Psycho Killer Quotes

I gave him a smile. I was aiming for sweet, but he turned a shade paler and scooted a bit farther from me. Note to self: work more on sweet and less on psycho-killer.

It strikes me profoundly that the world is more often than not a bad and cruel place.

Yes, he’s a good boy. Never been in trouble at school and he’s on the honor roll. Captain of the football team. All-around psycho serial killer who hides bodies in the fridge whenever his parents go out of town. (Nick) I also eat babies for breakfast and torture small animals for fun. My therapist says I’m making real progress though. (Caleb)

I’ll give you this, Spartan. You sure can kiss. Feel free to lay one on me anytime you want to." “Well, I do aim to please,” he drawled. “You should see what I can do with my hands. And other parts of my body.” I rolled my eyes. “Seriously? You’ve been cut open like a fish, there’s a psycho-killer Reaper after us, and you’re still hitting me up for sex?” Logan shrugged, but the devilish light didn’t fade from his gaze. “Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying.

Psychopathy is like sunlight. Overexposure can hasten one’s demise in grotesque, carcinogenic fashion. But regulated exposure at controlled and optimal levels can have a significant positive impact on well-being and quality of life.

This women/ killer was a testament to my theory that the crazier you are, the more calories you burn. That's why psychos are always so skinny.

You do know him, so that's a lame excuse." It was a lame excuse, but it was the best I had. "How do you really ever truly know someone?" Brit smacked her hands to her cheeks and she shook her head. "He's not a serial killer." "Speaking of serial killers, everyone thought Ted Bundy was a really charming, handsome man. And look how he turned out. Psycho." Jacob stared at me. "He's not Ted Bundy.

He likes you. You like him, you're just scared. Well," she glanced over her shoulder and dropped her voice, "unless you tell me he's some freaky psycho-killer..." I rolled my eyes and shook my head. "Then I'm not letting you mess this up for yourself. Your creepy hermit status is officially over.

Great. First the anonymous call. Now letters. Body parts all over town. It was like a scavenger hunt for psychos. Running after clues with a half-deranged, serial-killer-obsessed, recovering-addict cop was not a good idea. Then again...

Why is there a gun hidden in my bathroom? Have you ever seen a horror film? The girl always gets stabbed in the shower. Or she runs into the bathroom and locks the door, but has no way to defend herself when the psycho killer breaks in.

The office Halloween party was at the Royalton last week and I went as a mass murderer, complete with a sign painted on my back that read MASS MURDERER (which was decidedly lighter than the sandwich board I had constructed earlier that day that read DRILLER KILLER), and beneath those two words I had written in blood Yep, that's me and the suit was also covered with blood, some of it fake, most of it real. In one fist I clenched a hank of Victoria Bell's hair, and pinned next to my boutonniere (a small white rose) was a finger bone I'd boiled the flesh off of. As elaborate as my costume was, Craig McDermott still managed to win first place in the competition. He came as Ivan Boesky, which I thought was unfair since a lot of people thought I'd gone as Michael Milken last year. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Home Abortion Kits.

Pimps make the best librarians. Psycho killers, the worst. Ditto con men. Gangsters, gunrunners, bank robbers- adept at crowd control, at collaborating with a small staff, at planning with deliberation and executing with contained fury- all possess the librarian's basic skill set.

Trilby’s face appeared on dolls, fans, writing paper, puzzles, and there were ice cream bars made in the shape of her feet.

What are their names? Psycho and Killer?" He shook his head. "Cupcake and Twinkie." My mouth dropped open. "You're kidding." A grin flitted across his lips. "Afraid not." If naming them after dessert snacks had been Miss Marva's attempt to make them seem cute, it wasn't working.

I gave him a smile. I was aiming for sweet, but he turned a shade paler and scooted a bit farther from me. Note to self: work more on sweet and less on psycho-killer. “Since

Come on. Text a friend and tell them who you’re with in case I’m a psycho killer.

