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I've never entered these before so far as I know, so be gentle.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Rule number one if you want to be a successful stalker: don't stalk people under a full moon. Okay, you got me, that's not the first rule; not even close. But it is a rule, and with good reason. It doesn't work. You think it's dark, they think it's dark, because it isn’t daytime. But it’s not dark. While you're trying to sneak around, the grey-blue moonlight casts away the shadows, exposing you. The light reflects in your eyes, and the metals and glass of the world bend the light around every corner. Oh, you think you're being real stealthy, but you might as well be trying to sneak around a Christmas tree.
So you might ask yourself why I'm running around tonight, under the glorious illumination of the moon in its full splendour. You'd be right to ask. I normally wouldn't do this. But I am a creature of need, and tonight, my needs cannot wait. I’m sure you want to ask more questions, curiosity distracting you with irrelevancies such as what my need is that is so great, but let me answer one thing at a time, eh?
If you had to describe yourself succinctly in one word, what would you say? Some people go for ‘nice’ or ‘workaholic’. Some more honest types would go for ‘idiot’ or something worse. My word is violence. It defines me like nothing else. The need for it, the aptitude for it, the pleasure derived from being involved in it. People don’t understand it, and I’ve taken to not telling them, because they tend to overreact. They don’t get it. They’ve never felt the rush of pushing your thumbs into someone’s eye sockets, the joy of hearing that sweet sound like dry wood snapping as the ridge of your hand slams into their trachea, crushing the windpipe. It’s almost enough to get me hard just thinking about it.
But my love for violence isn’t what brings me out of an evening to stalk around in the darkness. Over the last few years, I’ve developed… feelings. A kind of sense, a compulsion, if you will. I don’t control it, don’t even understand it, but it leads me out and gives me the opportunity to exorcise my demons in the best way. By killing people. Be that as it may, I still try to reel it in, when circumstances dictate. Nights such as this, for example, I’ll usually sit at home rocking back and forth, with my knees on my hands holding myself in place until the compulsion dies.
Tonight it’s just too strong. There is a feeling of urgency that fills my head with a noise like rushing water, and loads my groin with an almost painful ache like a juvenile craving for sex. The competing needs of my mystery compulsion and my need to inflict pain.
Then I see her, and I know why I’m out here. The light of the full moon elucidates her brilliantly as she walks elegantly down the twilit street. She’s walking along in stiletto heels in that way women do that makes her hips sway like a promise of sex. Her legs are long, yet athletic, and she’s wearing a dress that barely reaches halfway to her knees. It clings to her body, showing off every curve. I couldn’t tell you what material the thing was made out of, but it reflected the blue twilight from every inch, making her glimmer enticingly. I couldn’t see her face, she was walking away from me, but her long, straight, dark blondish hair just screamed self-assurance. I was betting she was a stunner.
I was getting erect. I couldn’t tell if it was over the thought of screwing her, or the impending violence, but the anticipation alone was getting me aroused.
The street was quiet, a gentle wind brushed past, and only the sound of her heels tapping against the pavement broke the eerie moonlit silence. That and an abandoned sheet of paper rustling as the breeze carried it into the wheel arch of a parked car on the opposite side of the road.
I caught a brief sparkle in the corner of my eye as I was staring at the paper disappearing deeper into the wheel arch. I looked just in time to see her head swing away from me again. Still no sign of that must-be-beautiful face, but she’d picked up on me following her, because she started walking faster. Like I said, Rule number 1. My eyes followed her intently as she strode away. Her swinging hips suggesting things that would make grown men weep in awe.
I watched as she walked past a gap between two buildings, and then everything started to happen very quickly. A hand appeared from nowhere to grab her arm as she went past. She disappeared into the alleyway so fast that that if I hadn’t seen the hand, she might have just vanished altogether. There was a gap in time. Adrenalin does that. Moments go missing, a price you pay for rush of power it gives you. I was in the alleyway.
A slender hand is pressing against my face in desperation, my leg kicks out reflexively and I distantly hear the snapping of bone. The slender hand is gone. My hands are holding a face as my knee comes up from the depths squarely into the chin. Whoever he was is no longer a concern. A flash of moonlight reflecting off metal was all the clue I got about the knife, but it was enough. A feint, a fist, and the knife was mine. I don’t need knives. I threw it down with the contempt it deserved.
