The century old Daniels' house lingered ten glorious steps away. Punchinello stood on two happy, but slimy, feet at the cobblestoned intersection of Cassandra Boulevard and Forsythe Street. A rustic John Deere Row-Crop, with mangled steel wheels, sheltered in the shadow of the majestic hickory trees cater-corner from his location. The sight of half the archaic machine's crank case gone made Punchinello's cold heart flutter. Colossal letters carved into a portentous granite sign in front of the tractor welcomed out-of-towners.

Punchinello laughed out loud when he read the part that stated: "WELCOME TO ASTATULA. THE SMALLEST SMALL TOWN IN TEXAS AND THE HOME OF 2 MILLION MOSQUITOS, 6 ARMADILLOS, AND 297 OF THE TWO-LEGGED SPECIES."

In mock wonder, Puncinello asked himself, "And I've never been accused of being mentally stable?"

Bug-eyed, Punchinelllo clapped his hands together. Bony fingers brushed orange bangs off his narrow forehead. He puckered his lips. On the hunt, a yellow jacket buzzed by. The whites of Punchinello's eyes shone around the perimeter of his pinpointed pupils. In his pocket were oxycodon pills not yet consumed. His lengthy sojourn at an end, Punchinello hopped up and down. He'd come to murder the sheriff and stake his claim to fame.

Punchinello said, "No more hiding, Brock. It's time for confrontation."

The cold-blooded assassin chafed to get his hands around the sheriff's throat. Eighteen wasted years gnawed him. Punchinello felt like the fat and juicy rats that climbed the steel bars of his cell in the North Annex of the Columbia Creek Work Farm. Punchinello's debt would be collected in the spilled blood of the lawman who'd placed him inside the catacombs of the penal colony. He longed to garrotte the life out of his arch nemesis.

Punchinello told himself, "Piano wire works wonders in skilled hands!" But, that pleasure was not his intention. He had something far worse planned.

The thought of watching the sheriff's eyeballs explode out of his head made Punchinello cackle. "Soon, Brock, soon you will suffer intense indignation for every hellacious moment I was locked up. All nine million, four-hundred-and-sixty-thousand, eight hundred gazillion of them!" He vowed.

In his warped mind, Punchinello danced the Watusi from where he stood to the home's front door. His knees bent, the madman shifted his weight to his right leg and extended his right hip. Meanwhile, he bent his arms and glided them to the same side. Punchinello shifted to his left and swung his arms in that direction. He repeated the process. Back and forth. Back and forth. While he sashayed, Punchinello pointed his hands upward and bobbed his head. Ice cold, Punchinello stopped his dance. Blind hatred for the sheriff returned.

"I know every single move from this point to the end regardless of how the climax plays out, Brock. I've rehearsed them at least a hundred thousand times. Have you?" Punchinello snarled.

In the bright light of the noontime sun, Punchinello stared across the two dirt lanes of Cassandra Boulevard. Very little traffic ran through the small town. Punchinello darted his steel-grey eyes from window to window. Every crisp detail etched into his mind. Unbeknownst to the sheriff, Punchinello had been there before.

Punchinello remembered a hummingbird feeder hung on a rusty nail in the far corner of the front porch.
He noticed an Avengers box kite dangled in a precarious fashion above the eave, just out of reach of the iron gargoyle that adorned the roof. No doubt, Cody's kite. Little boys liked their action figures. Tthe young peckerhead was no exception.

The nightmare knew the boy's reputation to be a nuisance taken for granted. Impervious and skeptical, the idiosyncratic douchebag tried to hide his vulnerabilities. Punchinello shuddered. How he loathed well-manicured lawns. He would set this one ablaze.

Punchinello spoke the truth to himself, "Good things only come to those who wait. And, time is all I have."

The distraction Punchinello observed in the cozy den of the residence pleased him the most. In his world, diversions were convenient inconveniences. For a brief moment, Punchinello beheld Ralph Steiner, Channel 13's meteorologist. The weatherman graced the idiot box. A stylish toupee covered the climatologist's receding hairline. The hair around his temples thinned. Each morning Stener massaged rosemary and olive oil into his scalp in hopes of hair regrowth. Steiner swaggered like a peacock in heat.
The camera lens captured his prance. Punchinello imitated Steiner's movements.

An arrogant big timbre resounded. Steiner glanced at the newscaster and stated, "Two hundred miles to our north, a series of early morning tornadoes ripped a swath of destruction through the Denrock neighborhood of Dalhart. The cyclones tore the roof off the Brownstone Retirement Home."

