Brad's story

     It’s always the quiet ones, they say. 
     He chose them with an accuracy that marveled the most brilliant of investigators.  The only pattern was that there was no pattern.  He chose at will; at a moments notice.  Today, it was a large, round-like figure with dark eyes that drooped sadly; yesterday, Brad’s choice had been one of perfection: slim, groomed and enticing.  He cared not what they looked on the outside; just that they were there at the time he felt like mangling, killing, torturing.
     And no two mutilations looked alike – ever.  Again, no patterns would present themselves; just gruesome holes throughout their flesh.  His aim was spectacular in everyway.  One shot was all some needed to complete his vengeance against them.  Sometimes, though already dying, he shot them over and over; dismembering them and scattering their parts over a vast range of scenery.  It was random; which is why it was disturbing, disgusting, thoroughly unbelievable that such a man existed.  Pieces were everywhere; sometimes you couldn’t walk without stepping on the rotting flesh strewn about.  Most people exclaimed that they could never eat again, once seeing the utter destruction that lie screaming up at them:  He killed me!  I did nothing and yet he took me apart, piece by piece, for his own satisfaction; his own evil intent.

     Looking back, Brad foreshadowed his own mental and moral demise with cleverly placed comments; subtle comments that would prove to be deadly. 
     “Guns are cool,” he said.  “I wish I lived somewhere that I can just go outside and start shooting.”
     So why didn’t they see it?  Why didn’t they finally catch on?  Was it his inviting smile, his demure attitude, his quiet but competitive nature that hid his inner struggle; a struggle between good and evil that waged with vengeance in the deep pockets of his soul?  At what point was it too much for him to fight this evil temptation?  And why did he give up such a gallant fight?  Why did he succumb to such visions of death and destruction?

     Nobody knew – and nobody had a chance to find out.  Brad was long gone when they had finally found his apartment.  It was the first sign of just how demented he had become: the first pieces of mutilated flesh discovered were scattered around his living room, kitchen and bedroom.  He wasn’t worried about keeping anything clean anymore; inside or out.  He was addicted to the violence; to the destruction of innocence; to the power it all gave him.  And he knew they were getting close to finding him out.  He disappeared.  Into the woods, into the city - they didn’t know.  But he would surface again when his need for killing was too much; that they did know.  They hoped to be ready. 
     Heed this warning for your own safety:  the next time you open up your vegetable drawer in your refrigerator and you pull out a potato, be careful to look at all sides.  You might find a piece missing, then you’ll know that Brad, The Killer Potato Man, was there – and will be back to finish the job.  He must finish; he’s a bloodthirsty soul.  To save your potatoes, bake them, mash them or fry them immediately.  It’s the only thing that can stop Brad from killing anymore.  It’s the only way to save their soul – and nourish yours.

     And one more thing…

     If you are not careful, you can fall into the same fate as Brad.  I urge you not to get hysterical if you do find a mangled potato.  The madness that results in the disbelief of such behavior breeds the type of vengeance that now consumes Brad’s life.  Two of his recruits have recently been identified:  Tina, The Terrible Onion Mutilator, and Racinda, The Bell Pepper Mangler.  Are you the next enemy of vegetation? 

For everyone’s health, we hope not.

This post brought to you by Spud Shot - the Potato Gun of the future.  Look for it whereever toys are sold.