Suddenly I’m grappling the failed knifeman. My elbow comes from nowhere, and I feel the cheekbone disintegrate beneath the blow. There is the sound of a groan, half defeat, half pain so bad you’d pass out if only it didn’t hurt so much, and the body is being held up against the alley wall by my hand around the throat. The legs kicking away at me don’t have the strength left to worry about, and I watch the life fall away from him like mist.
I’m so horny now I could jerk off right here and now. Instead, I look around me and see her on the floor back at the entrance to the alley. She’d tried running, but her heels had let her down. I’m guessing a twisted ankle, and a little damaged pride. She’s staring back at me with this terrified look on her face. But what a face. Blood rushed to my groin so hard I almost cross my legs for fear of something getting away. She’s probably wondering if I’m going to kill her next. Then I realise that she’s seen my face. This is a new problem. But I know straight away that I can’t do what I should.
Instead, I walk up to her. She edges away, realises it won’t save her if I want to hurt her, and stares up at me, her face changing more to defiance. We’re like this for a moment that stretches for an age. Me stood over her, blood dripping slowly from the clenched fists at my sides, her looking up at me on her backside propping herself up with her hands, her dress torn from the bottom almost up to her hips, revealing a flash of pure white underwear. I’m not going to even tell you what I wanted to do. I was so hard right then, I thought I’d explode.
“You alright?” I asked. She just stares at me for a while, and then nods slowly. “Can you walk?” She looks down at her ankle, and seems to notice the tear in her dress for the first time. She looks at it, then at me, then lowers her eyes, before slowly moving her head from side to side. She looks at me then. Passion in her eyes, now. I get it. I so get it. Gratitude. She’s practically screaming for me to come and get my reward. My eyes narrow involuntarily.
20 minutes later, I’m back in my apartment, and she’s probably still in a cab somewhere. It would have been the best screw of my life, and I don’t doubt it. Instead, I’m at home jerking off like crazy.
Of all the people in this world with curses, mine is the worst. Of all the people in this world, why the hell did fate choose me as the good guy?
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Rule number one if you want to be a successful stalker: don't stalk people under a full moon. Okay, you got me, that's not the first rule; not even close. But it is a rule, and with good reason. It doesn't work. You think it's dark, they think it's dark, because it isn’t daytime. But it’s not dark. While you're trying to sneak around, the grey-blue moonlight casts away the shadows, exposing you. The light reflects in your eyes, and the metals and glass of the world bend the light around every corner. Oh, you think you're being real stealthy, but you might as well be trying to sneak around a Christmas tree.
So you might ask yourself why I'm running around tonight, under the glorious illumination of the moon in its full splendour. You'd be right to ask. I normally wouldn't do this. But I am a creature of need, and tonight, my needs cannot wait. I’m sure you want to ask more questions, curiosity distracting you with irrelevancies such as what my need is that is so great, but let me answer one thing at a time, eh?
If you had to describe yourself succinctly in one word, what would you say? Some people go for ‘nice’ or ‘workaholic’. Some more honest types would go for ‘idiot’ or something worse. My word is violence. It defines me like nothing else. The need for it, the aptitude for it, the pleasure derived from being involved in it. People don’t understand it, and I’ve taken to not telling them, because they tend to overreact. They don’t get it. They’ve never felt the rush of pushing your thumbs into someone’s eye sockets, the joy of hearing that sweet sound like dry wood snapping as the ridge of your hand slams into their trachea, crushing the windpipe. It’s almost enough to get me hard just thinking about it.
But my love for violence isn’t what brings me out of an evening to stalk around in the darkness. Over the last few years, I’ve developed… feelings. A kind of sense, a compulsion, if you will. I don’t control it, don’t even understand it, but it leads me out and gives me the opportunity to exorcise my demons in the best way. By killing people. Be that as it may, I still try to reel it in, when circumstances dictate. Nights such as this, for example, I’ll usually sit at home rocking back and forth, with my knees on my hands holding myself in place until the compulsion dies.
Tonight it’s just too strong. There is a feeling of urgency that fills my head with a noise like rushing water, and loads my groin with an almost painful ache like a juvenile craving for sex. The competing needs of my mystery compulsion and my need to inflict pain.
