With long, creeping strides, The Prowler roams the street by his apartment in the older, Victorian side of town. The streets are still brick and the houses are a century old. It is dark and windy; winter had passed but there was no sign of blooming on the vegetation. A known sex offender and public drunk, the prowler would exit his residence to find a young man to mug for booze money or to beat into submission until a homosexual favor was allowed.

Toes exposed, he would stagger the streets and curse God, the man, the police, the nigger & the Jew and any other excuse he could blame for his poverty. During the day he was known as Henry Sodom. He worked in retail and seemed like a good enough fellow. Quiet & innocent, he had a few friends--with whom he worked--who only saw him at work. He took pride in his possessions; his car that did not run and his typewriter on which he would spend a minute or two to type a letter to some church official or evangelist. Henry had a long lasting dispute with God. Henry is the modern day Job from the scriptures, with the exception of the boils and disease and illness. Henry never had children to lose, but God made sure he would never taste the fruit of financial success. Of course, Henry the Prowler knew better. What God never really understood is that you could never find happiness through money. Henry only made enough to survive; enough for rent, food and whiskey. He was a courteous man, always offering a drink to his young male companions before setting them free; of course not without first taking their social security number, address and a solemn oath never to tell of this experience or certain death would result.

Henry was also an intelligent man; he read everything from Fitzgerald to Malcolm X and enjoyed sophisticated discussions about culture, politics, sex and religion. A native of this town, Henry had many close friends, most of which knew nothing of his sinful nighttime activities. One of these friends, a classy young lad who wore one hundred dollar Florsheim wing-tipped shoes and use to own a huge, red Cadillac, would stop by every now and then for a visit for a drink. His name was Walter Nichols III. Upon learning of Henry�s devious, homosexual addiction through rumor, Walter became intrigued and approached Henry with a deal. Walter would attempt to seduce young men through his boyish good looks and the tattered looking Henry would hide in the shrubbery and wait for a signal to attack if necessary. Once the man was in submission, crazed orgies would take place through the night at Henry�s apartment. No one would know of these acts until the police, upon reports of foul smells coming from Henry�s apartment, the missing Walter and the lack of the rent being paid along with Henry�s absence from work, discovered Henry and Walter; dead, in a double suicide. Both were hanged, but Walter�s neck had pulled apart, leaving the decapitated man on the floor. Soaked in blood was a confession letter, signed by both men and type on Henry�s typewriter, explaining their sick and perverted acts.

Thus ending the sickest and most perverted tales of any known sex offender to haunt this town�The Prowler will no longer strike fear in good looking young men ever again.