I write Sins not Tragedies.

Please leave all overcoats, Canes and top hats with the doorman, from that moment you’ll be out of place and underdressed…

I strolled into the room packed to the brim with finely dressed men and women, decked out in expensive clothing that flaunted how well their stocks and businesses were doing. They clustered together in shrewd groups, furtively glancing at each other and making snide comments about dresswear or gossiping about what had happened to people from different families, different religions.

They drew together because they were afraid, afraid of what would be announced at this party by my mother tonight, though they tried unsuccessfully to hide it from each other. They criticised others because they weren’t comfortable themselves.

As soon as they spotted me, the cliques of rich people seemed to draw into each other for protection in fear, as if a group were more effective than trying to stand me singlehandedly. Wrong.

I’m wrecking this evening already and loving every minute of it,ruining this banquet for the mildly inspiring and…

Some narrowed their eyes, some openly snarled at me and others cowered away. And I openly enjoyed it, smiling deviously at those who were hostile. It was a moment of excitement for me, watching them become enraged, their pupils dilated and beginning to turn silver.

But this was all a game, and regretfully I turned away, advancing through the room with a natural grace that only I could pull off. Dramatically lowering myself into the front row of seats in front of the stage labelled as ‘‘Reserved’‘ Almost immediately, everyone behind me relaxed as though I just been a mildly annoying child running through, as I had been before ten years ago.

Ten years ago when I was just an awkward 8 year old, my straggly hair bleached with a colour akin to a carrot and stumpy legs that could barely carry my tall, thin frame. I looked like a freak of nature, and I had been looked at pityingly, with a hint of spite. I had been my mothers child, and despised because of it.

I’m the new cancer, never looked better, you can’t stand it. Because you say so under your breath. You’re reading lips “When did he get all confident?”

Mother walked onto the stage, dressed as a tent. Or that was what I thought anyway, draped as she was in reams of rainbow silk and velvet, her beautiful face slightly more wrinkled than it had been five years ago when I’d left. She was still as uptight as ever, standing as straight as though she had a pole rammed up her bum.

She would speak soon and reveal her plan to the world. Which was, quite simply, the legalisation of the mass murder of the poor in England. Overpopulation was killing the country, and in desperation people would accept the first answer that fell into their laps. The reason I was here, was to stop that from happening.

‘‘Ladies and gentleman, please accept my gracious thanks that you have attended this meeting of mine. It is only for those of aristocratic origin, or simply Billionaires of the new century..’‘’

When you’re in black slacks with accentuating, off-white, pinstripes. Whoa, everything goes according to plan

Quietly, I began to draw my handgun from the hidden pocket in my hideous dark brown suit jacket, cold and glinting dully in the dim lighting of the room. Slowly, I moved it to the darkness of my trousers, so that it would be concealed. I wasn’t to be spotted, not yet. Not until I had received the signal.

‘’..to introduce you to my plan to end overpopulation in England alone. It consists of…’‘

I didn’t to be drawn to mothers speech, especially when it involved so much disgustingly rationalized ideas, but she was a wonderful public speaker. I wanted to watch her from the moment she opened her mouth, even in her ridiculous outfit. It was a dangerous ability.

‘’…Muslim immigrants and black Africans to be removed first, followed by any offspring and spouse. Then onto immigrants of Asian and Jewish ethnicity…’‘

In my pocket, a pager vibrated, the slight buzz signalling that I should go ahead. Go ahead and end my mothers tirade of pain and misery that had started in 2012, and had only gotten more and more popular as time went on.

Cautiously, I raised the gun.

And I know, and I know, it just doesn’t feel like a night out with no one sizing you up, I’ve never been so surreptitious, so of course you’ll be distracted when I spike the punch…

Analytically, I targeted my mothers face, the same face that had been around for my childhood but dwindled in appearance as I got older and reached my teens. The same face that had once spoke of world peace now spouting poisonous ideas.

I pulled the trigger.

Blood sprayed outwards, backwards, frontwards, upwards, flecks spattering the plain white curtains on the windows behind her, me, the crowd. A moment of silence, shock and disbelief before utter chaos emerged, crowds rushing to the door.

I however, stayed seated.

As though I were an old man, I rose from my seat and tuned the screaming and panicked cries out of my mind before climbing the steps to the stage and bending over mothers disfigured body.

Her forehead had been shot through perfectly with a skull-shaped bullet, a keyhole like, imperfect hole ripped through the middle of her skull. Eyes staring ahead blankly, never to see again. Blonde hair shot through with streaks of blood, brain and bone.

Smiling as I thought of my accomplished mission, I smashed the window open with my bare fist, and jumped out to start running, not failing to notice the skull shaped blood spatter on the curtain beside me as I went.

Haven’t you heard that I’m the new cancer? Never looked better, and you can’t stand it…