Pimps make the best librarians. Psycho killers, the worst. Ditto conmen. Gangsters, gun runners, bank robbers – adept at crowd control, at collaborating with a small staff, at planning with deliberation and executing with contained fury – all possess the librarian’s basic skill set. Scalpers and loan sharks certainly have a role to play. But even they lack that something, the je ne sais quoi, the elusive it. What would a pimp call it? Yes: the love.

There wasn’t even a trace of humor. August Mulvaney—a killer he’d known less than three days —was sitting at his table casually talking about how he had settled on Lucas someday becoming his husband.

He’s convinced that you’re a psycho,” I explained, as I reached the bench. “He has the list narrowed down to either a double agent or a serial killer.

set off a marketing frenzy, during which the heroine’s name was bestowed upon a hat, several shoe designs, candy, toothpaste, soap, a brand of sausage, and even a town in Florida.

Don’t tell me he was another serial killer, Bateman. Not another serial killer.” “No, McDufus, he wasn’t a serial killer,

Pulaski said, “Even psycho killers need to do home repairs. Probably it’s not related to the case.

To the outside world kinky people like us are always considered crazy. I think we’re actually healthier, of course there’s a few that are nuts but hey those normal people have their psychos too!

the worst rioting in the city’s history when a mob of ten thousand citizens, outraged over the lenient sentence given to one of the killers, ransacked the courthouse and set it on fire in March 1884.

This was not how I imagined this situation going. Stalkers weren’t supposed to accidentally stalk serial killers and they definitely weren’t supposed to abruptly realize they weren’t the craziest one in their obsessive relationship.

Outraged at having the site of the tragedy transformed into what one observer called a “mass murder amusement park,” an angry mob tore down the barricade, “and everyone was then free to visit the death spot without charge or restraint.

Noah cocked his head to consider her. “Do I look like a killer?” Slow and deliberate, she let her gaze wander over him before giving a noncommittal shrug. “Hard to say. Although, I think asking that is how they begin and end meetings of The Secret Psycho Killer Society.

The office Halloween party was at the Royalton last week and I went as a mass murderer, complete with a sign painted on my back that read MASS MURDERER (which was decidedly lighter than the sandwich board I had constructed earlier that day that read DRILLER KILLER), and beneath those two words I had written in blood Yep, that’s me.

There is no escape from the horror of horror.

I concentrate on the Absolut and cranberry I'm holding and it looks like a glassful of thin, watery blood with ice and a lemon wedge in it.

What’s Psycho Bitch Barbie doing here?” Nora

Sean’s face turned beet red. “No bloody way, Macgregor. Lay a hand on her and I’ll kill you.” His enraged gaze traveled to D. “Same goes for you, you psycho. You’re not touching her.

I caught a glimpse of heaven once. The Angels showed me. The idea was I'd kill for them. Clean up their mistakes on Earth. Eventually redeem myself. Tried it. Didn't like it. Told them where to stick it. So they brought me up to heaven, to see what I'd be missing. A wife. A son. A daughter. I hadn't seen them since they bled out in my arms. Then I was cast down. Back to a world of killers. Rapists. Psychos. Perverts. A brand new evil every minute, spewed out as fast as men can think them up. A world where pitching a criminal dwarf off a skyscraper to tell his fellow scum you're back is a sane and rational act. The angels thought it would be hell for me. (Said dwarf hits the ground with a splat) But they were wrong. Welcome Back, Frank. Says New York City.

I didn’t want to pry, yet I wanted to know how this frosted-blond petite woman murdered her sister and where in her body she was storing the two sandwiches she had just demolished. She couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred pounds and she was about five-foot-six. This woman/ killer was a testament to my theory that the crazier you are, the more calories you burn. That’s why psychos are always so skinny.

Though I am satisfied at first by my actions, I'm suddenly jolted with a mournful dispair at how useless, how extraordinarily painless, it is to take a child's life. This thing before me, small and twisted and bloody, has no real history, no worthwhile past, nothing is really lost. It's so much worse (and more pleasurable) taking the life of someone who has hit his or her prime, who has the beginnings of a full history, a spouse, a network of friends, a career, whose death will upset far more people whose capacity for grief is limitless than a child's would, perhaps ruin many more lives than just the meaningless, puny death of this boy.

