You must marvel at the diligence, the resolute humility with which I endured menial station in the Lodge Toulouse, steadily gaining purchase in the company of those Messrs. for whose endings fate had rested an onus upon my spirit.  In their service I was runner, fetcher, bearer of warm towels and potations.  Polisher of shoes and rings and buckles was I, deflector of  telephone intrusions, alibi crafter, casual confidant: honoring in bounty these perquisites of their statures I raised myself into trust, with a clarity of purpose far removed from the betraying blindness of obsession, until I proved myself indispensable to their needs, their conveniences and conceits. 

            Body and soul I infused with exquisite agonies—practicing, practicing, perfecting upon my countenance that artful smile of artlessness, cultivating a quietly eager manner until my quarry fairly believed me starstruck in the coronae of their persons!  Those gentlemen of witless arrogance as much as murdered themselves, I in reveries was given to picture the vacuous ventilations of obituaries pandering the sensational.  There would glimmer in the eyes of hounds no scintilla of comprehending the infinite depth and compass of my design, no appreciation of the assiduity the stars ordain of one appointed to traffic in mortal eventualities.  Myriad subtle considerations in ordering an improbable calm march of desperate moments would pass unhailed, lost amid reverberations of shock in a tender society, break the dawn upon these deeds.  My sole satisfaction—no exultation do I feel in extinguishing life however mis-lived—would lie in the triumph of immaculate choreography.  It was, therefore, perfection itself to which I swore my oaths to exuviate the defects of my humanity and execute with divine perfection each step and turn.  Such care, such reason, such virtue, so you will beg to confess, are no incidents of madness, but a peerless integrity of mind do they attest!  

            Inclined to expeditious consummation notwithstanding those teeming complexities of plan, I settled upon dispatching my tormentors sequentially in an evening, room to readied room like a conductor briskly taking tickets on the line to Nevermore.  Each client by clever contrivance I would cause to be alone, oblivious as upon the black day of his birth, awaiting some contact or special service never to arrive or but a gasp ahead of doom.  —But enough beflowering these things intended!  More I can relate, and in abundance shall, when I shall have made done my play, when on raven’s wings three spirits shall have flown.  Then truly will you know the color of every second as it shall have shone, and not as mere foreshadowing.  Then, sweet soul, in absolute assurance of the justice that animates my fibres will you extol my sanity.  Till the curtain lift upon that stage, yours is the fortune to view the generous inclusion of bonus materials below, sketches and notations arisen along destiny’s astonishing course.          

For theatric trailer in case my escapade is made into a movie:
“You must not imagine me mad as you are mad and the world is mad.  For I have not acceded to the unacceptable, to the lusus naturae found mingling among men, but have purposed to root him out.” ONE MAN.  ONE MISSION.  THREE LUSI NATURAE.  (…additional stylish cinematic hyperbole…)    

Preliminary Brainstorming—A Few Airballs, With Comments by the Perpetrator/Author:

• "Jerk-the-circuit." Manipulate A to murder B, C to murder A, then swing in and do C myself. Highly Unpredictable
             
• Rig up a Rube Goldberg contraption, dominoes toppling etc., to elegantly take them out in turn. Shoot video—will go over huge.  Actual footage fabulous in the big-screen adaptation.  Directional mics to isolate scream-crescendo as the chain-reaction approaches each.  Too Hard. No Damn Engineering PhD.
             
• Surreptitiously film them atop tarts, then blackmail them into suicide. Take too long. / And 0.0001% chance it works. / Get me shot & dumped.
             
• Wade into their midst with nun-chucks whizzing and pop some skulls.  Outnumbered/outmuscled(?)  And big ruckus call attention.
             
• Hire a hit man. HOW? Will get caught. Probably undercover deputy. PLUS THE POINT IS > CLOSE THIS DEAL MYSELF.  (So no gangs etc.)
             
• Put radium in their bisque.  Easy to detect/trace?  /  Are we out of radium?  / Nix the radiation. Just keep it physical and abrupt.
             
• Release venomous creatures such as adders or recluse spiders.  Problematic obtaining, handling, retrieving.  /Maybe no bite.  /Maybe no die.  /Possibly backfire, cause own ironic death. 
             
• Consider big spike that swings down whenever somebody stands on a certain spot. They'll see it up there
             
• What about malnutrition?  NO!  PHYSICAL & A-B-R-U-P-T—POP, POP, POP!!  AND KEEP IT SENSIBLE, NOTHING FLIPPANT.
  DEATH = SERIOUS.

