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SIN

WATTY WINNER!

Dead, dead, dead. Say it enough times and it becomes just another word.

What would you do? Could you kill a killer? Does the death of one appease the deaths of a hundred? What about that hundred against a thousand?

What if you had no choice?

Meet Sin. No, not that sort of sin, but Sin, crazy as a loon (you ask Sister Moon), and proud of it. Sin locks himself away in an asylum and, every so often, badboy he's believed to be, gets violent. That's only so they'll give him those nice drugs, though. The ones that help him forget.

It's a pity they don't work.

Sin, you see, has a serious problem. Well, it's not so much his problem, as ours - yours, mine and everyone else's. People die around Sin. He doesn't like it and there's nothing he can do about it. But someone else knows, and Sin has to stop them... and himself...

Flip and catch...

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EXCERPTS

Sin.

Yep. You heard me right. Sin. Sin-sin-sirree, there's no place for me. Or 'thee' as my dear old father, God rest his weary shade, used to say.

"You're a waste of space, boy!" he'd yell when he was feeling in a good mood. "Sin-sin-sirree, there's no place for thee!"

Dead.

Say it enough times and it becomes just a word. Dead. Dead. Dead. Four letters thrown together to mean something that was so much more and so much less. Dead. An absence of life. An absence of anything. For the few days that it took my mind to wash away the spectacle of the train crash, I said that word to myself over and over. I didn’t feel responsible for the accidents, for that was surely what they were, but I didn’t feel quite… right. But, like I say, eventually it becomes simply a word. Meaningless. Emotionless. Dead.

Flip.

Catch.

I didn't remember that session with Connors, nor any others where my particular brand of barbarism exhibited itself. I didn't remember being pushed into performing, like Marcel the monkey, missing only a tiny fez hat and a cup to collect money in. To my knowledge there were no blanks in my memory, no jagged edges where pages had been ripped out, screwed up and thrown into the bin, but that didn't mean they didn't exist. I wasn't sure if I ferreted enough I might be able to unearth them but I supposed it didn't really matter. If those memories were windows into the past, their glass shattered by the Doc swinging a nice big hammer, then there was nothing I could do. If, on the other hand, I could call in a glazier to do a quick repair job, then all the better. I'd flick through the yellow pages of my mind later. Right now there was a fan that was in dire need of some shit hitting it.

Sin

SIN

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EXCERPTS

Dead.

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Flip.

Catch.

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And I had a fistful ready to throw.