You should’ve told us!” “You wouldn’t have let me help!” Ben shot back. “This whole nightmare was my fault. I needed to find that psycho and stop him. If I’d told you guys the truth, you’d have shut me out. Then we found the corpse, and … and …” He shook his head. “It was too late. Things were crazy. All I could do was try to prevent whatever evil Rome had planned.” I held up a hand. Couldn’t handle any more of his confession. Unwittingly or not, Ben had assisted a monster. A killer. He’d known the truth for days, and never told us. He’d lied. Even when The Game had threatened our lives. “Tell me why, Ben. Why would you want to trick us in the first place?” Ben stopped pacing. Looked directly at me. “Don’t you know?” I shook my head, confused. “To impress you, Victoria Brennan.” His voice cracked. “I wanted you to think I was special.” The words rocked me. Oh, Ben. He’d started this madness … for me? “You were spending all that time with Jason,” Ben said softly, staring at his shoes. “Skipping around town with your new perfect guy. Cotillion this. Fund-raiser that. I hated it. Hated him. When I finally told Rome, he said I needed to amaze you. Said I needed to figure out a way to make you see me.” “I see you, Ben.” I rose and grabbed his hand. “I always have. You’re in my pack.” He pulled away. “What if being packmates isn’t enough for me?” I was speechless. Code, Kathy Reichs

My 1979 Top 40 In no particular order, this is the forty-track rotation I listened to when I was researching, prepping and writing 1979. They were all released in the late 1970s, though not all in 1979 itself. But then, like Allie, we all listen to tunes from our past . . . I hope it gets you in the mood for reading! ‘Picture This’ – Blondie ‘Lovely Day’ – Bill Withers ‘Automatic Lover’ – Dee D. Jackson ‘Brass in Pocket’ – The Pretenders ‘It’s a Heartache’ – Bonnie Tyler ‘Wild West Hero’ – Electric Light Orchestra ‘Because the Night’ – Patti Smith ‘Into the Valley’ – The Skids ‘YMCA’ – Village People ‘Like Clockwork’ – Boomtown Rats ‘Stayin’ Alive’ – Bee Gees ‘Uptown Top Ranking’ – Althea & Donna ‘No More Heroes’ – The Stranglers ‘Take a Chance on Me’ – Abba ‘Werewolves of London’ – Warren Zevon ‘Psycho Killer’ – Talking Heads ‘Kiss You All Over’ – Exile ‘Top of the Pops’ – Rezillos ‘Heroes’ – David Bowie ‘Don’t Hang Up’ – 10cc ‘English Civil War’ – The Clash ‘2-4-6-8-Motorway’ – Tom Robinson Band ‘Rebel Rebel’ – David Bowie ‘Glad to be Gay’ – Tom Robinson Band

Today is going to be the real thing. I have a hard time breathing. My heart races, I can feel my palms start to sweat. And I think so many things at once, my head begins to hurt and I hear someone groan and it confuses me until I realize it is myself. Her smile, her sweet, sweet smile. The way she looks at me, as if I’m ten feet tall, as if I can hold the world in the palm of my hand. And then, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “No, no, no. Please, Aidan, stop. No …” The cops will come for me. Sooner or later. Two of them, three of them, an entire SWAT team, converging upon my doorstep. That’s why guys like me exist. Because every community has gotta have a villain, and no amount of pretend normal is ever gonna change that. Gotta think. Gotta plan. Gotta get the fuck out of here. To where? For how long? I don’t have that kind of cash…. I try to get my breathing under control. Find some sort of comfort. Tell myself it’s gonna be all right. I’m keeping with the program.

