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Stan Banks walked the streets of San Francisco on a chilly Autumn morning. Stan was closing in on his 30th birthday. He was tall, and a little on the shaggy side as his rebellious, curly blond hair had been buffeted by an abnormally windy day. His face was covered by a few days of beard growth, and his baggy, warm clothing hid the well muscled body beneath. The figure was a remnant of the time he had been serving for arson. Prison time provided little to do other than exercise.
When Stan was finally released on parole in the city of Chicago, the first thing he did was run. He knew that his obsession with fire couldn't be extinguished as easily as the flames themselves. Not even the threat of more prison time, or the help of a psychiatrist could help. But at least the experience had made him smarter. At least now he knew how to not get caught. And in his wild green eyes, a flame ignited as his passion grew. He had already set three fires since being in the city. They were small things, Garbage cans and dumpsters, as he got used to the feel again. Today, however, he was after a slightly larger prize.
Stan slowed and smirked as he came upon the local fire station. They would have many busy days in the months to come. Stan turned to walk away, eager to get to his mark, when an intimately familiar sound reached his ears. It was a soft crackling and a dull roar, the sound of a small flame. Stan couldn't resist following the sound and he made his way around to the back of the station, where the Captain was giving a safety tutorial on trash can fires. Flames danced in a metal trash can nearby, licking the air and calling to him. Fire wanted to be free, free to consume, free to spread and not locked behind the controlling metal of the trash can. Stan clenched his eyes shut, trying to ignore the call of the flames.
Stan Banks walked the streets of San Francisco on a chilly Autumn morning. Stan was closing in on his 30th birthday. He was tall, and a little on the shaggy side as his rebellious, curly blond hair had been buffeted by an abnormally windy day. His face was covered by a few days of beard growth, and his baggy, warm clothing hid the well muscled body beneath. The figure was a remnant of the time he had been serving for arson. Prison time provided little to do other than exercise.
When Stan was finally released on parole in the city of Chicago, the first thing he did was run. He knew that his obsession with fire couldn't be extinguished as easily as the flames themselves. Not even the threat of more prison time, or the help of a psychiatrist could help. But at least the experience had made him smarter. At least now he knew how to not get caught. And in his wild green eyes, a flame ignited as his passion grew. He had already set three fires since being in the city. They were small things, Garbage cans and dumpsters, as he got used to the feel again. Today, however, he was after a slightly larger prize.
Stan slowed and smirked as he came upon the local fire station. They would have many busy days in the months to come. Stan turned to walk away, eager to get to his mark, when an intimately familiar sound reached his ears. It was a soft crackling and a dull roar, the sound of a small flame. Stan couldn't resist following the sound and he made his way around to the back of the station, where the Captain was giving a safety tutorial on trash can fires. Flames danced in a metal trash can nearby, licking the air and calling to him. Fire wanted to be free, free to consume, free to spread and not locked behind the controlling metal of the trash can. Stan clenched his eyes shut, trying to ignore the call of the flames.