His esteemed colleague frowned. Steiner knew the anchorman's story well. Robert Trumby epitomized the positive fruits of dedicated labor, Raised in the Highland Oaks Projects of Waco, he rose above his circumstances to become a product of the Hankamer School of Business at Baylor University. He was also a double winner of the prestigious Peabody Award for News Reporting. Thereafter, Trumby earned his stripes at small TV stations across the Lone Star state, as well as Arizona and Southern Utah. His time put in, Trumby fast approached the end of his illustrious career. Steiner was pleased his friend would go out on top of his profession.

Trumby inquired, "Was anybody injured in the storm, Ralph?"

With a slow head shake, and expressed empathy in his voice, Steiner replied, "Unfortunately they were, Robert. Eighty-six-year-old Hilda Hoolihan was pronounced dead at the scene and six other residents of the facility were hospitalized with life-threatening injuries."

"That's chicken noodle soup to my ears. Yum! Yum! Make sure you throw some delicious croutons on top," Punchinello cheered.

Steiner sauntered to the news desk and reported, "But, the news isn't all bad, Robert. Ten local impoverished families became the proud recipients of shopping sprees to Estelle's Boutique last night in Channel 13's Clothe-A-Child community service project that I spearhead. Each of them received a hundred dollar gift card to purchase new clothes for their disadvantaged youngsters. Appreciative hearts abounded."

Contemptuous, Punchinello mocked Steiner's remarks, "Aww, ain't that sweet you pompous ass!" He decided he did not like Ralph Steiner, and as Punchinello did with all others he despised, placed the weatherman on his list of those to delete.

Trumby gaped into the camera and said, "Channel 13 would like to thank our sponsors Hayden Feed and Seed, Tori's Motors, and Davis Farm Equipment. Their support helped make Clothe-A-Child a huge success. Be sure to visit them today and say thanks." Trumby picked up a stack of papers, tapped them together on top of the desk and aloof, as if his mind drifted elsewhere announced, "In other news, the Astatula Assassin remains at large."

Punchinello mouthed Trumby's alert. He pinwheeled like the world famous Italian conductor Tuscanini brought an orchestra to an intense crescendo with his baton. His slender wand twirled with large downbeats. Precise indications set the tempo. Articulation relayed the maestrom's vision. A choppy hand motion ended Punchinello's performance. Genuflected, with his arms fully extended behind him, Punchinello shivered as a cold chill raced down the middle of his spine.

"You are so good!" He praised himself.

Exasperated, Sheriff Daniels straightened the rigid collar of his fresh-starched uniform shirt. Beth had ironed the garment before she made their lunch. The lawman was flustered by the sea of folders scattered on top of the table where he labored. He picked up the remote control unit. Ambidextrous, the scepter felt smooth in his hand. As the eminent sovereign of the house, the device afforded him dominence. He aimed the clicker at his wall-mounted Emerson. Swigging his half-emptied glass of iced tea, he depressed a button.

The sheriff returned the remote to its rightful location and groused, "Adios boob tube. Always the same ole same ole, but never anything informative.":

Punchinello beheld Beth Sorenson as she strutted past the kitchen window. Her tank top exposed bare shoulders. Passing by, she snatched a platter off a Formica-topped counter and held the plate in her hands. His mouth watered. He imagined carving the angelic features of her face to shreds with his serrated hunting knife. The thought brought elation. He chuckled. Maybe he'd gut the doe.

Evil intentions filled Punchinello's lucid mind. He slithered across Cassandra Boulevard, disappeared behind the cherry blossoms that lined the front yard, and momentarily hesitated to smell their almond-like aroma.

Punchinello resurfaced in the back of the dwelling. Soda apple weeds overgrew the cellar door. Punchinello yanked them off. A splinter appeared in his forefinger. He plucked the agitator out with his teeth and spat it on the ground.

Noticing a simple padlock secured the hasp that sealed the subterranean room, Punchinello wondered, "Daniels you brain-dead imbecile, is this the best you can do to keep carnage like me out of your casa?"

Punchinello gained entry with a lock pick and illuminated a halogen flashlight. He surveyed his surroundings and palmed folded laundry in a basket on top of the dryer. The sensation made him feel like a scrote. Punchinello tingled to the point he almost creamed his drawers. In silence, Punchinello eavesdropped on the conversation that came through the closed door. Once upon a time not so long ago he'd been a famous murderer. Soon, the headlines would scream he was again.