[Neat Freak]
Meticulously, he checked the bindings, calloused fingers running over the smooth, creaking leather, noting its wear and durability with an almost clinical precision. The table, metallic and dimpled with numerous holes, –for more efficient draining, rather than aestheticism- he had cleaned himself, almost obsessively. Next to it, easily within arm's reach, a sterile metal tray resting on a cart, bearing his favourite instruments, all equally as clean and painstakingly sharpened to his specifications.
The chill of the meat locker had caused condensation. Condensation meant rust. That was unacceptable.
This new location, however, was perfect; isolated, quiet, and riddled with easy escape routes. Just in case.
Smiling to himself, he picked up a pen and jotted down a few notes on his clipboard, thinking back to the documents he'd gone over earlier that evening. The original research might have been flawed, but it was far from useless. If nothing else, the files held in creamy manila folders, almost harmless-looking, were his greatest inspiration.
His muse, in neat printed text.
His eyes strayed to the photos pinned to a corkboard he'd brought in –he was so fond of the neat little organizational things that were out nowadays. The first batch of women hadn't worked. He hadn't been picky enough. Likewise, the first batch of men had failed. It had taken him some time to properly refine his search patterns, but now, finally, he thought he had the right formula. All that was left for him to do was to try it out -and fill his quota, of course.
Sixteen pretty bodies, a candle for each.
Sixteen pretty faces, a new set of data points.
Sixteen pretty girls, and a little game for him to play.
Sweet, sweet sixteen.
Idly, he brushed a tiny speck of dirt from his sleeve; he didn't like burying them, letting them rot and decay like that, but it had become something of a necessity.
It was only temporary arrangement, he assured himself. He'd find something better, soon.