Then I see her, and I know why I’m out here. The light of the full moon elucidates her brilliantly as she walks elegantly down the twilit street. She’s walking along in stiletto heels in that way women do that makes her hips sway like a promise of sex. Her legs are long, yet athletic, and she’s wearing a dress that barely reaches halfway to her knees. It clings to her body, showing off every curve. I couldn’t tell you what material the thing was made out of, but it reflected the blue twilight from every inch, making her glimmer enticingly. I couldn’t see her face, she was walking away from me, but her long, straight, dark blondish hair just screamed self-assurance. I was betting she was a stunner.
I was getting erect. I couldn’t tell if it was over the thought of screwing her, or the impending violence, but the anticipation alone was getting me aroused.
The street was quiet, a gentle wind brushed past, and only the sound of her heels tapping against the pavement broke the eerie moonlit silence. That and an abandoned sheet of paper rustling as the breeze carried it into the wheel arch of a parked car on the opposite side of the road.
I caught a brief sparkle in the corner of my eye as I was staring at the paper disappearing deeper into the wheel arch. I looked just in time to see her head swing away from me again. Still no sign of that must-be-beautiful face, but she’d picked up on me following her, because she started walking faster. Like I said, Rule number 1. My eyes followed her intently as she strode away. Her swinging hips suggesting things that would make grown men weep in awe.
I watched as she walked past a gap between two buildings, and then everything started to happen very quickly. A hand appeared from nowhere to grab her arm as she went past. She disappeared into the alleyway so fast that that if I hadn’t seen the hand, she might have just vanished altogether. There was a gap in time. Adrenalin does that. Moments go missing, a price you pay for rush of power it gives you. I was in the alleyway.
A slender hand is pressing against my face in desperation, my leg kicks out reflexively and I distantly hear the snapping of bone. The slender hand is gone. My hands are holding a face as my knee comes up from the depths squarely into the chin. Whoever he was is no longer a concern. A flash of moonlight reflecting off metal was all the clue I got about the knife, but it was enough. A feint, a fist, and the knife was mine. I don’t need knives. I threw it down with the contempt it deserved.
Suddenly I’m grappling the failed knifeman. My elbow comes from nowhere, and I feel the cheekbone disintegrate beneath the blow. There is the sound of a groan, half defeat, half pain so bad you’d pass out if only it didn’t hurt so much, and the body is being held up against the alley wall by my hand around the throat. The legs kicking away at me don’t have the strength left to worry about, and I watch the life fall away from him like mist.
I’m so horny now I could jerk off right here and now. Instead, I look around me and see her on the floor back at the entrance to the alley. She’d tried running, but her heels had let her down. I’m guessing a twisted ankle, and a little damaged pride. She’s staring back at me with this terrified look on her face. But what a face. Blood rushed to my groin so hard I almost cross my legs for fear of something getting away. She’s probably wondering if I’m going to kill her next. Then I realise that she’s seen my face. This is a new problem. But I know straight away that I can’t do what I should.
Instead, I walk up to her. She edges away, realises it won’t save her if I want to hurt her, and stares up at me, her face changing more to defiance. We’re like this for a moment that stretches for an age. Me stood over her, blood dripping slowly from the clenched fists at my sides, her looking up at me on her backside propping herself up with her hands, her dress torn from the bottom almost up to her hips, revealing a flash of pure white underwear. I’m not going to even tell you what I wanted to do. I was so hard right then, I thought I’d explode.
“You alright?” I asked. She just stares at me for a while, and then nods slowly. “Can you walk?” She looks down at her ankle, and seems to notice the tear in her dress for the first time. She looks at it, then at me, then lowers her eyes, before slowly moving her head from side to side. She looks at me then. Passion in her eyes, now. I get it. I so get it. Gratitude. She’s practically screaming for me to come and get my reward. My eyes narrow involuntarily.
20 minutes later, I’m back in my apartment, and she’s probably still in a cab somewhere. It would have been the best screw of my life, and I don’t doubt it. Instead, I’m at home jerking off like crazy.
Of all the people in this world with curses, mine is the worst. Of all the people in this world, why the hell did fate choose me as the good guy?
