[ WP ] Bob Ross was actually a serial killer that painted where he buried his victims . His paintings are becoming suspicious and the body count is rising .

`` Welcome, to the Joy of Painting.'' 
 
 Even coming out of his own mouth, the words felt buried beneath a hundred leagues of dark, murky ocean. He paused for a moment, looking beyond the camera at the bright studio lights, imagining they were cooking him like fat in a frying pan. 
 
 He felt a bead of sweat drop down his back. 
 
 The whine of florescents suddenly filled his perception. Would n't the mics pick up on that? Like every angry bee in the world was watching from beyond those lights... 
 
 Bob turned to the easel, letting the weight of his palette reassure him, to focus him, to center him. As always, his concern was for the detail. The painting had to be perfect, otherwise there was no point, no point to this at all. 
 
 Beginning the process, his body reacted: his heart thudding in his chest, his vision dampening into what he imagines others might call `` tunnel vision'' — though he would n't know, as he was n't what you'd call a `` people person''. Careful now, not to let the gargantuan thudding in his breast move the brush astray. 
 
 Trees came to his mind and fled out of his brush, resolving into a sordid display on the canvas. He paused imperceptibly to remind himself to talk about the techniques he pretended to use, but he was already speaking — autopilot, he supposed. 
 
 Autopilots fascinated him. If people did not need to fly planes, where else were people not necessary? The thought seemed to empty the studio. Was he alone? 
 
 Faster now. The gentle *fwip* of his brush became harsher, like the sound of a knife against a whetstone. *Fwip fwip thud thud* 
 
 He could not stop his brush from painting a small white figure at the top of the mountain. He knew it was wrong to paint details such as that. These had to look like pleasant landscapes. Anything more and his work, his very important work, might be ruined. 
 
 Before he knew it, time had passed and his painting was completed: a macabre display of trees, mountains and lakes, grisly except for the details, wretched in the knowledge that produced it. 
 
 The lights dimmed. The buzzing subsided. He stowed his palette off to the side, picked up the painting, and strode, with purpose, to the exit, stage left. 
 
 A woman was waiting. A woman was always waiting. It may have been the same woman — Ross did not have an eye for detail. Not outside of the studio. 
 
 `` We think this one is outside of Butte. We already have agents en route.'' 
 
 Ross said nothing. The woman took the painting. 
 
 `` I saw you trying to cover it up. The Lady of the Rockies you drew in at the top. You do n't need to. No one suspects anything, least of all the killer. But so long as you're not painting billboards it should be fine.'' 
 
 And then she strode away with the painting, the proof of another murder that no one else would ever see again or even think existed. And perhaps one more killer would be behind bars this evening. A killer that was n't Bob Ross. Because Bob Ross is n't a killer. The thought that someone might think that of him appalled him.