WHO IS- OR WAS- YOUR FAVORITE WRITER? For style and consistency, I would have to say John Updike. No one else in the world writes the way that he does, and very few have enjoyed the longevity of career or employed the breadth of scope that he has. Mailer’s a close second, but they are completely different animals. Bret Easton Ellis, whom I unintentionally left off of my answer to the previous question, is good as well- he creates a goodly number of inimitable situations, and his dexterity of language produces many, many killer lines- lines that belong in any literate person’s lexicon. I would say the same for Jay McInerney as well. But Easton’s output is spotty: every other book is crap. He did Less Than Zero, and that was fucking amazing, and then he did The Rules Of Attraction. After that, he wrote American Psycho- a brilliant but sadly misunderstood book at the time- but the follow-up, Glamorama, sucked horribly. At least, in my humble opinion. After that, I kind of lost interest. If you occasionally throw off a collection of shitty writing, it does affect your credibility when you seek to speak with your constituency about matters of life and death. Fiction is a deadly serious business, and if you’re dry and out of ideas, then just fucking say so and keep working at it until you’re finally writing something that it would be a crime not to let other people read.

You should’ve told us!” “You wouldn’t have let me help!” Ben shot back. “This whole nightmare was my fault. I needed to find that psycho and stop him. If I’d told you guys the truth, you’d have shut me out. Then we found the corpse, and … and …” He shook his head. “It was too late. Things were crazy. All I could do was try to prevent whatever evil Rome had planned.” I held up a hand. Couldn’t handle any more of his confession. Unwittingly or not, Ben had assisted a monster. A killer. He’d known the truth for days, and never told us. He’d lied. Even when The Game had threatened our lives. “Tell me why, Ben. Why would you want to trick us in the first place?” Ben stopped pacing. Looked directly at me. “Don’t you know?” I shook my head, confused. “To impress you, Victoria Brennan.” His voice cracked. “I wanted you to think I was special.” The words rocked me. Oh, Ben. He’d started this madness … for me? “You were spending all that time with Jason,” Ben said softly, staring at his shoes. “Skipping around town with your new perfect guy. Cotillion this. Fund-raiser that. I hated it. Hated him. When I finally told Rome, he said I needed to amaze you. Said I needed to figure out a way to make you see me.” “I see you, Ben.” I rose and grabbed his hand. “I always have. You’re in my pack.” He pulled away. “What if being packmates isn’t enough for me?” I was speechless. -Code, Reichs

I wanted to devise a torture device that made Celia ride until she died. Or better yet, start my own class: Psycho Cycle. It’d be the ideal workout for today’s woman: half the class has to get away from crazed killers (spoiler alert: they die), and the rest of us come out looking like Kaia Gerber. Million-dollar idea.

Great horror stories of books and movies have seemingly come from some aspect of real-life events, and human behavior. This is evident as far back as Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, Psycho. The movie was based on a serial killer named, Ed Gein in Wisconsin.

Does my little slut need me to take her over this desk? Remind her that she’s mine, and I’ll never let anyone hurt her?

I know I like to play games and dance and do stupid shit, but I’m an adult. A killer. I hold onto the magic in the world because there’s so little of it that’s truly there. So I create it for myself instead. I run and play and skip and do whatever the fuck I like because I don’t have to do what society expects me to do. I’m free of those binds, unlike every other adult on this planet. I didn’t conform. I don’t school my features, or tuck my head down when someone looks at me weird. I don’t correct my behaviour, I don’t try to fit in. Because fitting in is so very fucking boring. It’s a cage that everyone walks so willingly into just so they don’t stand out. Teenagers put their dolls down, hide their favourite toys and cringe if their friends ever find them. But why do we have to put the dolls down, Hellfire? Why can’t I like glitter and fairies and jumping on trampolines just because society decided I’m not allowed to play anymore? It’s crab shit.

Killing’s in our blood,” he said. “But it’s more than that. Killers come in brands just like cereals do. You and me are Coco Pops.

Sometimes you sit around and think, Is it normal to love your friend this much? Am I obsessed with her? Am I creepy? I know you just asked your therapist that for the first time too. No, don't put this letter down-I didn't mean to embarrass you. It's okay. In hindsight, it is mildly funny that you felt so much for Darcy that you were scared you were obsessed with her in an American Psychotype way-like you would've rather come out as a psycho-killer than a lesbian.

