The Comprehensive Evolution of American Comics

Frank shuddered, unable to maintain his balance. Thankfully, the fence behind him kept him from falling to the ground. His feet, of course, stepped onto the carpet once more, the red liquid-soaked carpet making another 'splat' sound.

This time, the force of the step was undoubtedly much greater than before, and even the red liquid in the carpet splashed up. His already not-so-clean trouser legs were now stained with a patch of blood red.

Without hesitation, Frank immediately turned and, using his hands to support himself on the fence, jumped out of the porch. As soon as he landed, Frank took off his upper garment and spread it on the ground, then began searching for stones in the grass, collecting them all on the clothes.

Soon, Frank had collected enough stones. He wrapped the clothes up, making a simple flail, and ran with the bundle of stones to the other side of the house. On this side of the wall was a large window, the location of the house's kitchen.

Frank grabbed the specially reserved sleeves with both hands and smashed it against the window with all his strength.

"Smash!"

The glass shattered in response. Using the sleeve clutched in his hand to retract the flail, Frank unbuttoned the clothes and dumped all the stones on the ground, picking up only a suitably sized one to begin cleaning the glass shards from the window, before laying the upper garment on the window sill.

With both hands propped on the clothes-covered window sill, Frank smoothly climbed into the house through the window. The first thing Frank did upon entering the house was to grab a kitchen knife from the knife rack and tear off an apron from the side to tie the knife to his hand.

Having done all this, Frank began to observe the surrounding environment. To his relief, there was nothing unusual in the kitchen. The dining table was set with five sets of cutlery, a large serving of vegetable salad, and a large basket of bread. On the stove was a large pot, with a continuous stream of heat rising from it.

Frank approached and saw that it was his wife's signature dish, Basque Chicken Stew, being cooked. Because it could be made in large quantities, it was very convenient.

After checking the kitchen, Frank tiptoed to the corridor. As soon as he reached the corridor, he saw his father, Mario. The traditional, tough old white man was sitting on the ground, leaning against the corridor wall with a Winchester in his hand, a scarlet trail running from the top of his head to the ground, connecting with a pool of blood.

Frank turned his head and saw his mother, Louisa. She was kneeling in front of the door, her head limply resting against it. The horrifying blood hole in her back and the pool of blood beneath her revealed why the carpet at the door was wet.

Frank was incredibly grateful that he had used the apron to secure the knife in his hand, otherwise, the knife might have slipped from his hand and fallen to the ground.

"Maria..."

Even though he had little hope, Frank still searched the house for his wife and children, eventually arriving in front of a large wardrobe.

Looking at the blood seeping from the wardrobe door, Frank trembled like a drowned quail, but he still reached out and tremblingly opened the wardrobe door.

His wife, Maria, was hugging their daughter, Lisa, curled up and hiding in the wardrobe. Both had stopped breathing. The terrified expressions on their faces before they died broke Frank's heart in two.

Frank never found his young son, Little Frank. On the staircase leading to the second floor, Frank found a scarlet trail, an obvious sign of dragging.

Walking up to the second floor, Frank followed the bloodstains to his son's bedroom door. Looking at the bloody handprint on the doorknob, Frank was silent for a moment before placing his hand on it and turning the handle to open the door.

Before the door was fully opened, an ugly head poked out from the door crack, smiling at Frank with its disgusting face and saying, "Hello, Dad!"

Frank ignored the crazy person in front of him. He looked through the door crack into the room and saw his son, Little Frank, lying on the bed. Although Frank could only see his son's face due to the angle, Little Frank's expression showed that he did not die peacefully.

Turning his gaze back to the crazy person's face, looking at the other's insane smile, Frank was silent for a moment.

Then he laughed too.

...

"Sha! Sha!"

In the backyard of the house, Frank, covered in blood, was swinging a shovel, digging five large pits in the ground. Beside him, apart from the piles of dirt, were the bodies of the Custer family, wrapped in sheets and curtains.

Taking a deep breath, Frank straightened up and stuck the shovel into the ground, then carried the bodies of his family members to their respective pits one by one, and finally buried them individually.

It was dawn before Frank finished everything. He made five simple tombstones from his family's fence, marked each person's name, and then inserted them into their respective graves.

This was to make it easier to distinguish them later. Frank couldn't leave his family here forever, nor could he let them be exposed to the wilderness. He could only temporarily place them here, and when he had resolved everything, he would return to properly bury them.

Having done all this, Frank returned to the house. He went into the kitchen and placed the large pot of cold stewed chicken on the table, devouring it in large chunks, the familiar taste instantly filling his taste buds.

With each bite, the anger in Frank's heart grew stronger. He slammed the table, picked up the kitchen knife, and threw it at the large pot on the stove.

The kitchen knife hit the large pot with a thud, the huge force causing the pot to lose its balance and fall from the stove, the soup spilling out with a crash.

That wasn't normal food, but a pot of people. The reason it was called a pot of people was because the people in the pot had not only been cut into human sticks, but even their internal organs had been removed from their abdominal cavities.

Based on the scarred head, it could be vaguely identified that the pot of people was the madman who had smiled at Frank earlier. The reason he was called a madman was because Frank couldn't get anything out of his mouth.

Even if Frank pried off all his fingernails, broke all his hand bones and toes, and broke his limbs, he could only get meaningless wails and insane ravings. Frank finally gave up and killed the madman.

But Frank didn't believe that this madman had killed his family. He didn't have a gun on him, and it was impossible for his father, who had a Winchester, to die at the hands of a madman with a knife.

Frank couldn't understand it, until he saw the madman's clothes. Although he didn't have much hope, he still picked up the pile of clothes. To facilitate the interrogation, Frank had roughly torn them off and thrown them aside not long ago.

"Clatter."

Just as he picked up the clothes, a finger-thick, cylindrical object fell out of the clothes and onto the ground.