Blackness. It always starts out dark. In the little-used corner of the mind, the wellspring of creation, the abode of the muses, the solace of the artist, the door is often shut. No light seeps under the door, or through the keyhole, for the bottom has been stuffed with rags to prevent drafts, and the key snapped long ago. The door is shoved open, however, and a figure strides in, closing the door behind him. Light emanates from the figure. Wherever the light touches the darkness, images spring up, flashes of light, of color, of sound, of raw emotion. Then the figure stops, at an indeterminate point in the darkness, and stands straight. A shockwave of light emanates from it, gradually swallowed by the vast darkness. The images cease.
In a huge voice that shakes the foundations of this empty space, the figure announces to everything and nothing, to itself, "I AM THE AUTHOR! MY WHIM, MY VERY THOUGHT IS LAW! NONE CAN POSSIBLY OPPOSE ME! THE UNIVERSE BENDS TO MY WILL! I CREATE! I DESTROY! I AM THE AUTHOR!" And so it begins.

The BOY sits at a table. He is trying to repair a hole in a pair of pants, and doing more damage to the sewing machine than help to the pants. Hook, starring Robin Williams, is playing on the television. "Fool Pan! James Hook IS Neverland!" The end. Exciting. He glances at the clock. Ten to six. Shit.
The front door squeaks open. "Hello!" The BOY stands, walks to the front door. "I need to get to school for the concert with these pants fixed." "What time do you need to be there?" "Six." "Well, then, you�re SOL. I can get you some different pants, but you�ll have to bike." Great. SOL for shit outta luck. Bike for NOW I�LL BE LATE AND MRS. RAND WILL KILL ME! Oh well. The BOY walks downstairs to his room, gets dressed in costume attire. His father throws a pair of dress pants at him. They don�t fit, but the next pair does. He hops on his bike and rides to school. On the way there his chain starts hopping gears again. Annoying. He arrives at the front door and drops his bike off to the side. No time to lock it. He runs through the front doors. He is thirteen minutes late. Into the auditorium. "You�re twelve, no, thirteen minutes late. Why?" "Because." "Excuse me?" "You�re excused." "You know-" "Yes. I do." "You-" "You�re absolutely correct, but at the moment I don�t give a shit." "Alright, then leave. I�m serious. If you�re not dedicated enough to show up on time, just leave, and take an F in my class." "No. I don�t think so. I hate you. I hate you for picking on me and making me feel bad and pointing me out and you deserve to die for it." The BOY reaches out and grabs a hold of her neck, and snaps it to the side. Her body slumps to the floor. "I am Phoenix the Pyromancer, and I shall make the world a better place!" He screams, and the scream tears through the building, right ahead of the flames.
"This is Mary-Ann Matthewson, reporting for the local news. An explosion has occurred at a local high school, just before a choir concert. The school and several nearby houses have been completely demolished, and an estimated 150 are dead. No survivors have been found yet. This is Mary-Ann Mat- Holy crap!" "I hate you. I hate you because last night you held your three-year-old daughter still while your husband raped her. You deserve to die for it." (screams of pain) (flames) (silence) "This is Phoenix the Pyromancer, vigilante extraordinaire. Fire, telepathy, teleportation, telekinesis, healing, anything you could want. Except mercy. Mercy is a weakness."
"I hate you. I hate you because you raped and killed three innocent teenage girls who were well on their way to discovering their own psychic abilities. You deserve to die for it." "I hate you. I hate you because you beat and killed two African-American homosexuals for being what they were. You definitely deserve to die for it." "I hate you. I hate you for trying to kidnap my little brother. You deserve to die for it."
Days.
Months.
Years.
Phoenix the Pyromancer sits down at the edge of a lake. He produces no flames. He reads no minds. He moves nothing. He just sits, thinking. He thinks of all those he has killed for their crimes, 3,784 in all. He has all their names written down. Carved in stone. He has just survived his seventeenth assassination attempt. Another NSA botch-up. Stupid bastards. He thinks back on all he has killed. He thinks of why he killed them. And he stands.
He walks into the lake, ankle-deep. He stares at his reflection. "I hate me. I hate me for all the people I�ve killed, for the monster I�ve become. I hate me, because no one, not Molly Rand, not Mary-Ann Matthewson, not�" He lists all three thousand seven hundred and eighty-four of his victims. It takes hours. "� not one of them can hate me any longer. For this, I deserve to die." He swims down deep, and takes a great double lungful of water.
The sun sets.

The images fade. The Author muses. "Incredible. He wasn�t supposed to do that." The Author considers changing the story, but it would mean bad luck. As he leaves, just before he closes the door behind him, he hears 3,785 voices whisper, "Thank you!" He shuts the door firmly, and places the thought in a box. He locks the box, and throws it into the well of his subconcious. He doesn�t know that the water will leak through. The thought will poison the water, and eventually cause insanity. He doesn�t know it, though. He walks away.