me so freaked out, I gotta call home afterthis and make sure everything is okay."

"Thething of it is," the taller man says, turning back to the painting,"the hospital says the guy who escaped can't talk. Just sitsaround drawing crappy pictures all day."

"Fuckingretard," the shorter replies. "Probably never had an intelligentthought in his life."

"Howthe hell a guy that goddamned stupid ever managed to break out of thehospital, hot-wire a car, switch the plates with an identical modeland pull off all this," the taller man says, gesturing toward thegirl and the painting, "I'll never know."