I've never entered these before so far as I know, so be gentle.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Rule number one if you want to be a successful stalker: don't stalk people under a full moon. Okay, you got me, that's not the first rule; not even close. But it is a rule, and with good reason. It doesn't work. You think it's dark, they think it's dark, because it isn’t daytime. But it’s not dark. While you're trying to sneak around, the grey-blue moonlight casts away the shadows, exposing you. The light reflects in your eyes, and the metals and glass of the world bend the light around every corner. Oh, you think you're being real stealthy, but you might as well be trying to sneak around a Christmas tree.
So you might ask yourself why I'm running around tonight, under the glorious illumination of the moon in its full splendour. You'd be right to ask. I normally wouldn't do this. But I am a creature of need, and tonight, my needs cannot wait. I’m sure you want to ask more questions, curiosity distracting you with irrelevancies such as what my need is that is so great, but let me answer one thing at a time, eh?
If you had to describe yourself succinctly in one word, what would you say? Some people go for ‘nice’ or ‘workaholic’. Some more honest types would go for ‘idiot’ or something worse. My word is violence. It defines me like nothing else. The need for it, the aptitude for it, the pleasure derived from being involved in it. People don’t understand it, and I’ve taken to not telling them, because they tend to overreact. They don’t get it. They’ve never felt the rush of pushing your thumbs into someone’s eye sockets, the joy of hearing that sweet sound like dry wood snapping as the ridge of your hand slams into their trachea, crushing the windpipe. It’s almost enough to get me hard just thinking about it.
But my love for violence isn’t what brings me out of an evening to stalk around in the darkness. Over the last few years, I’ve developed… feelings. A kind of sense, a compulsion, if you will. I don’t control it, don’t even understand it, but it leads me out and gives me the opportunity to exorcise my demons in the best way. By killing people. Be that as it may, I still try to reel it in, when circumstances dictate. Nights such as this, for example, I’ll usually sit at home rocking back and forth, with my knees on my hands holding myself in place until the compulsion dies.
Tonight it’s just too strong. There is a feeling of urgency that fills my head with a noise like rushing water, and loads my groin with an almost painful ache like a juvenile craving for sex. The competing needs of my mystery compulsion and my need to inflict pain.
Then I see her, and I know why I’m out here. The light of the full moon elucidates her brilliantly as she walks elegantly down the twilit street. She’s walking along in stiletto heels in that way women do that makes her hips sway like a promise of sex. Her legs are long, yet athletic, and she’s wearing a dress that barely reaches halfway to her knees. It clings to her body, showing off every curve. I couldn’t tell you what material the thing was made out of, but it reflected the blue twilight from every inch, making her glimmer enticingly. I couldn’t see her face, she was walking away from me, but her long, straight, dark blondish hair just screamed self-assurance. I was betting she was a stunner.
I was getting erect. I couldn’t tell if it was over the thought of screwing her, or the impending violence, but the anticipation alone was getting me aroused.
The street was quiet, a gentle wind brushed past, and only the sound of her heels tapping against the pavement broke the eerie moonlit silence. That and an abandoned sheet of paper rustling as the breeze carried it into the wheel arch of a parked car on the opposite side of the road.
I caught a brief sparkle in the corner of my eye as I was staring at the paper disappearing deeper into the wheel arch. I looked just in time to see her head swing away from me again. Still no sign of that must-be-beautiful face, but she’d picked up on me following her, because she started walking faster. Like I said, Rule number 1. My eyes followed her intently as she strode away. Her swinging hips suggesting things that would make grown men weep in awe.
I watched as she walked past a gap between two buildings, and then everything started to happen very quickly. A hand appeared from nowhere to grab her arm as she went past. She disappeared into the alleyway so fast that that if I hadn’t seen the hand, she might have just vanished altogether. There was a gap in time. Adrenalin does that. Moments go missing, a price you pay for rush of power it gives you. I was in the alleyway.
A slender hand is pressing against my face in desperation, my leg kicks out reflexively and I distantly hear the snapping of bone. The slender hand is gone. My hands are holding a face as my knee comes up from the depths squarely into the chin. Whoever he was is no longer a concern. A flash of moonlight reflecting off metal was all the clue I got about the knife, but it was enough. A feint, a fist, and the knife was mine. I don’t need knives. I threw it down with the contempt it deserved.
