“We just discovered a twenty-four year old super model from North Hills, California, Racheal Proter, was murdered at her house yesterday. More information coming to you as we get it,” explained the television news reporter.
I, the killer, smiled pleasantly like the Joker from Batman, and turned off the television.
“All I did was take her face,” I muttered to myself.
“Trevor, you better get down here!” commanded my mother, Phyliss.  “Breakfast is ready!"
I walked down the stairs, grabbed my t.v. tray and made my way to my basement bedroom. I, honestly, wasnʼt the most confidant or greatest looking guy around. I was very lanky, practically towering, with piercing, green eyes. My long, black-as-licorice coarse beard is my ugliest attribute. I was never in trouble before recently. As a matter of fact, I avoided jail my entire adult life and managed to get straight “Aʼs” as a child.
In college, I took classes in machinery and robotics, as I really loved robots- they fascinated me! I tried to obtain a job in that field, but conditions werenʼt favorable for me. So, now, I am a macabre, jobless, thirty-six year old man living with his “mommy.”
Angered with the thought, I marched to my room with my dinner tray. It was time to plan my next kill. Donʼt get me wrong, I am not a pyscopath- I never wanted to be a killer; instead, I just wanted to create the “perfect” person. I made an exoskeleton base made of machines. Now, I have the perfect face for my robot, the super model. 
The next day, it was rainy after I arose from a sound sleep. I managed to get dressed and headed out into the cold, windy rain that felt like softball-sized hail. I hated the rain, it always steered my temper to the “dark side.” I meandered to get some silver twenty-four inch gears for my “person” when I noticed this man. He wore a shirt that displayed “N.A.S.A. Rocket Science, No Problem- My Kids Math Homework. Well, It Looks Like Hieroglyphics To Me!” With the N.A.S.A. logo on his purple shirt, I figured this guy was smarter than your average bear. He was sporting glasses and suspenders. To me, he seemed like the smart type, so I followed him to his apartment and killed him for his brains.
Later that evening, I attached his gooey, pink brains to my robot. 
One day later, the same news reporter was on television. She stated that three more people died tragic deaths: one was a chemist (from a highly-respected laboratory) that was missing a brain; one was an unidentified athlete and the final was an ordinary housewife from the Northern Hills. 
The reporter clearly indicated that “Due to the lack of evidence, these killings can not be related."
“The athlete was capsized for his muscular legs, while the ʻnormalʼ lady was for my robotʼs outer coverings to camouflage the machinery,” I secretly revealed to myself. 
About two weeks later, I finished my creation. I was as proud as Frankensteinʼs master, until the cops knocked at my mommaʼs door.
My mother shouted, “Iʼll get it!”
She was surprised to see the police officers opposite her. The men in uniform showed my mother a sketch of Trevor, asking her if she could identify him as her son. 
My mother, in shock, was unsure and stood there in disbelief. 
He slowly asked, “Is this your son?”
“Yes, did he do something wrong?-” 
The officer interrupted, “-is he here”? 
“Yes,” she whispered softly.
The officer stepped in, armed with a gun, but I wasnʼt anywhere to be found.  They did, however, find my “perfect” person in my man cave (motherʼs basement).  People from all over the world are still looking for me, “The Robot Killer”, as coined by the North Hills police department in California.

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