Faith is seeing the brilliant countenance of God shining up at us from every creature.

I just…like the way he smells. I look at him and I find myself wondering what his skin tastes like.” “Oof. Easy, Dahmer,” Adam said. “Maybe don’t start with that.” “Don’t start with anything. He thinks you kill people,” Atticus said, practically apoplectic at that point. “He does kill people?” Adam reminded.

He already knew Lucas’s deep, dark secret and hadn’t run screaming in the other direction. Because he’s a murderer. Nobody’s perfect, right?

We’re all killers here, and there’s no room for distractions. Not if we want to get out alive.

He may not be the most well-known killer in this book, but he may well be the most influential in pop culture. No other killer has inspired as many movie franchises as the story of the Butcher of Plainfield. Norman Bates from Psycho, Leatherface from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs were all inspired by his story. The account of the life of Ed Gein is so strange, and what they found in his barn was so macabre, it has influenced the way we think about modern horror.

could have said that the best way to catch a psycho motherfucker is by understanding what makes him a psycho motherfucker, but I doubted that Deborah would be very receptive to that message right now. Besides, it wasn’t really true. Based on my years of experience in the business, the best way to catch a killer is by getting lucky.

I don't write gloom for the sake of it, I do it because it's real. When you're down, cut open and vulnerable, it's not going to be Michelle Pfeifer who drops down onto the hood of your car with diamonds stashed in her vagina, it's going to be a sociopath. When you're stuck in monotony and feeling trapped, there will be no dashing prince to save you, there will be a serial killer, or a drug dealer; a psycho. Lame impalas are picked off first. There's a greater social lesson in that than "love will set you free".

I’m Captain Florida, the state history pimp Gatherin’ more data than a DEA blimp West Palm, Tampa Bay, Miami-Dade Cruisin’ the coasts till Johnny Vegas gets laid Developer ho’s, and the politician bitches Smackin’ ’em down, while I’m takin’ lots of pictures Hurricanes, sinkholes, natural disaster ’Scuse me while I kick back, with my View-Master (S:) I’m Captain Florida, obscure facts are all legit (C:) I’m Coleman, the sidekick, with a big bong hit (S:) I’m Captain Florida, staying literate (C:) Coleman sees a book and says, “Fuck that shit” Ain’t never been caught, slippin’ nooses down the Keys Got more buoyancy than Elián González Knockin’ off the parasites, and takin’ all their moola Recruiting my apostles for the Church of Don Shula I’m an old-school gangster with a psycho ex-wife Molly Packin’ Glocks, a shotgun and my 7-Eleven coffee Trippin’ the theme parks, the malls, the time-shares Bustin’ my rhymes through all the red-tide scares (S:) I’m the surge in the storms, don’t believe the hype (C:) I’m his stoned number two, where’d I put my hash pipe? (S:) Florida, no appointments and a tank of gas (C:) Tequila, no employment and a bag of grass Think you’ve seen it all? I beg to differ Mosquitoes like bats and a peg-leg stripper The scammers, the schemers, the real estate liars Birthday-party clowns in a meth-lab fire But dig us, don’t diss us, pay a visit, don’t be late And statistics always lie, so ignore the murder rate Beaches, palm trees and golfing is our curse Our residents won’t bite, but a few will shoot first Everglades, orange groves, alligators, Buffett Scarface, Hemingway, an Andrew Jackson to suck it Solarcaine, Rogaine, eight balls of cocaine See the hall of fame for the criminally insane Artifacts, folklore, roadside attractions Crackers, Haitians, Cuban-exile factions The early-bird specials, drivin’ like molasses Condo-meeting fistfights in cataract glasses (S:) I’m the native tourist, with the rants that can’t be beat (C:) Serge, I think I put my shoes on the wrong feet (S:) A stack of old postcards in another dingy room (C:) A cold Bud forty and a magic mushroom Can’t stop, turnpike, keep ridin’ like the wind Gotta make a detour for a souvenir pin But if you like to litter, you’re just liable to get hurt Do ya like the MAC-10 under my tropical shirt? I just keep meeting jerks, I’m a human land-filler But it’s totally unfair, this term “serial killer” The police never rest, always breakin’ in my pad But sunshine is my bling, and I’m hangin’ like a chad (S:) Serge has got to roll and drop the mike on this rap . . . (C:) Coleman’s climbin’ in the tub, to take a little nap . . . (S:) . . . Disappearin’ in the swamp—and goin’ tangent, tangent, tangent . . . (C:) He’s goin’ tangent, tangent . . . (Fade-out) (S:) I’m goin’ tangent, tangent . . . (C:) Fuck goin’ platinum, he’s goin’ tangent, tangent . . . (S:) . . . Wikipedia all up and down your ass . . . (C:) Wikity-Wikity-Wikity . . .

