at all. However, George had a talent for blaming others for his imperfections, especially the weak men and women in whom he had instilled fear.   Individuals Francis called his human sacrifices, innocent captives, scapegoats for the slaughter, guilty of no crime, having done nothing amiss, yet they are condemned to spend the rest of their natural lives confined, and like a death row inmate, are certain of one thing, they are going to die.    All because of their association with a lunatic, a man whose corrupt heart is void of compassion, incapable of kindness, mercy, forgiveness and love.  Francis believed this was reason enough to revoke his right to exist among the living.   He was a vile infestation that needed to be neutralized and she was the exterminator that was going to punch his one-way ticket on the fast moving  Devil’s Express, destination, the bowels of hell, from where he crawled out.      After a few weeks of careful planning, two days before her thirty-second birthday, she poisoned him with a lethal cocktail, one that would induce a slow, agonizing death.    Then after hesitating for an hour, she ingested an overdose of a narcotic painkiller, oxycodone, prescribed during her many emergency room visits. She then grabbed a seat on the sofa and watched as her husband lay on the living room floor curled up in a ball. Death slowly crept upon him, taunting him with bouts of excruciating abdominal pain.  There were moments when he screamed as loud as he could, pleading as he described how horrible he felt; telling her he thought his head was about to explode.   His six foot, two inch, one hundred eighty-nine pound body shook violently as he gagged, attempting to vomit, but nothing surfaced from that rumbling sac of gluttony.    Squirming like an earthworm trapped in a deadly pool of mud, he cried out to her begging for help.   “Just like the coward you’ve always been.   When in trouble call stupid Francis, she’ll come running to pull me out of the mess I’ve created, only to be insulted and beaten to a pulp, because I didn’t respond fast enough for you.  Not this time you worthless bastard, not this time,” she told him, while watching the grim faced man slowly slip in and out of conscientiousness, as he gasped for air.  Then nothing, he just lay there on the floor motionless and pale, as if all life drained from his now still corpse. After his demise, Francis staggered to her bedroom to record the final entry into her journal.        Noticing that her vision was getting worse  and she was beginning to feel as if she was about to fall into a deep sleep, Francis refocused her attention, retrieved her journal and continued to chronicle the finale, the final act of her existence, before her thoughts became incoherent scribble. She quickly wrote what would be the dramatic conclusion, farewell thoughts, before surrendering to keep a scheduled rendezvous with death, who lingered just a few inches from where she was sitting. With her eyes struggling to remain open, she hurriedly penned. This journal ends:       “If you watch today’s news cast, you’d think everyone in the world has gone mad.   Husbands killing their wives, wives taking out their spouses, children causing the deaths of their parents.   The constant reminder of the causalities of war is a daily supplement.   You become aware of how fragile and frail life can be.    Living becomes complicated, abandoned by innocence.   The pursuit of happiness yield the right of way, replaced by