This centers on a deranged woman's path to becoming a complete nihilistic and feral serial killer. Emma Woodburn was put in the asylum for eleven years after killing her own husband and ten-year old son, along with the aging mother of a detective.
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At approximately 6:30 at dawn, Mr. Summers woke up in the bed of someone who was not his wife. What did happen earlier the night before this insignificance was that Mr. Summers was in total discomfort, thinking about how he was going to restart a whole effing relationship with Mrs. Summers, a woman and his wife whose he couldn't remember, he drove his black Jeep in high speed.
He had been swinging moods for the whole night in the busy streets trying to get his mind into zero atmosphere. This moment he was confused. That moment he was angry. This moment he was crying. That moment he was sobbing. This moment he was frozen. That moment he was happy. The next moment he found himself at the bar, contemplating drinking while driving.
"I'll have a Sprite," He said to the bartender, while eyeing the numerous bottles of tequila and whiskey across the squeaky clean, transparent counter table.
"You sure you're not up for the usual whiskey, Mr. Summers?", the bartender, a brown-skinned Arabian-American with spider-web tats on his neck and chest asked, "You look a bit under the weather today."
"Do I look like I'm in the fucking mood this evening, Mortis?", Mr. Summers barked with venomous rage, "I'm on the verge of a total meltdown and I think I'm gonna self-destruct at any second now."
"Hm. That bad, huh?", bartender giggles as he gets the daddy-in-distress his Sprite, "Your family loves ya, man. It has come to my notice that most of the time you seem to be fond of running away from yourself, Mr. Summers."
"It's not......", Mr. Summers coughs as he sucks on his icy chilled glass, the lemon fell onto the floor in the similar way his will power did, "This isn't about my family this time, Mortis. I can't remember my wife's name. Also, I can't fuck her. I can barely touch her, Mortis. I mean this is some serious shit right here. I can't undress when we're in the same room. When she was naked in the bed, I actually slept without even trying to touch her on the legs, kiss her or at least eat her pussy...Nothing, Mortis. I can't even get a fucking hard-on...!"
"Woaah! Someone's losing their shit," says the bearded, hipster man sitting beside him. He'd already heard a mouthful of the loud conversation over the music and wanted to butt in, "I know what you're going through, brother."
"What? What am I going through, doctor?", Mr. Summers asked impatiently.
"I think you're just bored o' her, man," the hipster said solemnly, "You been bangin' one woman for so long now you can't hit it in bed anymore. I think you need to explore, man. Try to be more open, you know what'am sayin', bra?"
"I should really fuck other women so I can power up my engine again and fuck her like I always fuck her?', a panic-stricken Mr. Summers inquires.
"Exactly, bra."
"But you must tell her first, Mr. Summers," the bartender Mortis advises him, "We better make sure she's not put on the verge of asking for a divorce, now. That can be a bad omen for you."