What was the probability of being almost raped and murdered by a serial killer and my son almost being killed by some psycho that I was dating?

In a few more weeks, the ferry that runs between the island and the mainland would shut down for a couple of months. Then we’d be trapped. Deranged killers and psychos would have a field day before the first thaw. And no one would know until it was too late. Hadn’t I seen that scenario in a movie? I shuddered at the thought. “So why do you think the owners wanted to sell the place?” I asked. “Because it’s haunted.

This woman/ killer was a testament to my theory that the crazier you are, the more calories you burn. That’s why psychos are always so skinny.

someone moving inside and called out, “Mrs. Montague. This is Detective Rafferty. We think the killer may strike sometime tonight, and I wanted to check to see if you're okay.” He heard her whispery voice just beyond the door, “Or did you just stop by to see if I'm lurking about in the dark looking for warm blood?” Damn this psycho bitch. He didn't know what to say to this.

Shades of Nightmare on Blood Lake,” Wanda whispered. “Thank the gods we’re not in that flick. Still, we’d be okay,” Lucas said confidently. “None of us have had sex, none of us are naked, and none of us are going to go get a beer. We’re outside the formula!”              “What formula? What in the hell are you talking about?” I asked. “It’s a slasher flick,” Lucas answered. “You could always tell who the psycho killer was going to get next. Anyone who’d just had sex, was naked, or said ‘I’m going to go get a beer’ inevitably died right after.” “That’s the victim profile, idiot,” Wanda said acidly. “We‘re still in the basic plot set up! The whole movie took place at an abandoned campground. We’re doomed!” “Guys, right now, the most dangerous thing out here is the pissed-off sophomore in the back seat with a loaded paintball gun!” I said, voice rising until I was almost yelling. “Now, let me out!

stopped next to the antique fighter and released the cockpit hatch by splaying his hand over the lock on the side. The controls moved as fluidly as he did, but not nearly as silently. Turning, he waited until she was next to him. Since she was a full head and shoulders shorter than him, she couldn’t reach the boarding ladder. “Should I jump for it?” she asked sarcastically. That seemed to amuse him, but his features didn’t change at all as he placed his hands around her waist and effortlessly lifted her up to the ladder. The heat of his strong hands through the material of her suit seared her. Not to mention that the scent of him hit her hard. He was delectable even for a psycho killer.

We’re about five steps down when he says, “I feel like we’ve walked into a horror movie. Two teens sneak down to the basement, where the psycho killer lurks in the dark.” “If you’re trying to lighten the mood, it’s not working.” “Don’t worry. The psycho killer always targets teens who are sneaking to the basement in order to make out. But I do wish we had a flashlight.

I just want … her. In a thousand years—in a million—all I’ll ever want for the rest of my life is this psycho woman in my arms. Some people are born whole. I didn't realize that I wasn't one of them until I met her. Avalon is the other side of my fucked-up coin. The darker side to my already pitch-black moon.

Xander falls back on the pillow and starts singing a Talking Heads song under his breath. Ben recognizes it: Psycho Killer.

Just as silently, I open the drawer, and pull out the gun I have hidden there. Why is there a gun hidden in my bathroom? Have you ever seen a horror film? The girl always gets stabbed in the shower. Or she runs into the bathroom and locks the door, but has no way to defend herself when the psycho killer breaks in. I could defend myself and have no plans of hiding in the bathroom, but a backup plan never hurts.

