On a dark and stormy night, the town sleeps, peacefully unaware, as a single hunched figure with glowing scarlet eyes adds the finishing touches to his master plan.
A flash of lightning momentarily illuminates the room, completely bare except for a simple stool and an old wooden coffee table, and the man's silhouette liners against the rain spattered window.
The shock of ebony hair on his head waves softly as he stands, still hunched in a Quasimodo fashion, and makes his way to the tiny kitchenette, baggy, faded jeans dragging as he shuffles across the stained linoleum.
Sliding through his non-kitchen, the man pauses momentarily in front of the cheap mini-fridge, grabbing a single jar from the top shelf, the near-dead fridge light flickering weakly, attracting oblivious moths.
He slams the door shut and retreats back to the main room, plans upon carefully crafted plans, photographs and addresses strewn across the scarred, creaky coffee table.
The rain has gotten harder now, 'ping-ing' loudly against the lead windowpane, the see-through glass squares shaking in their loosened frames.
The strange man, around twenty by the looks of it, smirks at three pictures in particular, lined up neatly among the rest of the mess on his single table.
Three profiles.
Names: Believe Bridesmaid.
Quarter Queen.
And Backyard Bottomslash.
The man laughs, a slightly maniacal chuckle, a deep-throated monster laugh, and unscrews the lid of the jar. His insomniac eyes glitter darkly as he dips his spidery fingers into said jar, removing them only after they have been completely smothered in sticky red.
Slurping the strawberry jam off his bony white fingers, he stares pointedly at the photographs of his three soon-to-be victims.
Lightning flares again, bathing the dingy apartment in unwanted light.
Wide, crimson eyes shine eerily, and he slurps more jam, dropping more splotches of it on his stained, baggy white shirt.
A soft, grating chuckle reverberates through the room, quickly and suddenly escalating into a completely hysterical howl.
Trailing off, quiet gasps are all that remain of the fear inducing sound.
The man pulls out a flimsy plastic lighter and proceeds to incinerate the evidence of his plans, the powerful flames flickering in time to the wet patters on his apartment walls.
The enigmatic individual thinks of the murders, the crimes he is going to commit, all for the sake of his own little game, played by his own whimsical rules.
He relishes the reaction his handiwork will cause, revels in it. It excites him, sending shivers down his spine.
His eerie eyes glint a deep crimson, and for the first time in he can't remember how long,
Beyond Birthday is happy.