The Estates Condominiums building squatted on the east side of West Elm Street on Staten Island.  Built in the late 1970's, the apartment complex no longer resembled the upper class facade and grounds it once advertised.   No longer was the entry manned by a uniformed doorman.  No longer were attendants standing by to take a tenants car into or out of the underground parking garage.  Still, the building maintained an air of respectability and noble age.

            The man who called himself "God" delivered the late Melissa Browning to her apartment on the top floor, sent the tweet announcing his latest conquest and was on the staircase at the next lower floor, when he heard someone coming up the stairs.  He knew that it wasn't possible for the police to be here so quickly.  He'd sent his Twitter message less than a minute ago.  Still he didn't want to be seen this close to the "future" crime scene.  

            He turned toward the nearest apartment door and pretended to fumble in his pocket, hoping he would be seen as a tenant searching for his key.  If the person coming up the stairs lived here or noticed he was not the tenant, God would have to take him out. 

            The intruder was whistling a tune as he went past, shouted a cheery "good morning" and continued up the last flight of stairs that led to the only apartment up there - Melissa's. 

            After a short glance that revealed the man was carrying a large box, stuffed with what looked like grocery bags and the words, "Tennenbaum's Fine Foods" stenciled on the back of his coveralls; God quickly turned and, as silently as possible, went down the stairs and left the building.

            The taxi was waiting for him as he'd directed and he slid into the back seat.  Without turning the driver asked, "Where to, now?"

            God was silent, thinking.  He had a feeling.  A bad feeling.  He wanted to work out his thoughts before he moved.  "Sit tight.  I'll tell you when and where to drive."

            The cabbie shrugged his bony shoulders and muttered, "Sure...sure.  It's your dime, bud."

            God ignored his mumbled reply.  Firstly, it was beneath him to address scum like this cab driver in anything other than commands.  He certainly wasn't going to discuss price or his reasons for delaying departure.  Secondly, his mind had already dismissed the driver as he concentrated on what was bothering him.  It was the delivery guy.

            Several weeks ago, one of his works of art had gone undiscovered.  He was appalled.  He was furious.  He'd been so angry that he'd taken the monumentally dangerous adventure of re-entering the apartment, only to find that Jenny Lee was not there as he'd left her.  She was, in fact, not there at all.  There was no evidence of his work.  None - nothing to indicate anything other than the fact that Ms Lee wasn't home.  He'd stormed from the building, barely holding his rage inside so as not to attract unwanted attention.

            It was this incident that had led to his Twitter account.  Two weeks after finishing the Jenny Lee piece and still no sign that she'd been discovered, he came upon the idea of announcing his artistry over Twitter.  He would not take any more chances that his masterpieces went unnoticed.  The tweet that announced his arrival accrued ninety-seven followers.  His second tweet announced the Bonnie Plano work and within hours his followers numbered in the thousands.  By the time he'd started work on Melissa, he'd attained a fan base of more than thirty thousand.  He was certain that his fans included the police, so hanging around here was not a good idea.

            But, he'd remembered what bothered him and what bothered him was a bill.  He could see it now, as clearly as he'd seen it in Jenny Lee's apartment.  Why hadn't he noticed it?  Irrelevant.  He remembered it, now.  It was a grocery delivery bill, laying next to the sink.  There were three Hershey's "Kisses", twinkling in silver wrap on top of the bill.  The image of the delivery man who had recently wished him a good morning flashed across his inner eye.  The name on the back of his overalls matched the name on the bill - "Tennenbaum's Fine Foods".  He was certain of it.

            He leaned forward, "Take me back to Newark."

            The driver started the cab and glanced over his shoulder.  "Address?"

            "Drive," God said, "I'll tell you when we get there."

            The cabbie chuckled, likely thinking..."another **** wierdo.  I really need to get out of this business," put the car in gear and pulled away.

            God surveryed the street as they left.  It was filling up with traffic.  He believed them to be his fans and they probably were...responding to his latest announcement.  As the cab turned left on the northern end of Elm Street and headed toward Newark, God heard the first faint sounds of sirens.

            The cab rounded the corner on West Elm and God said, "I've changed my mind.  Let me out, here."  He leaned forward, read the meter and pulled a wad of bills from his pants pocket.  He peeled off three twenties and tossed them onto the front seat next to the driver.  The taxi rolled to a stop and as God opened the door, he added, "Keep the change."

            I'll just be one of the crowd, gawking at the scene of a crime, he thought and began walking back, south along Elm Street.

            He couldn't help but grin at the throng of people who had gathered.  No one paid him any attention as all eyes were turned to the police cruisers trying to get through the traffic jam.  The cops, in fact, ended up walking the last fifty yards as the onlookers' cars were hopelessly jammed.

            God counted four police officers entering the building.  He couldn't hear any additional sirens and even if reinforcements came, they would have a very difficult time getting through.  He was damned if he was going to allow the delivery boy to get credit for his work.  He figured he had fifteen minutes.

            A small alley, thus far undiscovered by his fans, ran along the back of 11200 West Elm separating the apartment building from an almost identical building behind it.  Three minutes had passed when God knocked out a window in the back door and entered.  As he entered a large hallway, he could see through the front of the building.  Two of the four cops were manning the front door.  That left two searching the building. God was pleased that they hadn't heard him breaking the glass and continued quietly up the stairs.

            He was on the second floor landing when he heard the loud command, "FREEZE."  The cops had reached the top apartment and apparently they'd discovered the delivery man.  Believing their attention would completely centered on their suspect, he raced up the remaining stairs, pulling off his gloves and entered the Melissa's apartment behind the cops.

            "He's mine," God growled and as the cops spun around to face him, he grabbed them both by the neck.  The fingers of each hand squeezed the throat of a police officer, instantly freezing them to solid ice, blocking the flow of blood to their brains.  In five seconds, the officers fell to the floor unconscious.  Less than a minute later they would be dead, but God had already shifted his attention to the delivery boy.  

             "Your name?"

             Jeffrey was standing among several frozen body parts.  He was shaking. Eyes wide with fear, shocked first by the police and now, by this huge madman, he barely managed to stammer out his name.

             "J...J....Jeff...rey," did you say, grated God?  "You and I have some talking to do, Jeffrey."  He pulled on his left, black ski glove and grabbed Jeffrey by the collar.  He paused and sniffed the air and then, looked down at Jeffrey's pants.

             "Jesus Christ, Jeffrey!  You pissed your pants?"