p id="docs-internal-guid-e96a40d1-7fff-352a-d9fa-bb3bb37e827b" dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"It was 9:00 P.M. when Mrs. Peterson smelled smoke. She ran down the fire escape to see a man cackling maniacally. It was Nathaniel Price. Price was a loon. The Prices were known for their madness, which many attributed to their habit of marrying their cousins. Nathaniel was prone to violent drunken rages, but I had never gone so far before. And as for poor Mrs. Peterson, all she had done to him was tell him to speak a little louder when he asked her the time earlier. And there they were, standing by the blaze of the fire. Price pulled a kitchen knife from his pocket and chase Mrs. Peterson down an ally. The police had arrived and promptly shot Price. It was this incident, that would shape the life of Nathaniel's young son, Norman, into the menace of tomorrow./span/p