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. Bob