Insanity Is Too Mild Of A Word

He was a big man, 6ft 4in 240 lbs. and swaggered with a limp. His tattooed muscular forearms stretched his denim jacket and his glass eye sparkled eerily in the growing dusk. The half Cherokee half Sue Indian grunted "Hello runt." Regis Raingarden had exploded into town. Life would never be the same.

He'd purchased the rundown Kinnan house on the dead end of the street. A dark house for a dark man. It turns out he'd been a Marine in Okinawa during the Second World War. When liberated from prison camp he weighed 110 lbs., a socket hole where an eye should be, dozens of whip scars across his back, a broken leg and he was insanely screaming at his rescuers. He's surrounded by Japanese children who were spitting and urinating on him with loudly barking dogs. Raingarden was lying in feces and vomit, and completely out of his mind from the torture, starvation and immense pain he'd endured. He's a Satanist and perfectly insane.

Ten thirty on a Friday night he strode into a packed, good ole boy country bar. God Bless Merica. After Regis had three shots of whiskey, two beers and five shots of rum four rednecks made a very stupid statement. "There's that Satanic A__hole.""Go find a hole and crawl in." Employees saw one of the strangest contortions they'd ever witnessed. His face seemed to shift; the eye went almost black while the glass eye somehow turned red. His muscular frame exploded into the men and began throwing them around like rag dolls. The biggest quickly had his jaw shattered, the second received a broken arm, the third lost an ear and the fourth ran. The slaughter took less than a minute. The newspapers picture showed Raingarden smiling with his arm around the man holding his ear. The man was asking, "What did you say we said?"