[ 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 .

``... and another tree right... there... nice big, happy, tree. Yeah.'' I followed the prompting as usual, but I still could n't get over what was with this guy and all the friggin' trees. As class concluded, I began rinsing out my brushes and packing them up. I hung after to talk to our painting teacher. `` Its been nice learning from you in person, Bob.'' He smiled. `` Yeah, you've been an excellent student.'' I gave him a look of surprise. `` Really? I wo n't lie, I'm not big on my paintings, they do n't look as real as yours.'' Bob just smiled cryptically. `` Sometimes its not the picture thats painted, but the technique of the stroke.'' He took me aside, and showed me a picture with a lot of empty space, a crane with its back to a small tree looking toward the empty space. `` What do you see?'' I looked at it awhile. `` The leaves and the crane are all pointed the same way... there's... harmony.'' He smiled very wide, patting me on the shoulder. `` That's right. What else?'' I looked at him, then the painting. `` Well... there's a lot of empty space. Its almost like he did n't finish it, but on the other hand, the crane is looking toward the empty space.'' `` That's right,'' Bob said, `` the crane is one with nature, and is able to face the unknown.'' I scratched my head. `` That's deep, but what does that have to do with my... style?'' Bob grinned. This painting is from Musashi Miyamoto. He was a samurai, one of very few who honorably died of old age... his sword technique was superb, and would n't you know it, he also was pretty handy with a paint-brush.'' I marveled a moment. I've heard of Musashi. I'd read his Book of Five Rings. `` Yeah, he said he used his mastery of swordsmanship to also master other arts.'' Bob turned to me, grasping my shoulders. `` That's absolutely right. One can master something, and then master himself. When one masters themselves, they can face anything.'' He releases my shoulders. `` I think its time. What would you think of taking a...'master' class?'' I rubbed my head. `` Yeah, of course. When are you thinking?'' Bob's smiled drifted away, his eyes becoming cold and serious. `` Right now.'' A feeling that fate had brought me to this moment snuck up on me. That surreal moment when something you've always wanted but now you fear about your ability to rise to the occassion is right in front of you, happening for real. I licked my lips. `` Sure.'' He nodded solemnly. `` Then lets get started.'' He locked up the classroom, then the office, and we walked down the street a few blocks. We stopped at a storage unit. He entered the passcode to go inside, and then keyed open the unit, lifting the door. Numerous paintings were strewn all about, stacked and, frankly, not well cared for. He flicked a lantern on. We stepped inside, and he lowered the door behind us, sealing us in. The back wall, I learned, was false. It was canvas curtain that he swept aside, and taking my wrist in his hand, led me behind the curtain. He found another set of lights, and turned them on. It lit up the small area, and in the center, was a metal table with leather straps. The straps were buckled tight around the body of a man. I recognized him. He was one of the anatomy models from a college-drawing class I'd taken. Back when I was drawing. As the lights came on, the body stirred. His brown hair was all messed up, and his pale blue eyes flicked incessantly, trying to adjust to the sudden light after hours of pitch darkness. He was gagged, and started murmuring in `` mmphs.'' I could n't believe it. Bob stood by my side. `` When things decompose, it becomes fuel for new life. An animal dies, and soon a spread of beautiful flowers will spring up in its place.'' He went to a table nearby, an assortment of sharp and pointed objects glistening in the artificial light. He picked up an exacto-knife. He came toward me, fitting a fresh blade in the pen-like holder. `` I've achieved an art-form that is one with nature, the same way that old samurai used the art of life-taking to learn to paint.'' I was in horror, but also in awe. No one would believe that Bob was killing people to perfect his painting. `` Each person that...'contributes' to my art, I honor them. I bury them and plant a tree. You'd truly be surprised how much their decomposition feeds the tree... makes it...'' he half-way chuckled the last word, ``... happy.'' He places his hands on my shoulders, having circled behind me. I'm dangerously aware of the exactoknife still in his hand, its blade pointed directly at my neck. I ca n't help but wonder if I'll be another one of those trees. He guides me forward to the table. `` You told me once that you'd give anything to paint the way I do. But let me ask, how much are you willing to TAKE?'' His voice became gravelly and frightening. I gulped air. `` Take?'' `` Yes. This man's life is worth way more to your art than a lifetime of posing, but do you have it inside you to take it?'' I'm shaking. I close my eyes. `` DO YOU?!'' He shakes my shoulders. I open my eyes, and look at him. He has let go of my shoulders and is now standing beside me. I look at him, and then look at the man on the table. I'm suddenly filled with disgust. Bob reads my eyes. He turns the exacto-knife over in his hand, holding it out to me handle-first. He whispers, barely audible over the hum of the lights and the moans of the man on the table. `` Do you have what it takes?'' 
 
 `` I do.'' I take the exacto-knife from his hands. 
 `` Then I'll guide you, as usual, in what strokes to make and how.'' He laughs. 
 
 `` Now, lets make some happy trees.''
