He walked over to what seemed like to be a kitchen. Unwashed pots and pans littered the table. The familiar mold overwhelmed his senses. He sneered as he walked over to the old refrigerator. He discovered whisky, whisky and more whiskey. He growled as he slammed the door shut. The refrigerator gave a gurgle as it started to hum.
Even more broken glass lay in his path. He walked over them as he glanced to see static on a television. He picked up the remote control along the way as he jumped into the recliner. The seat cushioned every part of his body. He gave out a sigh as he clicked on to a random channel.
The first sight he saw he automatically changed the channel. If he wanted to be preached at by someone who didn't know how to apply make-up, he'd go to a brothel. He changed the channel again If he wanted to see the game, he'd go to one.
Now this channel appealed to him. Half naked girls on the beach laughing at nothing, he grinned at the possibilities. When he get rid of these pests, he must go get some beach loving. The girls faded out and he frowned -- this waste of space advertised for Zima. He growled as he started to change the channel, but something caught his eye -- "urgent announcements" do that sometimes.
"...the serial killer known as "The Slasher" has struck again..."
A crusty old man in a suit announced. Creed shifted in his seat. He was called that name a long time ago, but he wasn't that stupid anymore. Sure he killed a couple frails with a knife and he wasn't caught, but that's before he got under the X-men's skin.
"...in less than two weeks, the killer has murdered twenty blonde males. The last victim..."
He didn't care about the details of the victim, something more pressing came to mind when they showed the body. The slash marks were too clean. Any regular knife would leave a clean cut, but each had a distinct slit. The slit across the victim's neck had a distinct and recognizable insignia.
"Logan," he whispered through clenched teeth. Did he send the runt over the edge? Sure, he beat the living out of the feral version of the runt; yet, the marks shown here were not one of a feral, but of a cold calculated killer -- like himself.
...Or rather, used to be like him. He wasted that kill on that gutter trash of a father. He stood up straight -- he'd should feel regret for doing that. Not for taking a life, but wasting a kill. He could've used it on killing one of the X-Men or better yet, Logan. He waited for the remorse to come, but it didn't.
"What yer watchin' there Creed," he heard a familiar voice come from above. The apparition didn't appear in front of him, so he changed the channel quickly. If Jubilee found out about this, she'd try to weasel a way to go back to New York. That wasn't part of the plan. He'd have her under his thumb.
"I didn't know ya like 'Little House on the Prairie'," she pointed out as he realized that he turned it to the channel that showed only family programming. He growled as he turned off the television.
"Iggy's doin' fine, we should be oughta here in two days," He snarled in response. Two days wasted on they boy when he could be closer to getting rid of her, "yeah, when he gets up I'll make him call the X-Men and --"
Her words became a silence to him. If Iggy went to the X-Men and Logan was there, he winced at the thought at the ways the runt can kill Iggy. He got up off the chair.
"Where ya goin' Creed?" she asked with a annoyed tone.
"Gettin' somethin' ta eat Jubilee, ain't nothing here," once again he stormed out of the house, confused as ever. Going past the porch as the howling of foreign animals sounded off in the distance. He felt his mind release all thought as familiarity controlled him.
He hunted, at least that wasn't taken away from him. He knew where'd he go to get something to hunt. He smelled it when he buried the corpse -- deer.
He laid low in the brush as a gunshot rang out in the lightly covered forest. Birds cawed in fear as hundreds of wings flapped through leaves. Someone got to his kill before he did. Making sure his footsteps wouldn't be heard, he made his way towards the loud noise.
Pushing away the foliage, he sneered disgustedly at the sight before him. A doe, in her prime, lay on the hard dirt floor convulsing in pain. Above the suffering animal stood two middle aged men who probably knew nothing about hunting -- he could tell by the way the amateur held the gun.
"You did a good shot Cleatus," the man in red flannel patted the one in yellow on the back. The yellow flannel wearing man holding a gun laughed from his gut.
"Well, when you're an experienced hunter like myself, you know some things," the stench of lies could carry for miles around. The animal jumped a little, spooking the two men. When the too men calmed down, the "inexperienced" one of the two knelt to get a closer look.
"Is it supposed to jump like that," the guy asked like a kid sticking his finger into an electrical socket. The man above him sweated a little, but instantly got his bravado back.
"Step back, let's make sure this son-of-a-gun ain't moving no more," the other man moved out of the way with such haste as the array of bullets came. Something that was once majestic became a splattered mess on the ground. The meat, punctured full of bullet holes, would be hard to eat. He growled, not only did these bastard take away his kill, but messed up the meat also.
"What was that," the "inexperienced" one frantically asked. He'd been too loud as he purposely made the brush ruffle when he walked. He saw the eyes of fear in both of them focused on the bush -- novice mistake.
The one with the gun shakily went over to the brush, pointing the gun like it was a lighthouse of his safety. He didn't notice the claw that sliced the gun in half. The guy backpedaled toward his friend as Creed stood in front of them in his full glory. Was that a mixture of fear and blood he smelled?
"Ya ruined my kill, oh well, I guess I got two perfectly good prey here," he popped his claws, that made their mouths gape in horror. He missed this feeling, the hunt that led to this moment. He stopped, no one was around to tell him what to do -- or stop him. He decided that he'd let one live so he could hunt him later but for now...
He lunged and grabbed the one called "Cleatus." He noticed that Cleatus' friend ran screaming like a rabbit with nowhere to run -- how far he was to the truth.
Now was the part where he heard the begging. What was it this time? Money, that's nice. Creed just tightened his grip around his prey's neck. Should he make the man suffer first or kill him outright? He couldn't have his cake and eat it too. He punched the guy in the face, making him fly up out of his hands. Using his speed, Creed caught him in the air and threw him to the ground hard. That'd be a few broken ribs that needed healing -- if the man lived.
"Before I end yer miserable life, let me tell ya one thing -- yer the crapiest hunter I've ever seen," He lifted his claws and dealt the final blow. Human blood mixed with deer.
Now he had to look for the guy's friend, immersed in bloodlust he went after his prey on all fours.
A few minutes later of following the trail of tears, piss and fear -- he found his prey shivering and pale.
"No...NO--" blood splattered onto the surround leaves. This one wasn't hard to find. Trying to hide underneath a bush isn't a good way to hide from him -- oh well, his prey found out too late.
Heaving deeply the scent of death, he thought he'd be more excited than this. The first one, yeah it gave him that rush to his head, but this one made him feel nothing. The situation was the same. The man begged for his life, he beat the living soul out of him, he gave the same finishing blow like to the last guy, but he felt numb.
He walked back towards the misshapen form of the doe, carried what was left on it on his back and walked towards the house in the middle of the woods. He'd have time to get this numbness out of his body.