Dexter Is Dead

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It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

In a flash of steel, yes; a flurry of gunshots, a chorus of strangled moans and anguished sighs, blending with the distant wail of sirens, certainly. A properly dramatic ending with a good body count, a futile struggle against impending doom, even a dash of treachery, absolutely. And then the fatal blow, a few moments of anguish, a last sigh filled with regret for things undone, and fade to black: a fitting end for a life of wicked pleasure.

But not like this.

Not with Dexter in Durance, horribly wronged, slandered, unjustly accused of doing terrible things that he did not even get to do. Not this time, that is. This time, this one catastrophic multihomicidal time, Dexter is as innocent as the driven snow — or perhaps the sand on South Beach would be more apt. Although truth be told, nothing on South Beach is really innocent, any more than Dexter, whose catalog of wicked whimsical works is, to be fair, quite lengthy. It just doesn’t include anything from current events, more’s the pity. Not this time.

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