A calm, warm breeze passed over him as he walked through the park, and colourful birds sang beautifully as they flew overhead.

He walked along the main pathway throughout the park, eventually leading him to the top of a small hill, where he found a small wooden bench.

The bench overlooked most of the park. He quietly admired the view; the big oak trees, the glistening pond in the distance, the blossoming flowers, all painted in the soft golden-yellow glow of the late-evening sun and the ominous splatter-paint of blood.

His favorite thing about this park was the people. He loved how they ran, scrambled aimlessly in all directions, praying not to catch a bullet to the face. He loved how the children cried in confusion, for they were unfamiliar with Death. And the parents cried in dread, for they knew Death all too well.

He placed the now-empty assault rifle beside him on the bench, the gun still felt warm, and the smokey scent of gun powder still lingered in the air.

He pulled a cigarette from his pants pocket and lit it.

He knew the police would soon be there, the gunfire was so loud and repetitive, and the screams so piercing and shrill, he knew even people far from the park would have heard it.

But he didn't make any attempt to run or hide, he would gladly and proudly take responsibility for the shooting.

He would undoubtedly become famous for it.

At least twenty people dead, wow, that's going to make the front page of every newspaper!

He thought to himself, smiling.

That was all he ever wanted. Fame. And evidently, he would do anything to achieve it.

He sat back and absorbed the view of the park one last time; the trees, the pond, the flowers, the bullet-riddled children and parents.

He took a puff from the cigarette and blew a cloud of dark-grey smoke. He waited for the police.

It was not a murderer willingly awaiting his imprisonment, no, he was now a superstar, a superstar awaiting his infamy.