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Description
    Clive Stapleton was a free man now all thanks to those stupid guards.
    Clive observed the abandoned house from across the street. It’s watching me, he thought. It thinks I don’t know but I do. Clive began to make his way toward the house. The spikes on the metal fence pole made him smile. I wonder how high up you’d have to fall from for the poles to go straight through your heart, he pondered. The gargoyles on either side of the metal gate reminded him of the moron who locked him up. Those Feds were about as smart as stone beasts, he reasoned, and with about as much appreciation for art: none.
    Clive had been committed to the state mental institution for the rest of his natural life. He didn’t understand why, though. There were people who were much more insane than he roaming the streets free as a bird; why didn’t one of them share a cell with him sometime? All he did was give people what they deserve. For example, a month before he was committed, a taxi refused to stop for him.  In retaliation he engaged in a two-day search for the offender and punished him. The police found the cabbie with knives stuck in his gut arranged to look like a smiley face. Unfortunately, the cops managed to find his fingerprints on the knives, but none of that mattered now.
Clive inspected the termite-ridden porch from afar and then proceeded toward the house and inspected the termite-ridden porch from afar. He made his first sane decision of the day and checked to see how stable the porch was before he stepped on it. While he was feeling the steps and boards, he took notice of the creaking coming from them. After a careful examination, Clive decided that the porch was safe to walk on, so he did.
    Before entering the house he walked around on the front porch to begin looking in the windows to ensure that no current resident was present. He could still feel the house watching him with a sultry hatred. The boards below his feet screamed at him for his intrusion. He ignored these cries of protest and attempted to look inside the windows. Unfortunately, he could not clearly see the contents of any of the rooms, but he figured that the condition of the house indicated that it had been unoccupied for awhile. Deciding it was safe to enter, he turned the knob on the font door and proceeded inside.
    Clive explored the house and decided that he liked the way it talked. He walked into the living room first and ignored the dust on the furniture and fireplace. Instead he focused on the rotting wood in the fireplace. The color of the wood reminded him of his mom’s brownies, but especially rotting wood. His mom was not very good at making brownies.
    During his examination of the decaying wood, he heard a click. He was not alone in this house anymore. The voices came from the front door, but these voices were different, Clive thought. Then he remembered why the voices were different. These voices, Clive remembered, are the voices of gargoyles.
    In panic, Clive hid in a closet adjacent to the fireplace. He observed the detectives as they explored the living room and listened to their lies. Detectives Davis and Holt always lied, he thought, those gargoyles always lied.
    “So why would he come here?” Holt asked, “What’s so special about this place?”
    “It’s his house of torture. Stapleton always brings his victims here before he rapes and kills them.”
    Clive became enraged. Those liars are doing it again. He picked a knife up from the closet floor. He’d show them. Davis had just begun to examine the floor in front of the closet when Clive leaped out of the closet and stabbed him in the back. He never stood a chance. Holt shot him twice in the chest and once in the head.

Description
    Clive Stapleton was a free man now all thanks to those stupid guards.
    Clive observed the abandoned house from across the street. It’s watching me, he thought. It thinks I don’t know but I do. Clive began to make his way toward the house. The spikes on the metal fence pole made him smile. I wonder how high up you’d have to fall from for the poles to go straight through your heart, he pondered. The gargoyles on either side of the metal gate reminded him of the moron who locked him up. Those Feds were about as smart as stone beasts, he reasoned, and with about as much appreciation for art: none.
    Clive had been committed to the state mental institution for the rest of his natural life. He didn’t understand why, though. There were people who were much more insane than he roaming the streets free as a bird; why didn’t one of them share a cell with him sometime? All he did was give people what they deserve. For example, a month before he was committed, a taxi refused to stop for him.  In retaliation he engaged in a two-day search for the offender and punished him. The police found the cabbie with knives stuck in his gut arranged to look like a smiley face. Unfortunately, the cops managed to find his fingerprints on the knives, but none of that mattered now.
Clive inspected the termite-ridden porch from afar and then proceeded toward the house and inspected the termite-ridden porch from afar. He made his first sane decision of the day and checked to see how stable the porch was before he stepped on it. While he was feeling the steps and boards, he took notice of the creaking coming from them. After a careful examination, Clive decided that the porch was safe to walk on, so he did.
    Before entering the house he walked around on the front porch to begin looking in the windows to ensure that no current resident was present. He could still feel the house watching him with a sultry hatred. The boards below his feet screamed at him for his intrusion. He ignored these cries of protest and attempted to look inside the windows. Unfortunately, he could not clearly see the contents of any of the rooms, but he figured that the condition of the house indicated that it had been unoccupied for awhile. Deciding it was safe to enter, he turned the knob on the font door and proceeded inside.
    Clive explored the house and decided that he liked the way it talked. He walked into the living room first and ignored the dust on the furniture and fireplace. Instead he focused on the rotting wood in the fireplace. The color of the wood reminded him of his mom’s brownies, but especially rotting wood. His mom was not very good at making brownies.
    During his examination of the decaying wood, he heard a click. He was not alone in this house anymore. The voices came from the front door, but these voices were different, Clive thought. Then he remembered why the voices were different. These voices, Clive remembered, are the voices of gargoyles.
    In panic, Clive hid in a closet adjacent to the fireplace. He observed the detectives as they explored the living room and listened to their lies. Detectives Davis and Holt always lied, he thought, those gargoyles always lied.
    “So why would he come here?” Holt asked, “What’s so special about this place?”
    “It’s his house of torture. Stapleton always brings his victims here before he rapes and kills them.”
    Clive became enraged. Those liars are doing it again. He picked a knife up from the closet floor. He’d show them. Davis had just begun to examine the floor in front of the closet when Clive leaped out of the closet and stabbed him in the back. He never stood a chance. Holt shot him twice in the chest and once in the head.