Lakes, Serial Killers and a Fresh Case of Bordem

I'm back at our lake house upstate (or should I say my parents', considering I come up here about two weeks out of the year while they're up every other weekend), a small cottage-type home about a quarter mile from the water. Already, as expected, family bonding is being overtaken by family controversy and high tensions, and I'm coming to the conclusion there is absolutely nothing I want to do in the town of Schroon Lake.
People in little hamlets (particularly isolated ones or ones near/in appealing vacation spots) are a completely different type of people. Ever realize how small town people are super nice? But then again that's where the serial killers come from, the creepy hicks that never speak to anyone but their mother and their livestock. It seems urban areas have a ton of small crimes and rural areas have a few horrible crimes. I suppose then it's all about luck. Would you prefer to always be on your guard for pickpockets but know your self is safe or go with the nice crime free neighbors who, in rare situations, might crush your brains with a meat cleaver and stuff you in their oddly spacious yet always available ice chest? About that, the butchers (that being the Killer's real occupation not a title) never have animal meat hanging around. Do they only kill/eat/sell human flesh their whole careers or just reserve the murder of stupid, yet beautiful teenagers for a time in which the food is just running scarce?
Regardless I'm trying my best to keep occupied through the usual activities like the computer, guitar and some new books, and to avoid hanging from a dirty meat hook at any time during this vacation. But I have made a new, startling discovery that when I listen to Amy Whinehouse I write really witty, sophisticated dialogues between the rich at house parties. It could be a part of the expatriate authors rubbing off on me I'm having to read so much of lately.