Killing Spree. That was his name. I remember thinking, “Who gives themselves the name Killing Spree?” He looked creepy enough. Dark, frightening images snaked around his heavily tattooed arms. His uniform of choice was always a T-shirt with images of Satan or bloodied gore.
Killing Spree. Hm. Killing what, exactly?
I can’t remember ever seeing the top of his head—it was always covered by a tight knitted black cap. I honestly don’t know if he was bald or not. The only image in my mind of any hair on his head was the thin patch of beard, more like a goatee, that he’d been growing for years. It was twisted into a makeshift facial dreadlock with the occasional wooden bead threaded randomly down its length. A length that stretched past his belt line.
I’d only ever known him as Spree. One day a girl said something about Matthew, and I just looked at her blankly. “Who?” She laughed and pointed at Spree sitting quietly and uncomfortably to the side of the group. Anytime he’d tried to join a conversation or participate in a staff meeting, I’d realize anew he was just a nervous, awkward geeky kid in a scary man’s body. But put Matthew in a sound booth alone with a microphone and the animated DJ of a thousand voices took over the airwaves of our small college radio station.
Killing Spree. Killing what? Killing the awkward silence he normally lived in, letting out his inner wild man over the air.