John knew that he had, just had to concentrate here, first foot forward, followed by the second, then first again, then second, then the first, second, first, stop. His hand flailed out and grabbed a streetlight unsteadily and John was able to lean on the pole and try to find his bearings. Laughing, shouts and the sound of the cars driving past was all his slurred mind could hear - no, wait, a distant drumbeat and a subdued electric guitar were in the blend of noise as well. Sparkling, glittering lights and shimmering lights all glistened in the haze of the distance. A drink or four would cure this malaise, John reasoned, and where? Why, the invitingly All Night bar advertised in neon seemed to be the place to be, especially for the fashionable drunken college student around town.

A arrow emblazoned on the sign pointed down into darkness, and John sat on the steps and slid slowly down them, not trusting his legs with such a difficult task. He then got up, staggering into the darkness, before his head connected with an electrified metal bar. The completion of the circuit killed him near instantly, and he didn't suffer.

Wynell's leathery, dirty finger flicked the switch on the torch and his gleaming eyes ran up and down the dead man's sprawled figure; another drunk, another lowlife. He clearly hadn't been one of the city's many homeless - not that unkempt - but he still reeked of cheap alcohol, and his garments were shabby and unclean - a student, then. Wynell scurried over to the corpse, and ransacked it's pockets - half empty packet of cigarettes, a few crumpled notes of paper money, a wallet (containing nothing except a picture of an attractive girl with a mysterious half-smile - Wynell ripped the photo to shreds) and some chewing gum. Nothing of any real use. Wynell grabbed the legs and dragged the body to the storeroom where all the cadavers he'd collected were stored. After the body was in, Wynell clambered over it and shut the heavy door, blocking the repugnant stench of decaying flesh.

Wynell once again seated himself in the alcove, waiting for the next unfortunate to meet sudden death at head height. Why the bar mercilessly slew all who dared touch it - Wynell did not know (though the word "electricity" floated through his mind as if looking for a place to go) and did not care to know such things. He did once know these things, very much so; a learned man was the Wynell of the past - but not the Wynell of now, and why this was the case was beyond the meagre knowledge that Wynell permitted himself to know. He had no memories of the outside world, had no knowledge except the knowledge that he needed no knowledge.

Wynell switched off the torch and glared into the black; so dark that his eyes could not get adjusted to it. The sole light was a streetlight's glow that somehow dared to venture in from the street. Because of his lack of vision aside from the shaft of light, his hearing sharpened as did his sense of smell and these were his only allies. His was a dulled ability to feel anything, aside from a quiet hatred of those he watched die.

Wynell's reverie was disturbed by the clattering of high heels - two pairs, so that meant two kills. Already the disgusting stink of cheap liquor - although all alcohol nauseated him, inexpensive cider was a particular affront to him, curiously.

One of the drunkards tripped and fell, screaming slightly, then her companion laughed as the first staggered up again and brayed some incoherent swearwords at the stairway. The slurred words and the unsteady laughter made Wynell bloodthirsty; his fists itched and he shook slightly, the anger vibrating through him. The laugh especially it represented everything he hated, pathetic drunks drinking when they know they're dying; drinking when they're fully aware they can't afford to do so; drinking when they know it's killing those they love; drinking more and more-

Wynell caught himself. Now was not the time to flare up in anger - the prey were metres away from death, and that brief moment of ecstasy was but seconds away. The girls staggered forward, and the adrenaline coursing through Wynell's synapses slowed time to a crawl as the first one collided with death, her features conveying her inability to understand what had happened. The flash, the sparks, the terrifying snarl of electrocution, it was all too much for the second girl, who called out her friend's name as she reached out and grabbed the bar. The name was cut off halfway and was seamlessly transitioned into a screech. The corpse held onto the bar for a few faintly ridiculous seconds, the acrid smell of torched flesh filling the corridor, before the body fell backwards onto the ground.

Wynell flicked on his torch and examined the bodies, noting a few wisps of smoke rising from the hands of the second one. After putting back the torch in his pocket, Wynell grabbed both bodies, a leg each, and dragged them to the front of the storeroom and began searching the bodies. One had a backpack, which initially looked promising, but the clinking noise it made gave him a depressing insight into its contents. Clumsily grabbing at the zipper, Wynell amateurishly pulled open the bag and then emptied it out onto the head of one girl.

Wynell watched as three bottles sailed out and smashed, one after the other, into their former owners face, a shard slicing through her cheek, another sinking slightly into her eye. The nauseating alcohol covered her face, dripping off at the sides. After Wynell shook the bag a little, it gave up its final treasure; a well thumbed book, laminated and with a Dewey Decimal number neatly printed on the spine.

The title of the book was "Crime and Punishment" and that was the last thing Wynell saw for what seemed like an lifetime; and finally, after that length of time, Professor Wynell Hampton, esteemed senior member of the English faculty at the local University, was able to look up, and remember everything.

Prof. Hampton felt his legs almost give way underneath him as the flood of memories hit him. His son had died, terrible stupid teenage road accident, two years ago. The experience was too hard to handle and he took up drinking, heavily ; an activity he'd had no truck with since youth. He was a pathetic old man, bankrupting himself with his inability to face up to the cruelness of life ;his wife was driven to suicide and that only gave him more reason to crawl into any bottle he could afford.

Wynell could not believe it. He’d existed only for a month or so; but he shared a mind with(no, in fact, he was) a old drunk, a semi-legendary fall from grace, a man who represented the polar opposite of him. Prof. Hampton looked at the dead girls and at the storeroom and realized he was now a mass murderer as well as a drunk; Wynell cared not for the filth on the ground, but the bile rose when he thought of "his" past.

The two opposing personalities, in a fit of despair and self loathing, united and the body they both inhabited turned around and charged into the bar. Wynell felt a sense of glorious victory as the purifying electricity separated him from mortality; Prof. Hampton was just glad to die.