No Internet, no television, no radio, nothing that might distract me from contemplation of my many uncommitted sins. Dexter’s World.Īnd no more than this, no connection at all to the outside, beyond the narrow slot in the door that delivers the Officially Nutritious meals. A narrow metal shelf with a thin and battered thing on it, laughingly referred to as a “mattress.” A sink, a toilet, a shelf. Dexter’s entire world reduced to this tiny cell, no more than a thick steel door and even thicker concrete block walls, broken only by a slim slit that lets in light but does not let out sight. Every moment, waking and sleeping, subject to scrutiny. Not locked away in the tiny chill ill-smelling cell in Turner Guilford Knight Correctional Center-and on the top floor, at that, the special purgatory reserved for the most heinous and unrepentant monsters. It just doesn’t include anything from current events, more’s the pity. Although truth be told, nothing on South Beach is really innocent, any more than Dexter, whose catalog of wicked whimsical works is, to be fair, quite lengthy. This time, this one catastrophic multihomicidal time, Dexter is as innocent as the driven snow-or perhaps the sand on South Beach would be more apt. Not with Dexter in Durance, horribly wronged, slandered, unjustly accused of doing terrible things that he did not even get to do. And then the fatal blow, a few moments of anguish, a last sigh filled with regret for things undone, and fade to black: a fitting end for a life of wicked pleasure. A properly dramatic ending with a good body count, a futile struggle against impending doom, even a dash of treachery, absolutely. In a flash of steel, yes a flurry of gunshots, a chorus of strangled moans and anguished sighs, blending with the distant wail of sirens, certainly.
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