CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The night was alive with laughter, except each cackle was a rusted blade across the raw nerves of his mind. He watched from the shadows, a wraith cloaked in darkness, as the object of his fixation stood amongst a gaggle of drunken sycophants. They swayed and guffawed outside the neon-washed facade of some trendy watering hole, lost in a haze of booze and forced joviality.

What could possibly be so funny? What scintillating witticism, what earth-shattering bon mot could warrant such a response? Nothing is that funny, not to mention that these cretins wouldn”t know humor if it bit them on the ass and called them Sally.

Their laughter was empty, meaningless, a pathetic attempt to fill the yawning void in their souls with cheap liquor and cheaper company.

But he knew the truth. Laughter was a weapon. A way to mock and diminish, to grind the downtrodden ever deeper into the muck. He had felt its sting too many times, endured the slings and arrows of a world that refused to give him a place.

But no more. Now, it was his turn to wield the blade, to carve the smiles from their faces and leave them choking on their own mirth. They thought him broken, beaten, just another failure consigned to the dustbin of obscurity. But how wrong they were. He had been reborn in the crucible of his pain, forged anew into something harder, sharper, a scalpel honed to slice through the cancerous flesh of a society too sick to save.

His target drained his glass and set it aside, clapping one of his cronies on the shoulder as he made his goodbyes. The man began weaving down the sidewalk, straying from the flock and into the waiting jaws of the wolf. He shambled past dark shopfronts and shuttered windows, blissfully oblivious to the predator dogging his steps.

And so he slid behind the wheel of his battered sedan. The engine sputtered to life like a consumptive cough, and he eased out into the street. He kept his headlights dimmed, trailing his quarry at a discreet distance. The hunt was on now, the dance of death had begun anew. His pulse quickened, a heady cocktail of anticipation and loathing thrumming through his veins.

Block after block slid by, the city”s squalor blurring into a smear of jaundiced light and rotten brick. His prey stumbled on, lost in a drunken haze, all too easy to tail. His fingers tightened and breath grew faster as he imagined those chapped lips stretched wide in a rictus of terror, those glassy eyes bulging as he choked the life out of him.

This was the part he savored. The warm-up. The delicious buildup before the main event. He hadn’t anticipated he’d enjoy this part so much, but he’d become addicted the moment he had Archie’s limp corpse at his disposal. It wasn”t just the kill itself, though that was certainly the crescendo. No, it was the buildup, the slow, inexorable march towards inevitability.

With Archie, it had been almost too easy. The fool had practically gift-wrapped himself, strutting out of that bar with his chest puffed out and his dick swinging, so sure of his own invincibility. He”d never seen the blow coming, never had a chance to wipe that smug grin off his face before he’d crushed the guy’s windpipe and sent him spiraling into oblivion.

And he”d known, in that moment, as he knelt there in the viscera and the void, that completion of this vast mission was easily attainable. This was his true calling. Not begging for scraps of approval from the masses. At last, he’d finally found something pure. Perhaps the only pure form of art left on earth.

Georgia had been even sweeter. He”d played with her, a cat toying with a doomed mouse, drawing out each exquisite moment until she was a mewling wreck. Only then had he delivered the coup de grace, a mercy and a condemnation all in one.

And now, this poor sap. He”d shadowed his mark for days, learning his habits, his haunts, the patterns and pathways of his vapid little life.

And so he shadowed him now. The man turned, wandering off the main drag and into the narrow throat of an alley. Perfect. The fly bumbling ever closer to the spider”s silken strands. He hit the gas, rocketing around the block to head off his target. He slewed to a stop at the mouth of the alleyway.

It was time.

He grabbed his weapon and donned his mask – a new addition to his arsenal. It was half theatrical, half efficiency. Tonight was his only opportunity to get up close and personal with target number three, so he had to risk killing him at an hour when people might still be walking the streets. It was a risk, but for this kill, for this glorious piece de resistance, he was willing to chance exposure. To dance on the razor”s edge between triumph and ruin, all for the sake of his art.

The transformation from man to character was complete, and so he slipped from the car, becoming a shadow amongst shadows. The alley yawned before him; a narrow, trash-strewn gullet leading straight into the bowels of the city. And there, at the far end, stumbling ever closer with each sloppy, drunken step, was his quarry.

He melted into the darkness, pressing himself against the rough brick of the alley wall. His heartbeat was a wardrum in his ears and he’d attuned every sense to perfection, aware of the slightest shift in the urban cacophony that surrounded.

He could hear the distant wail of sirens, the barking of dogs, the bass thump of music spilling from some late-night dive. But closer, louder, growing ever more distinct with each passing second, was the sound of footsteps. He held himself perfectly still. Eyes never left the mouth of the alley, never wavered from that narrow strip of sidewalk where his victim would soon pass. He scanned the street beyond, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of a passerby or a night owl who might spoil his perfect moment.

But the avenue was deserted. The city slept. It wasn’t the witching hour, but it was good enough.

The footsteps grew louder, closer, until they became all-consuming. His fingers flexed, curling into claws, aching to close around the soft, unsuspecting throat of his target. Just a few more steps, a few more seconds, and it would be time. Time to pounce, to claim his prize and begin the glorious work of the night.

He could see the man now, a shambling silhouette backlit by the sallow glow of the street lamps. Could smell the reek of booze and sweat and cheap cologne that wafted from him like a miasma. So close he could almost taste the copper tang of blood on his tongue.

The man took another step, then another, crossing some invisible threshold, passing the point of no return.

And he struck, finding the man’s throat with unerring precision. Cord wrapped around flesh, tightening, crushing, cutting off air and sound and hope. The man bucked, thrashed, his flailing limbs battering uselessly against his attacker’s iron embrace. But it was futile, a fly caught in the web, a lamb bleating its last before the wolf”s fangs found its throat.

They crashed to the ground together, predator and prey, locked in a fatal tango as old as time itself. The man”s struggles grew weaker, more desperate, eyes bulging in their sockets as life drained from his body. He rode him down, straddling his chest, bearing down with all his weight and strength until he felt the final, shuddering spasm, the last futile gargle of breath.

And then it was done.

The first part is complete.

This was what he was made for, what he had been born to do. Not to amuse, but to destroy. The world demanded a punchline, and tonight, they”d get it.