Had a few reservations about this one, mostly because I'm shooting from the hip. Garrett's a poster boy for a narcissist, and this is established in-game by Cole saying so himself. However, as to Garrett's origins prior to murdering Elizabeth Short, not much is said. It could be that he is merely a sociopath, and only sees other human beings, merely women, as playthings, but I'm not sure. The brutality of each killing, especially shown in The Red Lipstick Murder, suggests an amount of rage. Garrett is angry about something that happened to him in the past, and for that, I figured that him being molested by a female, especially considering that she would be touching him, a god in his mind, inappropriately, would add to his reasons for committing his murders.
Length: 400 words
Prompt: Beginnings - In this case, Garrett Mason's first night at work, and his first murder, that of the Black Dahlia, Elizabeth Short
"Hurricane, make it snappy."
Garrett cocked a grin as the patron thumped a hairy fist upon the bar. "Coming right up, sir." He pivoted on his heel toward the array of various liquors and bottles behind him.
He selected a glass from the bottom row, and held it up to the light to better examine it. The face of a choir boy, hair combed gently into place, stared back at him, amidst the decadence of overweight middle aged men, and lurid young women. He sighed at the latter. The Bamba did serve families by day, little girls with pink bows and satin sashes that would graduate with a football player's hands up their skirts.
The sigh turned to a smirk as he reached for the white rum.
Elizabeth's pale face, framed by her flowing black hair, stared back at him from the concoction as he added the dark rum, her head bobbing, her mouth agape. Matthew, she called her fallen prince's name as Garrett struck her.
Her lips ran ruby red, and her chin ran ruby red, and her cheeks ran ruby red, the fruit juices swelling into the drink.
Was it art, how he had cut her so cleanly in half? Was it art, how he would so gently garnish the Hurricane with an orange slice?
Sitting atop his throne, Garrett stared down at Elizabeth Short. She was beautiful, he supposed. Lovely things, though, were usually quite ugly inside.
Feminine fingers attached to a different woman reached under his shirt, and unzipped his pants. He shuddered in disgust at the whispered, "Garrett, darling, what's a little fun, hmm?"
He stirred the glass so gently.
The other woman stuck her fingers in his mouth for him to suck, her red lipstick smothered on his pale neck in the vein of Lugosi's Dracula, and her skirt raised to reveal a garter. "You like it, Garrett, real men do."
He had transcended what was real, the titan born. Elizabeth had been lonely, begging for a shoulder, a friend, and he had offered it. She was as vulnerable as he, the quivering lip so very wanting.
Dahlia this, Dahlia that, no one really loved her like he had. He had seen all of her, without clothing or skin. Elizabeth, the drink was to her, he decided as he placed the Hurricane before his first customer of the night. "Here you are, sir, enjoy."