The adrenaline rush made everything worth it. He felt the blood rushing through his veins. He felt alive. A pull of the trigger and the muffled bullet did its work. But it was just the beginning. The next 30 minutes were orgasmic.
He stepped back to survey his work. He felt good. He knew that he would. It worked for him every single time. He felt the same high, this was his 21st, and it only got better every time. Strange, he thought, how similar a Job felt to reorganazizing his room. Both he did just for himself; both were tiring, both took time. Both felt good. Only difference, the Job felt a lot better when he stepped back to look at it.
‘Damn it’ he muttered as he realized he’d drifted into yet another of his dreamy thoughts. I’m not done here yet. He fumbled in his pockets for the list. There it was, thank God he hadn’t forgotten the list. It’d be very dumb to forget the ‘remember’ list itself. But then, with him, it wasn’t entirely impossible either. He was quite absentminded for a serial killer that successful. Oh yes, and very clumsy too. But he was a natural. And it more than made up for it. His record was proof enough.
He started going over the list, the glistening, blood covered white rubber gloves leaving a red streak on the paper. It’d be brown by the time he worked on it the next evening. He liked to chronicle these. Souvenirs. Records of a Job finished, a Job well done. He would look at his collection in quiet times. It gave him immense satisfaction. He procrastinated a lot. Looking at these made him feel better. It also made him crave for another one, just one more. Yes he was addicted.
He made marks with the pencil as he went through the list, making sure that he’d covered it all.
‘Wipe all prints’
‘Collect empty cartridge’
‘Put subject in position’
‘Keep tongue in box’
‘Slash across chest’
‘Extract bullet and put it in the box’
‘Cryptic message in blood’
‘Count all equipment’
‘Put this note in box’
Good. No traces. Signature perfect. Trademark. He picked his kit up. Took a look around the room one last time. This room was all that he’d been thinking about all of this month. It was now exactly, precisely the way he’d imagined it to be. With a look of satisfaction, he walked calmly out of the room.
Yes, he was addicted. But he didn’t kill just about anyone. He never killed the weak or the women or any of the other lesser mortals – lemos – as he called them. In fact he didn’t even kill just about any powerful son of a bitch. He chose his subjects with a purpose. With a reason. With great care. It was his duty to humanity. It was his obligation to the devil.
A psychotic delusional cold blooded evil genius. Captivating. And he never got caught. No one ever knew. Or at least that’s what he thought. He’d been busted a long time ago. Only he didn’t know it yet.
I crouched down again. The air was full of anticipation. I’d been waiting for this meeting for over a month now. It was finally here. Tonight was the night. I saw his figure in the dark. My head felt clearer. This was it. It was happening. He was about to meet the bigger fish. The FBI would find itself staring at yet another serial killer in the morning. The ninth.
The adrenaline rush made everything worth it. I felt the blood rushing through my veins. I felt alive. A flash of the Blade and the muffled scream told me it’d worked. But it’s just the beginning. The next 30 minutes would be orgasmic.