A closet psychopath

Jackson is 38 years old. He's the typical family man: good job, wife & kids, house with a white picket fence. To everyone around him, he's your average guy. But that's not what's going on inside. Inside he's a maelstrom of emotions, bottled up by insecurity over decades, tightly corked by his facade of conventionality.

He hates. He desires. He desires often without target or sense. He just wants more, wants to take things, wants to dominate, wants to have another at his mercy. He wants to shatter this deafening normalcy with terrible acts of , lust, and greed. He's a powder keg of fury and debauchery, waiting for the spark to irrevocably light his fuse. And here it's given to him. The book, his means of scrawling his deepest darkest desires into living, is given to him. His combustion into the psychopath he always hid is upon the world. His twisted, pitiless judgements on humanity were not only revealed, but realized.

Old Rule: All men are intimidated by me. They are trivially persuaded and would confront me under no circumstances.
Old Rule: Women will have sexual contact with no man but me.
New Rule: All women that I find undesirable must commit suicide so that only women I desire will exist.
New Rule: I am free to use women physically in any way. They will feel fear, terror, pain, but no one will help them.

Jackson's manic writing could hardly be stopped. His vision of what the world should be poured from the lead of the pencil. He breathed life and fire into his psychotic reality. And this was just the beginning.