Suddenly I’m grappling the failed knifeman. My elbow comes from nowhere, and I feel the cheekbone disintegrate beneath the blow. There is the sound of a groan, half defeat, half pain so bad you’d pass out if only it didn’t hurt so much, and the body is being held up against the alley wall by my hand around the throat. The legs kicking away at me don’t have the strength left to worry about, and I watch the life fall away from him like mist.
I’m so horny now I could jerk off right here and now. Instead, I look around me and see her on the floor back at the entrance to the alley. She’d tried running, but her heels had let her down. I’m guessing a twisted ankle, and a little damaged pride. She’s staring back at me with this terrified look on her face. But what a face. Blood rushed to my groin so hard I almost cross my legs for fear of something getting away. She’s probably wondering if I’m going to kill her next. Then I realise that she’s seen my face. This is a new problem. But I know straight away that I can’t do what I should.
Instead, I walk up to her. She edges away, realises it won’t save her if I want to hurt her, and stares up at me, her face changing more to defiance. We’re like this for a moment that stretches for an age. Me stood over her, blood dripping slowly from the clenched fists at my sides, her looking up at me on her backside propping herself up with her hands, her dress torn from the bottom almost up to her hips, revealing a flash of pure white underwear. I’m not going to even tell you what I wanted to do. I was so hard right then, I thought I’d explode.
“You alright?” I asked. She just stares at me for a while, and then nods slowly. “Can you walk?” She looks down at her ankle, and seems to notice the tear in her dress for the first time. She looks at it, then at me, then lowers her eyes, before slowly moving her head from side to side. She looks at me then. Passion in her eyes, now. I get it. I so get it. Gratitude. She’s practically screaming for me to come and get my reward. My eyes narrow involuntarily.
20 minutes later, I’m back in my apartment, and she’s probably still in a cab somewhere. It would have been the best screw of my life, and I don’t doubt it. Instead, I’m at home jerking off like crazy.
Of all the people in this world with curses, mine is the worst. Of all the people in this world, why the hell did fate choose me as the good guy?
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Rule number one if you want to be a successful stalker: don't stalk people under a full moon. Okay, you got me, that's not the first rule; not even close. But it is a rule, and with good reason. It doesn't work. You think it's dark, they think it's dark, because it isn’t daytime. But it’s not dark. While you're trying to sneak around, the grey-blue moonlight casts away the shadows, exposing you. The light reflects in your eyes, and the metals and glass of the world bend the light around every corner. Oh, you think you're being real stealthy, but you might as well be trying to sneak around a Christmas tree.
So you might ask yourself why I'm running around tonight, under the glorious illumination of the moon in its full splendour. You'd be right to ask. I normally wouldn't do this. But I am a creature of need, and tonight, my needs cannot wait. I’m sure you want to ask more questions, curiosity distracting you with irrelevancies such as what my need is that is so great, but let me answer one thing at a time, eh?
If you had to describe yourself succinctly in one word, what would you say? Some people go for ‘nice’ or ‘workaholic’. Some more honest types would go for ‘idiot’ or something worse. My word is violence. It defines me like nothing else. The need for it, the aptitude for it, the pleasure derived from being involved in it. People don’t understand it, and I’ve taken to not telling them, because they tend to overreact. They don’t get it. They’ve never felt the rush of pushing your thumbs into someone’s eye sockets, the joy of hearing that sweet sound like dry wood snapping as the ridge of your hand slams into their trachea, crushing the windpipe. It’s almost enough to get me hard just thinking about it.
But my love for violence isn’t what brings me out of an evening to stalk around in the darkness. Over the last few years, I’ve developed… feelings. A kind of sense, a compulsion, if you will. I don’t control it, don’t even understand it, but it leads me out and gives me the opportunity to exorcise my demons in the best way. By killing people. Be that as it may, I still try to reel it in, when circumstances dictate. Nights such as this, for example, I’ll usually sit at home rocking back and forth, with my knees on my hands holding myself in place until the compulsion dies.
Tonight it’s just too strong. There is a feeling of urgency that fills my head with a noise like rushing water, and loads my groin with an almost painful ache like a juvenile craving for sex. The competing needs of my mystery compulsion and my need to inflict pain.
