A desert landscape. On the horizon long-legged Dali elephants head off to tempt St Matthew. One long tarmac road leads into the sun. On this road is a 'car' made from bleach white bones. There is no 'skin' but the engine is like a jugular-burbling attack from a psycho-killer. At the wheel, Hertzan Chimera. The gun happy Jack Philbin is goading the passenger. Gaffer taped to the back seat, KURT NEWTON - in his lap a hatbox with a glossy party ribbon on top.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: Who are you, Kurt? Who are you really?

KURT NEWTON: (looks to Hertzan Chimera's eyes in the rearview mirror) What do you mean?

HERTZAN CHIMERA: I mean, at this point, what would it hurt if you told us a little about yourself?

KURT NEWTON: (pauses) It doesn't matter who I am. Who I am means absolutely nothing. (looking out, to Hertzan Chimera) You need to turn right here... at the traffic light.

JACK PHILBIN: Where we headed?

KURT NEWTON: (grinning out of the window) Serial killer town.

The sky darkens. Not with clouds. It's as if the atmosphere overhead has become like an awning, a coal-tinted shroud settling upon the lone travelers below. Hertzan Chimera cranes his neck out the window to get a better look. A wheel leaves the road with a jarring scrape.

JACK PHILBIN: For Christ sakes, Hertzie babes, keep your squinting eyes on the road!

KURT NEWTON: It's okay gentleman. You can let go of the wheel now, Hertzan. May I call you Hertzan?

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (let's go of the wheel) Yeah, if I can call you One Sick Mother Fucker.

JACK PHILBIN: We're not going to get our autographed copy of your latest book, Dark Demons, are we Kurt?

KURT NEWTON: No, something much more...enlightening. You see, if you want people's attention, you can't simply write a good story. You must assault their senses. You must probe their innermost thoughts the way a surgeon lets his fingers burrow between the organs of a patient's open abdominal cavity. (his face adopts a look of nostalgia)

JACK PHILBIN: What makes you think you're so special? There's nothing exceptional about your style. You're not even that good a writer.

KURT NEWTON: You know that's not true.

JACK PHILBIN: In ten years time, no one's even going to remember your name.

KURT NEWTON: (smiles) You don't see the whole of it...yet. Much like my collection of poetry, The Psycho-Hunter's Casebook. Taken individually, the selections achieve a modest effect. But taken as a whole, as a single entity -- a body of work, so to speak -- the effect is quite staggering. It kills. (giggles briefly, then is serious once again) Once I have shown you what we've come here to see, there will be no question. There will only be looks of utter awe.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (shakes his head, mumbles softly to himself) One Sick Mother Fucker. A bizarre looking shanty town looms in the distance. A trailer park from hell. Tin-roofed shacks, each circled by dozens of freshly dug grave mounds. Upside-down telephone poles resembling inverted crosses line the streets. The black sky descends and turns the jagged landscape into night. A single light shines amid the darkened town. The dry white bones of the car tumble away down the hill leaving the three facing the approaching light of a speeding train.

KURT NEWTON bites his lip, fidgety, like a kid on Christmas Eve.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: What's so exciting?

KURT NEWTON: (pulls the glossy party ribbon on the box) It's not too far away now.

The train approaches at killing speed and Hertzan Chimera and Jack Philbin crouch for the horrific impact. Only Kurt Newton stands upright. His face to the wind. Around them, the glistening walls of the Newton's Anatomy Library of Future Success come to a jarring halt with a deafening, heavy metal death shriek. Row after row of entrails, bones and vital juices laid out and catalogued for the history makers to pour over.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (flicking some sort of anal mucous off his finger) You think that's clever?

KURT NEWTON: (two female livers draped over his naked shoulder) I... I doubt I enjoyed it any more than... Jack Philbin would enjoy some time alone with me in a room without windows. (looks to Jack Philbin) Isn't that true? How happy would it make you to hurt me, with impunity?

JACK PHILBIN: (applying KY jelly to his forearm)You flirt.

