The killer woke in the ashen afterglow of sundown, his body slick with sweat and his bare chest rising and falling with the frantic rhythm of his ragged breathing. Soft purple light filled the room and masked twisted and monstrous shapes. Echoing voices rang through his fevered head and his mouth was dry, his body hot. He blinked his grainy eyes and sat up, a spike of pain plunging into the center of his head. He pressed the heel of his palm to his temple and grimaced. He took a series of deep breaths and reigned in his slamming heart. When he was sure that his skull wouldn't crack open like a hotdog in the microwave, he reached for the bedside lamp, knocking over an army of empty Monster cans; they clattered to the floor and he hissed a curse under he breath. He snapped the lamp on and rusty light stung his weary orbs.

Beyond the light's reach, the apartment was tiny, a sink and counter along the far wall and an ancient fridge knocking and humming in the corner. There were no pictures on the wall, no knick knacks or personal items, nothing to indicate that the apartment was lived in.

It was 7:30 by the clock on the nightstand and the apartment was hot. The window mounted A/C unti had frozen up at some point during the day and was now a block of ice. Getting up, the killer went to the window and peered out. Below, traffic moved back and forth in the street and pedestrians strolled along the sidewalk. A crowd milled around the door leading into a chicken joint with a glowing neon sign, and a group of black men sat on the stoop of a brownstone talking and smoking cigarettes. The killer scanned the street and went back to bed. Already, dark pressure was building up inside of him, and he knew in his heart that tonight, he would kill again.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and threw on a bulky olive green coat that was too thick for the late summer heat. He stepped into a pair of black boots and yanked a pair of black leather gloves onto his hands. His heart slammed excitedly in his chest and his cracked lips trembled in anticipation. On his way out the door, he grabbed a Monster from the empty fridge. He went out into the hall and locked the door behind him, slowing only to step over a wino passed out in the stairwell. Outside, the evening was hot and dry, the western sky cooling to embers of pink and orange. Latin flavored music scented the air and the sounds of the city raged around him; his headache flared back to life and he quickened his step.

His Ford van, black and windowless, was parked on a side street. It wasn't up on cinderblocks so he counted himself lucky. He unlocked the driver side door and slid in behind the wheel. He backed up and pulled away from the curb, the headlights washing over passing traffic.

From his street, the killer took a right, then a left before getting on the freeway. The sun was all the way down now and darkness reigned over Southern California. As he hunted, aimlessly driving side streets and service roads like a shark on the prowl, he did not listen to music. The only sound was the squeak of the van rocking from side to side. He moved north through Crenshaw, Watts, Studio City, and the Valley, keeping his eye out for easy targets. There were a few spots that he frequented, and in one of them, he found his prey. A tall, mannish black woman in a miniskirt and boots stood on a corner as if waiting for someone. The killer slowed to a crawl and craned his neck to get a better look. He rolled to a stop and the woman came over, opening the door and climbing in as though she had been waiting for him and him alone. "Hey, honey," she said in a firm, masculine voice.

The killer stirred.

She was the one.

The killer drove around for a while before pulling into an alley between a boarded up warehouse and a housing project. They climbed into the back. "You wanna be top or bottom?" the hooker asked.

"Top," the killer said.

The hooker took a condom from her purse and handed it to the killer, then bent over and hiked her skirt up. She yanked her panties down and her dick and balls hung free. Frenzy seized the killer, and stripping his belt off, he wound it around the hooker's neck and pulled. She gasped and started to thrash, her hands clawing at the belt. The killer pulled tighter, teeth gritting and forearms straining. Slowly, the fight ran out of the hooker and she fell limp. The killer let go, rolled her over, and wrapped his big hands around her throat. When he was sure that she was dead, he made love to her, then cuddled her corpse for a long time, feeling the chill of death steal through her. He started to talk, as a man often does after sex, and didn't stop until he was crying.

She didn't laugh at him.

She didn't tell him to shut up.

She listened.

Later on, the killer dumped her in an overgrown lot and drove aimlessly around the city, his mind blank. People were tough to deal with, and relationships were messy, but the dead were easy. The dead never judged you. The dead were submissive and servile.

That's why he liked them.

See, when you kill someone, they go to the afterworld, and because in their last moments you were their God, holding their life in your hands, they were yours for eternity. He read that in a book, or maybe he heard it in a dream. Either way, he knew it to be self evident. In the afterlife, he and the hooker would be together, just like he and the boy he took from the beach two weeks ago would be together, and the boy he shoved into the lake and drowned when he was twelve would be together. He wielded the ultimate power over them and would do so again in death. He liked power and control. He craved it. The more people he possessed, the more power he would have. The more slaves, the bigger harem, the more people to obey - and love -him. He had been lonely and isolated his whole life, shunned and rejected, abused and hurt.

But now...now things were different.

Now he was on his way to Godhood.

And nothing was going to stop him.