The Basis for a New Showtime® Original Series Starring Michael C. Hall Meet Dexter Morgan, a polite wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’s handsome and charming. Dexter Morgan isn’t exactly the kind of man you’d bring home to your mum. At heart, he’s the perfect gentleman: he has a shy girlfriend, and seems to lead a. 1)Darkly Dreaming Dexter 2)Dexter by Design * Found a DVD of My big fat Greek darkly ( KB, 1 views); File Type: jpg.
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And his job as a blood splatter expert for the Miami police department puts him in the perfect position to identify his victims.
But when a series of brutal murders bearing a striking similarity to his own style start turning up, Dexter is caught between being flattered and being frightened—of himself or some other fiend. Daring and unexpectedly comedic.
A psychological thriller in the best sense of the genre. It’s thrilling to watch Dexter struggle between everyday vanilla reality and the compelling, kaleidoscopic thrall of his dagkly bloody fantasies.
The characters are beautifully drawn, particularly Dexter, who is tremendously likeable, his hobby not withstanding. Full, fat, reddish moon, the night as light as day, the moonlight flooding down across the land and bringing joy, joy, filftype.
Bringing too the full-throated call of the tropical night, the soft and wild voice of the wind roaring through the hairs on your arm, the hollow wail of starlight, the teeth-grinding bellow of the moonlight off the water. All calling to the Need. Oh, the symphonic shriek of the thousand hiding voices, the cry of the Need inside, the entity, the silent watcher, the cold quiet thing, the one that laughs, the Moondancer.
The me that was not-me, the thing that mocked and laughed and came calling with its hunger. And the Need darkpy very strong now, very careful cold coiled creeping crackly cocked and ready, very strong, very much ready now–and still it waited and watched, and it made me wait and watch.
I had been waiting and watching the priest for five weeks now. The Need had been prickling and teasing and prodding at me to find one, find the next, find this priest. For three dwxter I had known he was it, he was next, we belonged to the Dark Passenger, he and I together. And that three weeks I had spent fighting the pressure, the growing Need, rising in me like a great wave that roars up and over the beach and does not recede, only swells more with every tick of the bright night’s clock.
But it was careful time, too, time spent making sure. Not making sure of the priest, no, I was long sure of him. Time spent to be certain that it could be done right, made neat, all the corners folded, all squared away. I could not be caught, not now. Dafkly had worked too hard, too long, to make this work for me, to protect my happy little life.
And so I was always careful. Always prepared ahead of time so it would be right. And when it was right, take extra time to be sure.
It was the Harry way, God bless him, that farsighted perfect policeman, my foster father. Always be sure, be careful, be exact, he had said, and for a week now I had been sure that everything was just as Harry-right as it could be. And when I left work this night, I knew this was it. This night was the Night. This night felt different.
This night it would happen, had to happen. Just as it had happened before. Just as it would happen again, and again. His name was Father Donovan. He taught music to the children at St.
Anthony’s Orphanage in Homestead, Florida. The dzrkly loved him. And darly course he loved the children, oh very much indeed. He had devoted a whole life to them. Learned Creole and Spanish.
Learned their music, too. All for the kids. Everything he did, it was all for the kids. I watched him this night as I had watched for so many nights now. Watched as he paused in the orphanage doorway to talk to a young black girl who had followed him out. She was small, no more than eight years old and small for that. He sat on the steps and talked to her for five minutes.
She sat, too, and bounced up and down. She leaned against him. He touched her hair. A nun came out and stood in the doorway, looking down at them for a moment before she spoke. Then she smiled and held out a hand. The girl bumped her head against the priest. Father Donovan hugged her, stood, and kissed the girl good night. The nun laughed and said something to Father Donovan. He said something back. A janitorial service minivan stood fifteen feet from the door. As Father Donovan passed it, the side door slid open.
A man leaned out, puffing on a cigarette, dexher greeted the priest, who leaned against the van and talked to the drdaming.
Always luck on these Nights. I had not seen the man, vreaming guessed he was there.
Darkly Dreaming Dexter – Wikipedia
But he would have seen me. If not for Luck. I took a deep breath. Let it out slow and steady, icy cold. It was only one small thing. I had not missed any others. I had done it all right, all the same, all the way it had to be done.
Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay | : Books
It would be right. Father Donovan walked toward his car again. He turned once and called something. The janitor waved from the doorway to the orphanage, then stubbed out his cigarette and disappeared inside the building.
Father Donovan fumbled for his keys, opened his car door, got into his car. I heard the key go in. Heard the engine turn over. I sat up in his backseat and slipped the noose around his neck. One quick, slippery, pretty twist and the coil of fifty-pound-test fishing line settled tight.
He made a small ratchet of panic and that was it. He rasped half a breath and glanced into his rearview mirror. My face was there, waiting for him, wrapped in the white silk mask that showed only my eyes.
This time he nodded. He fluttered a hand at the noose, not sure what would happen if he tried to loosen it. His face was turning purple. He took a deep breath. I could hear the air rip at his throat.
He coughed and breathed again. But he sat still and did not try to escape. Father Donovan followed my directions, no tricks, no hesitations. I could tell that road made him nervous, but he did not object.
Darkly Dreaming Dexter
He did not try to speak to me. He kept both hands on the wheel, pale and knotted tight, so the knuckles stood up. That was very good, too. We drove south for another five minutes with no sound but the song of the tires and the wind and the great moon above making its mighty music in my veins, and the careful watcher laughing quietly in the rush of the night’s hard pulse.
The priest’s eyes flew to mine in the mirror. The panic was trying to claw out of his eyes, down his face, into his mouth to speak, but Slumped like he had been expecting this all along, waiting for it forever, and he turned.
The small dirt road was barely visible.
You almost had to know it was there. I had been filwtype before. The road ran for two and a half miles, twisting three times, through the saw grass, through the trees, alongside a small canal, deep into the swamp and into a clearing.