KURT NEWTON: You wouldn't because you know there are consequences. It's in those Irish eyes of yours, though... (Kurt Newton plucks an eyeball from the still twitching half face of some victim of the quill) nothing wrong with a man taking pleasure in his work. I won't deny my own personal desire to turn each sin against the sinner. I only took their sins to logical conclusions. (pops the eyeball into his mouth and chews down on the soft sphere).

JACK PHILBIN: Take The Psycho-Hunter's Casebook where you killed a bunch of innocent characters so you could get your literary rocks off. That's all.

KURT NEWTON: Innocent? Is that supposed to be funny? Look at the people I killed. Women with no sense of propriety. Men with no sense of dignity. These are your true murderers. Hordes of them killing decency, strangling hope, breeding together to squeeze out infants with morals the size of this eye-tooth here. (picks a blood-stained tooth out of a Mason jar full of extractions, tosses it in the drainage trough at their feet like a bad seed) And they would have continued to murder society as we know it, but I did something about it. Don't you see, gentlemen, like an expensive piece of machinery that fails to operate properly, I simply reduced them to the only value which they have: parts. Beautiful, aren't they? (his face fills with supreme satisfaction as he gazes upon a squid-like array of intestines)

JACK PHILBIN: Murderers? Look buddy I don't wanna give the game away but you're an unrepentant romantic - when I read all your prose I just see a rain of rose petals and hear violins. (nudges Hertzan Chimera with the gun) Yeah, you are unrepentant, Kurt, that's your problem.

KURT NEWTON: That's the point. You see a deadly sin on almost every street corner, and in every home, literarily. And we tolerate it. Because it's common, it seems trivial, and we tolerate, all day long, morning, noon and night. Not anymore. I'm setting the example, a new body aesthetic, and it's going to be puzzled over and studied and followed, from now on.

JACK PHILBIN: Delusions of grandeur.

KURT NEWTON: You should be thanking me.

JACK PHILBIN: And, why is that?

KURT NEWTON: You're going to be remembered, and it's all because of me. And, the only reason I'm here right now is because I wanted to be.

JACK PHILBIN: We would have gotten you eventually.

KURT NEWTON: You are your little writing buddy, eh? Toying with me. Is that it? Tell me what it was that gave me away. What was the piece of evidence you were going to use against me right before I walked up to YOU and offered myself for interview. (pause) Don't ask me to pity the people I kill in my books. I don't mourn them anymore than I mourn the thousands who died in Bible stories like Sodom and Gomorrah.

JACK PHILBIN: (the gun pointed at Kurt's chest) You fuck. You really think what you did was God's good work?

Hertzan Chimera, who has been quiet for the longest time, regards Kurt Newton, the raping butterfly in full literary flow, the genius of the unforgiving whiplash, disjointer of all moral obligation, gutter of our fears, unraveller of our dreams, feeling a brief shudder of something like pride. He takes the gun from Jack Philbin's trembling hand and puts it to the temple of the angry young author, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing the trigger....

KURT NEWTON: The Lord works in mysterious ways.

The contents of Kurt Newton's head empty onto the table in a chiaroscuro of bone bits and grey matter. The author's body falls into the trough. The hatbox he had been holding the entire time tumbles to the floor at the interviewers' feet, its lid pops open. The weight of a thousand manuscript pages spill out.

JACK PHILBIN: Hertzan, look. Have you ever seen anything like this before?

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (crouches down, begins to sift through the pile of words) They're all here, Jack, every last one of them. What have we done?

JACK PHILBIN: (stares at the pattern of Kurt Newton's brain matter as if hypnotized, takes his index finger and scoops up a large dollop, places it in his mouth and sucks it clean) Hertzan, I now believe that point is moot. The question should be: What are we going to do about it?

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (backing away) What's gotten into you, Jack? Where did you ever learn how to use the word "moot." (slips on the manuscript and falls into the trough, face plunging into the wet cavity of Kurt Newton's exploded head)

JACK PHILBIN: (grins maniacally) Ah, like a gift from heaven. There is our answer.