Then I see her, and I know why I’m out here. The light of the full moon elucidates her brilliantly as she walks elegantly down the twilit street. She’s walking along in stiletto heels in that way women do that makes her hips sway like a promise of sex. Her legs are long, yet athletic, and she’s wearing a dress that barely reaches halfway to her knees. It clings to her body, showing off every curve. I couldn’t tell you what material the thing was made out of, but it reflected the blue twilight from every inch, making her glimmer enticingly. I couldn’t see her face, she was walking away from me, but her long, straight, dark blondish hair just screamed self-assurance. I was betting she was a stunner.
I was getting erect. I couldn’t tell if it was over the thought of screwing her, or the impending violence, but the anticipation alone was getting me aroused.
The street was quiet, a gentle wind brushed past, and only the sound of her heels tapping against the pavement broke the eerie moonlit silence. That and an abandoned sheet of paper rustling as the breeze carried it into the wheel arch of a parked car on the opposite side of the road.
I caught a brief sparkle in the corner of my eye as I was staring at the paper disappearing deeper into the wheel arch. I looked just in time to see her head swing away from me again. Still no sign of that must-be-beautiful face, but she’d picked up on me following her, because she started walking faster. Like I said, Rule number 1. My eyes followed her intently as she strode away. Her swinging hips suggesting things that would make grown men weep in awe.
I watched as she walked past a gap between two buildings, and then everything started to happen very quickly. A hand appeared from nowhere to grab her arm as she went past. She disappeared into the alleyway so fast that that if I hadn’t seen the hand, she might have just vanished altogether. There was a gap in time. Adrenalin does that. Moments go missing, a price you pay for rush of power it gives you. I was in the alleyway.
A slender hand is pressing against my face in desperation, my leg kicks out reflexively and I distantly hear the snapping of bone. The slender hand is gone. My hands are holding a face as my knee comes up from the depths squarely into the chin. Whoever he was is no longer a concern. A flash of moonlight reflecting off metal was all the clue I got about the knife, but it was enough. A feint, a fist, and the knife was mine. I don’t need knives. I threw it down with the contempt it deserved.
Suddenly I’m grappling the failed knifeman. My elbow comes from nowhere, and I feel the cheekbone disintegrate beneath the blow. There is the sound of a groan, half defeat, half pain so bad you’d pass out if only it didn’t hurt so much, and the body is being held up against the alley wall by my hand around the throat. The legs kicking away at me don’t have the strength left to worry about, and I watch the life fall away from him like mist.
I’m so horny now I could jerk off right here and now. Instead, I look around me and see her on the floor back at the entrance to the alley. She’d tried running, but her heels had let her down. I’m guessing a twisted ankle, and a little damaged pride. She’s staring back at me with this terrified look on her face. But what a face. Blood rushed to my groin so hard I almost cross my legs for fear of something getting away. She’s probably wondering if I’m going to kill her next. Then I realise that she’s seen my face. This is a new problem. But I know straight away that I can’t do what I should.
Instead, I walk up to her. She edges away, realises it won’t save her if I want to hurt her, and stares up at me, her face changing more to defiance. We’re like this for a moment that stretches for an age. Me stood over her, blood dripping slowly from the clenched fists at my sides, her looking up at me on her backside propping herself up with her hands, her dress torn from the bottom almost up to her hips, revealing a flash of pure white underwear. I’m not going to even tell you what I wanted to do. I was so hard right then, I thought I’d explode.
“You alright?” I asked. She just stares at me for a while, and then nods slowly. “Can you walk?” She looks down at her ankle, and seems to notice the tear in her dress for the first time. She looks at it, then at me, then lowers her eyes, before slowly moving her head from side to side. She looks at me then. Passion in her eyes, now. I get it. I so get it. Gratitude. She’s practically screaming for me to come and get my reward. My eyes narrow involuntarily.
20 minutes later, I’m back in my apartment, and she’s probably still in a cab somewhere. It would have been the best screw of my life, and I don’t doubt it. Instead, I’m at home jerking off like crazy.
Of all the people in this world with curses, mine is the worst. Of all the people in this world, why the hell did fate choose me as the good guy?
Great. Some quality writing in there. I especially liked the first paragraph, and the way he shifted into the alleyway - minimally described, which made it feel more real/convincing. The same can be said of the violence. And the little twist at the end. Much better than my nonsense.
This is great. Very strong story and a good twist to the usual vigilante style story.
A strong contender for winner? Could be!
A strong contender for winner? Could be!
Very enjoyable. Told so well I believed him to be what you wanted me to believe right to the very end.