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Course One: The Asphyxiation

            The first to shuff the coil must be the Old Man, whose jaundiced evil-eye has so given me the willies of late that these willies make Mardi Gras in my brain, pounding it like some crazy ape with drumsticks.  A mundane complaint, perhaps, but put this rattling, wheezing geez top-of-list.  I’ll fix him with a Depend as he dozes on his cot after brandy in the rumpus room, where I can stow his ruined carcass in a roll of carpet stripped from the floor, which ought to muffle his heart if by some fey shake it should set to pumping again after the constables arrive.  If they arrive; I shan’t be calling them.  —Let blossom now all these terrific growings, thought to deed, from this fertile gray matter germinated.  This Old Man, he played one, and it’s one for the Nevermore!       

Course Two: The Encasement

            Montressa.  This pompous momo has borne me a thousand bangs, and he’ll be next to trip the rift.  From his odious example—that is, I witnessing the ass that university had made of monseigneur Shetfeld Montressa (old “Love-Of-God Montressa,” for his profane contempt of all that’s holy)—I determined to preserve myself untainted, far from high education, and so neither achieved nor aspired, but in this prison of lifeless wood and crushing mortar remained entombed for want of choice, and attending my witless wardens, they of vulture-eye, pomposity, rampant advising, vile wind blowing from both ends.  In the hardly sufferable years of peony eking along (I the peon tending the peonies), I grew ever more certain that had university been my walk I should have won the Heisman Trophy, as season after season I have seen other exceptional stallions take her.  Containing the ache became impossible, owing in no small measure to Montressa’s perpetual mockery.  “El fortunato, you lucky buck who makes things shine and tastes the wine whene’er I dine!”  “Yet here’s a spot, Master Spitpolish!  Out, out, damn-it-now!”  “Where’s the future in that, coliverinkis?”    

            Well then, Sir.  How would you like to be encased in a closet full of Quik-Set cement, emtombed here in the cold embrace of Toulouse where you have, if not quite so literally, entombed Yours Truly?  Would you say that has a certain—oh, I don’t know what—je ne sais quoi?  Permit me to say it for you, sir, speaking conversationally: that’s precisely what it has.  Now, I shall be happy to hand-mix your sloppy hell and pipe it in upon you, curious to discover whether your rising terror might outpace that engulfing slurry in pressing the breath from your body.  Splish, splash, chug-a-lug: and ho, it’s another for the Nevermore!  (And where’s the future in that, mon trésor?)

Course Three: The Mauling

            The intolerable Monsieur Espaniel.  He who flaunts his affair with the platinum-wigged fashion model Celeste Stunk.  Snatches her hand, reels her in tight and, leering at me, chuckles drunkenly, loudly, “You’ll never get yerself any this fine, eh?  . . .Oh, sorry ol’ boy. . . can’t get any at all, can you?  Not your fault, matters of state (he’s got matters of  state, Cel). . . you’re a patriot, duty calls, no hoochie-coo for you. . .”  Celeste’s dainty puckered-heart of a smile part discomfiture, part empathy matching her misty blue eyes.  The great ass Espaniel closing his show with laughter and applause, as it’s great to be appreciated.           

            Enter through window late P.M., disguised in orangutan mask in case am observed from street.  Gloves, of course, and be sure they don’t quite fit.  Bring straight razor and a few tools for stretching and bashing flesh.  He will be alone.   

            Unleash horrific violence leaving no evinced motive.  Do the “mad minute.”  Dice and tear, leave bits strewn about.  Leave a strand of monkey hair behind to mess with 5-0’s heads.  Rip Celeste Stunk poster off wall, roll it up, bend vanquished persecutor over, stuff her up his chimney.  Okay, evincing just that wee bit of motive.  (Sue me, Self!)  They’ll suspect her three hundred boyfriends.  Ah.  But will she suspect me?  Now there’s a threat.  (. . . I said, mentally reaching for my folks-to-do list.) But no, she felt for me.  This might mega-impress her, especially when she understands my sanity, and I could even see us possibly getting together.  WOW.  Me and Celeste Stunk.  Hey Espaniel, sorry ol’ boy, guess you won’t be getting any more of that.  Nevermore, oh hoochie-cooer!  Henceforth you and something really nasty will be getting it on nonstop down in hell.  You’ll be lifting up your voice from the infernal pit and begging one of the Good Guys to toss you down some K-Y, but there shall be no K-Y.

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There will be more bonus materials included after the deeds are committed. 

I can’t wait to get all this rolling!