He visits museums and art galleries
to see the master works of sculptors and painters
(because they have a God-Given gift, too).
He goes to concert halls, opera houses, jazz clubs,
to hear deft musicians play songs
(because they have a God-Given gift, too).
He attends theaters and goes to the cinemas
to watch brilliant actors become other people
(because they have a God-Given gift, too).
He watches comedy shows and standup routines
to laugh at the witty jokes comedians tell
(because they have a God-Given gift, too).
He looks after the runaways, the prostitutes,
the transvestites and the vulnerable,
enticing them into his car, talking to them like
an old friend, kindly neighbor,
philanthropist in times of need,
taking them
somewhere remote, quiet, and alone,
and he bludgeons them, stabs them,
strangles them, rapes them, kills them,
chops up their bodies, takes
souvenirs
for his own home gallery,
disposes of the remains
and then he calls their relatives on the phone,
mocks them,
tortures them with his firsthand accounts,
relives his depravity through their fresh tears,
and he
leaves complacent clues at the scenes of his crimes
to taunt the cops,
watching the News media
to rejoice in his grand debut,
becoming famous as the anchors
talk him up to
Godzilla proportions of destruction,
and then, satisfied, he
lays low for a year,
waiting,
watching,
returning when the ruckus has subsided,
cultivating his celebrity once again
with a second season of murders,
elated as his alter-ego alias
passes along the lips of those who
pray against his trespasses,
and eventually he
betrays himself,
outs himself so he can be celebrated with
loathing, with infamy,
with international intrigue
through books, movies, cult status,
fan mail, declarations of love,
becoming a cultural phenomenon
as famous as Raphael or Elvis,
and all because
he has a God-Given gift, too.