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“A photograph.”

“In it, a man looks charming. He’s a blue collar worker with a heart of gold and a family that love him. He’s attractive, but in a guy next door kind of manner.”

“His adoring family are beside him. They look up at him with smiles that are endless in joy. The man is loved beyond all comprehension. This family is a happy one. You’d look at them and think camping and family fun.”

“But little did you know what the photograph truly hides, my dears.”

“That wife of his? He abuses her. He savagely assaults her at his whim. Those children? He violently humiliates, beats, and torments them. They hate him.”

“Those smiles aren’t of love, as they might suggest, darling.”

They’re of fear.

“A photograph doesn’t tell a story; it allows you to build one of your own. It lets you formulate a plot for these cast of characters and condemn them to a script of inane platitudes. A photographer doesn’t care for the truth; they aren’t there to enlighten or inform. They take the picture knowing that the eye of the beholder will interpret how they choose.”

“That, darling, is the ultimate power.”

“Mr. Ramsey, today I looked at your photograph.”

“I saw a creature of pomp and arrogance. I saw attraction without the elements of humanity. I saw a man that looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I might, perhaps.”

“I saw someone who enjoyed the power only a photographer has.”

“And I made you the feature antagonist of my story.”

“In my story, Colt Ramsey is a man desperate to be loved. He takes photographs to hide from the fact that he is alone, without someone to adore him. His arrogance is false, much like his confidence, when in fact all Colt Ramsey needs is love.”

“But he searches for it in the wrong places, my dears. He looks for it where it doesn’t exist. His search for love brings him to me, and darling, I have no intention of ending this story with applause.”

“For in this story, his search takes him down a dark and desperate road. He becomes violent and evil – heart wrenching as it may be, Mr. Ramsey loses control and gives in to his desires.”


“A lot can be made of a simple photograph, can it not, Mr. Ramsey?”

“But you know that, don’t you, journalist?”

“I’m sure my story is one you’d not fathom, but then every journalist is a critic, aren’t they, darling?”

“And you’ve taken your fair share of photographs.”

“All we can do is take another picture after our match at CLASH and see what we make of it then.”

“The story might be different, after all.”

“And if not, there is always another day, another stage, another play and another cast of characters.”

May the curtain rise before the hammer falls.

The Vulture