For the most part, bad guys don't wear glasses. Not on TV, anyway. The ones who do are nerdy little computer geeks, myopic pedophiles or bat-blind killers. They are well-built, with physical prowess and the acting skills to make their characters seem real. Real enough to jump out of your TV, into your mind or your home, if you let them. I don't break that stereotype. I have the physique to make my tasks possible, but not the jacked appearance of gym-goers. My muscles don't come from weight training, unless dragging a six-foot ex-con onto my boat is synonymous with pumping iron. It's not, by the way. Works different muscles. My practice is more of a full-bodied workout, I believe. At least, I'm sure that's what my workout partners would tell you, if they could talk.
My friends at work don't seem to care how I stay in shape, so long as I do the job. Perhaps the only one who really shows any interest in me, outside of my being able to describe blood, is my foster sister. Deb is a good sort, the type most brothers would really care for. I think I would, if caring was the sort of thing I practiced. Instead, this is what I do. Put on a front during the day, following the ever-mindful Code of Harry, and nightlighting as a serial killer. It's rare that I tell anyone my hobby, so keep my secret safe, alright? If you don't, you may get a visitor in the night. Don't worry though; I only dispatch those who meet the code. Unless you're a killer, rapist, or other such baddie, you'll only have to deal with being set up or scared into silence. Ah, but I assure you that my Dark Passenger has a great many scare tactics, all efficient and wondrous. Care to see?
Today my victim is Riley Briant. He hasn't done anything too out of the ordinary, a simple civilian trying to get by on the measly earnings of an assassin. Hmm, that may be too strong a word. No, it's not, I've decided. He does kill for money. The fact that he kills unknown folks and unprotected children is irrelevant. That he could never hit a real target, one with bodyguards and watchmen on protective detail, doesn't matter. He kills and gains a paycheck. Not a business I would want to get into, let me tell you. After all, if you're working for others, how do you really keep your identity safe? If you're not self-employed, how do you blend your murderous hours into a back-story of family beach time and pizza night Tuesdays?
Ah, our guest is waking. He's settled in for the time being. Naturally he has a few more trips to take before the dawn. I say trips because his final destination depends on the body part in question. His head may end up near his neck, or it may be fifty feet to the west along the ocean floor. With currents and other such mysterious crafts of nature, who knows where he'll be this time tomorrow? Oh, but I must focus on the present. I must indeed.
"Who are you? What do you want, man?" His words don't amuse me. In fact, they do the opposite. I can sometimes get so bored with the formality of questions. Why can't my victims wake, see me and my knives, and simply accept fate? "I have money," he says to my stoic face. "Lots of money, man. Take what…whatever you want, bro. It's…"
I cut him off with a pressing cut of my right hand, taking a small blade ever so gently down his cheek. This cut can be hard; I usually try to keep the blade on or above the cheekbone. Once in a while I am off a bit, but I'm usually right on the mark. This usually shuts them up, too. It's really just an added bonus to my method. Do a slice, gain some quiet. It's a rather excellent tradeoff, I think.
"Ah, ah, AH!" My captive isn't cooperating, he's not folding. I quickly remove a drop of his blood, for my slide collection. He needn't worry, of course. I assume that he's whimpering for his life. He knows by now that I care not for money, or his pathetic thoughts. He knows what I will do, what type of playmate he has become. Unlike most, though, he won't shut up.
"You know why you're here, Riley." I use my best polite voice, trying to sooth him as I pocket his blood drop. The slide feels cool, even to my gloved hand. "We can't have you polluting the sewers with your bodies anymore." I lower my hand, lifting the tape that is over his forehead from the table, giving him freedom of motion. He twists his neck, clearly trying to see me.
"What, do you think I would hide from you? I have nothing to hide; you'll see no one you could report me to." I back away from his table, from his head. Quickly I turn, picking up nine clear photos from the table that also holds my tools. "You can't hide from what you've done, Mr. Briant. No more than I can hide. We're watching, and we're going to do this. Do you understand?"
I drop each of the pictures onto his chest, slowly. As the first lands he raises his chin, looking from an angle into the face of Dorothy Smetzki. She was in her 40s, and deserved death no more than Tim Cole, the boy whose picture lands on top of hers. Riley lies there, watching each face fall upon his chest. As each falls, I say their name, age, and other pertinent information. Emphasis is placed on their innocence, and his guilt.
"But who are you? Why are you doing this, if not for money?" His voice melds into the plastic I've set around us, to protect the outside world from his grotesque blood.
"No, you wouldn't understand, would you?" I've torn out the difference between he and I. "You do this for money. You need a motive. You're so human. I, on the other hand, don't. You see, Riley, I enjoy this. I need this. I need you."
Picking up a large clever, I drive it into his shoulder, watching lazily as the blood begins to pool around him. His eyes roll back a bit, showing that he feels the pain despite his lack of sound.
"What, no moans now? No bribery attempts to save your murdering soul?" I can't help taunting them sometimes. It's moments like these that bring the pieces of my life together, calming me in a way that is indescribable. When I kill, I live.