This is sick,” Michael said, his voice rising. “There’s some psycho out there, fixating on Cassie, and you two are acting like this is some kind of game.” “It is a game,” Dean said. I knew Dean wasn’t enjoying this, that looking at me through a killer’s eyes wasn’t something he would have chosen to do, but Michael only heard the words. He lunged forward and caught Dean by the front of his shirt. A second later, Michael had Dean pinned to the wall. “Listen to me, you sick son of a—

You know, not to be crass, but there’s no need to crack open a safe when you already know the combination. Zoe can’t have given it much credence anyway, because our relationship didn’t change a jot, even though I’m sure some people around her would have quite liked it to. She found the note on Halloween and we spent that night together, we even went out dressed up. I was the psycho killer from Scream

Enzio was a monster but a different kind from what I’d thought him to be. He was a psycho killer, a sadist punisher, but not a rapist. Why else would he blurt about how he’d enjoy the pain and humiliation in my eyes when he fucked me, and then he’d give me a blindfold? Looking into my eyes while he fucked me without my consent was terrible for him. For a second, I felt bad for Enzio. To say this situation we were both pulled into was dubious was an understatement.

Like the criminal boogeymen of bygone times—the poisoner, the juvenile delinquent, the wild-eyed hippie madman—the serial killer no longer personifies the deepest anxieties of the day. That role is now played by the mass murderer. In our post-9/11, post-Columbine era, the monster we fear is not the night-stalking psycho, preying on one victim after another, but the “human time bomb,” primed to commit a single act of wholesale, apocalyptic violence: the terrorist planting a weapon of mass destruction in a public space, the suicide bomber detonating himself in a crowd, the school shooter on a rampage with high-powered assault weapons.

he’s back to resembling a deranged psycho killer, driving the chugging van like a bat out of hell. Or a bat into hell, as the case may be.

People think the really bad ones are something special, but they’re not,” her mother said, sitting on the edge of her bed, next to the table crowded with meds. “Psycho killers and rapists, they never ruin as many lives as a man like Corbell does. His daddy was a town councilman. Stuck-up boy, Corbell, selfish, but no more than lots that age. Thirty-some years on, he’s ruined more people than he can be bothered to remember, or even know.

That you deliver on what you promised. Unite the team and make the asylum the most sought-after network of killers available to the highest bidder.

His eyes plunged into mine in a way that made me pray I had been right about him not being psycho-killer material. His low, dangerous voice sent an unpleasant chill all the way down to my knees.

For a growing number of husbands, this societal pressure “to be sober, industrious, and successful only intensified their sense of themselves as failures” and bred an unbearable shame that climaxed in the destruction of their families and—more often than not—themselves.

almost without exception, psychopathic killers are subjected to extreme and unrelenting cruelty as children.

Harry Powers, the Depression-era Bluebeard who kept his victims in a torture bunker on his West Virginian “murder farm” and whose crimes inspired the cinematic classic The Night of the Hunter.

I want to be yours,” I reply breathlessly before I can even process what I said, raw emotion taking over. “And you will, especially when I fill you with my seed, make you pregnant, and bond you to me in life and in death.

I want one thing myself. The same thing I’ve always wanted…revenge for my mother’s death. And I’ve gotten it time and time again. And tonight will be no different.

Women aren’t my thing, not like that at least. Women are the only thing, but not sexually. Protecting them, keeping them safe, and ridding the trash of society that annoys them,

My code is my code. I only go after men who go after women too aggressively. Especially when those women look like my mother, who my father murdered in front of my own eyes the year I was scheduled to graduate high school.

Vincent, I was interested in. But Scythe terrified me. He was a cold-blooded killer who freely admitted it. Except he didn’t feel like one when we were both naked and wrapped in each other’s arms, our bodies slick with sweat from great sex. He mumbled into my shoulder, “I know what you’re thinking. And you’re not leaving while I’m still inside you, Bliss. Shut your brain off for a minute and just let me hold you.” My resistance melted. It was a very Vincent thing to say, and if he hadn’t worded it so casually, I might have asked if he’d slipped through Scythe’s defenses. But I didn’t. I fell asleep in the arms of a psychopath. I had never felt safer or more content in my life.

