Going Native

I abandoned my old-life three years ago. A boring business, I had made my million by forty; divorced my cunt wife - severed links with my spoilt shits...And was native by fifty three totally free from things, meaningless things and people with there loathsome opinions and vacuous lives. However make no mistake I'm am no tramp, I avoid the soup-kitchen slums and bums like the plague, a tiresome bunch...To tender - weak will, not worth the stinking flesh they fill - fucking waste of...I foraged for berries, mushrooms, climb trees, fences set traps about the woods about the streets alleys anywhere, picking of birds as I hid in a shrub, booming echo of my shotgun, as pigeons fell from the sky. I was evading the police after my brutal attacked on a “homelessman” - manslaughter not my meat, but I left him there bleeding in the gutter about a week ago. I’ve since been eluding helicopters and other obnoxious inanities of this modern world, under a cold pale sky. Yesterday after a seven mile slope across the moors, I broke into rich garden estate not dissimilar to my own I used to own, now disowned. I shot the gardeners point blank and a dog, skinning it in the garage for later. Before breaking into the house. The comforts disgusted me, superfluous rich rubbish, expensive commodities. I discharged two barrels into an ageing couple as they slept. The white smoke clearing as I dragged the corpses from the bed - the warm tempting bed with, the silk sheets flecked with blood and black pellet holes - enticing pink whore comfort. I climb in and slept for an hour; before being rudely woken by the sound of sirens...I couldn’t return now - not home not here, the drawing in of helicopters overhead buzzing like lazy flies...no not now not with the fire I had just started, that licked through the mansions estate. So I reloaded the shotgun, and left in a blaze of fire.