Harold, The Dirty Man.

An open ocean of dead lights and hot coals rolled in behind Harold’s eyes. They were blank circles; not hollow like a shark's dim stare. It would be more accurate to compare them to trash bins. Two black holes swallowing every dirty thing you threw at them, and sometimes you'd miss and it would land noticably on his face. One of his nasty smiles or crooked eyebrows. In behind his bleak expression there was an idea so inspiring--so fuckin’ marvellous--that he felt two fingers snap in the back of his brain. They sent a flush of liquid concept through every frayed curve in his gray matter. It ran down his spine and tingled in the tips of his calloused fingers. His skin, like layered bark, rose in wave after wave of goose flesh. It crested along his arms and his legs and down his neck and even over his abdomen. It crawled into his belly button and made his stomach gurgle; something he took pleasure in. His mouth drooped and then perked up into a happy slant. He looked almost lopsided standing in his three button suit, a dress shirt tucked so goddamn far down his pants he could feel it tickling his knees. The idea flooded his body and touched him in all the ways he loved to be touched, making up for everything he was going to have to do.

“I’m going to kill my family. And I’m going to sew them together.”