Police Psycho, God is a mass killer and a brutal murderer than your holy shit

Dear Serial Killers, Please stop telling the cops that you wouldn’t hurt a fly, because all we can think of is the final scene in Hitchcock’s Psycho. Thanks

Pedro Senior worked hard for a meagre salary and was an agreeable man until he started to drink, when he turned into the sort of monster who would violently beat his pregnant

Nowadays, we have come to understand that brutalizing a child is a surefire way to turn him or her into a sociopath. If a person is hideously maltreated from the earliest years, it is almost guaranteed that he or she will grow up with a malignant view of existence. To such a person, the world is a hateful place where all human relationships are based not on love and respect but on power and domination. Having been tortured by his primary caretakers, he will, in later life, seek to inflict torture on others, partly as a way of taking revenge—of making other people suffer the way he has suffered—and partly because he has been so psychologically warped by his experiences that he can feel pleasure only by inflicting pain.

There are two very different types of “psychos”: psychopaths and psychotics. Most serial killers fall into the first category, though some belong to the latter.

The first American serial killer of the twentieth century was a strangler—Earle Leonard Nelson, aka the “Gorilla Murderer,” a Bible-quoting psycho who traveled from coast to coast, choking women to death before raping their corpses (Alfred Hitchcock also made a movie loosely inspired by this notorious case: his 1943 masterpiece, Shadow of a Doubt).

landlocked Wisconsin,

Choosing a research topic, is the last thing not the first, those who think it's the first, it's like marrying someone you hardly know, then find out that the person you married to, was married, divorced many times, have 5 kids and is a psycho and serial killer. This means to say, the research topic you chose, you realized that it has been fully exhausted or no enough literature to review or the problem you want to raise has been already answered: at this stage, time and resources has been wasted, that's why you need Magangeni Law of Research. - Dr Lloyd Magangeni

Fingers crossed that I cross paths with the psycho killer that’s decapitating their unsuspecting victims one by one.  Double fingers crossed he’s hot and masked.

I want you to come on my cock again, little psycho. Squeeze every drop from a killer’s dick.

… há uma idéia de um Patrick Bateman, uma espécie de abstração, mas não existe um eu real, apenas uma entidade, algo ilusório, e embora eu possa esconder meu olhar frio e você possa apertar minha mão e sentir a carne apertando a sua e talvez você possa até pensar que podemos comparar nossos estilos de vida, eu simplesmente não estou aqui. É difícil para mim fazer sentido em qualquer nível dado. Meu eu é inventado, uma aberração. Sou um ser humano nada contingente. Minha personalidade é vaga e informe, minha falta de sentimento é profunda e persistente. Minha consciência, minha piedade, minhas esperanças desapareceram há muito tempo (provavelmente em Harvard), se é que jamais existiram. Não há nenhuma outra barreira a ser vencida. Tudo que tenho em comum com o incontrolável e o insano, o cruel e o mal, todo o horror que causei e minha total indiferença a ele, já superei. Porém, acredito ainda numa terrível verdade, ninguém está a salvo, nada é redimido. Contudo, sou isento de culpa. Devemos pressupor uma validade para cada modelo de comportamento humano. Você é o mal? Ou é alguma coisa que você faz? Minha dor é aguda e constante e não espero um mundo melhor para ninguém. Na verdade, posso desejar muita dor para os outros. Não quero que ninguém escape. Mas, mesmo depois de admiti-lo – e já o admiti muitas vezes, quase em todos os atos que cometi –, e enfrentando essas verdades, não há catarse. Não adquiro um conhecimento mais profundo a meu respeito, nenhuma nova compreensão pode ser tirada se eu contar para alguém, Não há nenhuma razão para que conte tudo isto. Esta confissão não significa coisa alguma…