Nearly everyone in San Angelo, Texas knew that Cornelius L. Sanchester was not a well boy. He was thought to be some sort of retard when he was young, calling him Corn to make fun of him and well, it stuck. He answered to the silly nickname and accepted it. He was antisocial and socially isolated, but he was by far not retarded. He was clever and witty, but very quiet and shy. An anxious little thing he was, twitchy and nervous and easily startled like a young buck. A diagnosed schizophrenic who claimed to have murderous lusts and visions of eyes staring at him from inanimate objects or his surroundings. He hated being stared out and would freak out and he swore he could not kill a person because he would get nauseous around blood. Yet that didn't stop the uncomfortable murderous stares he gave people and the public breakdowns. His own family alienated him and forced him to stay in the barnyard with their cows on their pasture.

He'd wander off onto the pastures, into the wheat and corn fields and sometimes parking lots. Just to watch, stalk, and think. He dreamt of becoming a movie star, despite his fear of people and their staring, and own a pure white minx fur coat. That was his dream, but he also dreamt of becoming a killer. Nightmares of killing, murderous tendencies he could not control. He wanted to kill, yet he didn't. A strange primal urge.

Corn was now 19. He wasn't that tall, only 5''7 and weighed 110 lbs. He had a slouch so he seemed smaller and longish dirty strawberry blonde hair that went up to his shoulders and covered his eyes half--way in unkempt bangs. Little light brown freckles kissing his nose on his farmer's tanned skin. His parents didn't give him much clothes so he mainly wore an old red and black plaid shirt and a denim overalls that were stained with dirt, paint, stains, marks, and dried blood. He wore no shoes because shoes made him uncomfortable so his feet were filthy. His hands were just as dirty and gritty with slightly long nails, some of them chews to the nub.

Like any other moonlit night, Corn took to wandering the fields. If any youngsters dared to cross his path, he'd chase them and try to strangle them on impulse. His looked straight ahead, not enjoying his scenery. He only saw the eyes, staring at him, whispering things. How gross. He frowned, whistling a bit.