The sky seemed quiet, lacking the moon to give it company and share a few hushed laughs. The wind tried to deafen the silence as it shrieked in the ears of those who roamed under the few scattered stars. It found only two men who looked as still as the time that had taken a minute to stop and observe the events as they occurred.
It was dark mostly, the only source of light being the flickering street lamp casting eerie shadows on the concrete. The stillness, a thin and delicate veil was suddenly torn apart as one of the men fell on his knees, swaying for a moment as though struggling to keep himself up, before collapsing completely. His body lay sideways on the street with his arms limp and useless in front of him. One could see the light beginning to leave his eyes, hear his heart thudding towards their last beats against the silence, the blood in his veins beginning to go still. It was beautiful to watch the a single drop of dark and rusty red to slowly and gracefully make its way across the skin.
Not far away, a few metres perhaps, another pair of lungs filled themselves with the cool night air, which now carried a fresh scent of rust. The heart behind went on thudding, but this one beat with excitement. The owner of this heart watched with hungry eyes as air left the man’s lungs and didn’t return. He watched another man’s life slipping through his fingers as he struggled to keep it in its grasp. Eventually it was gone, leaving him to turn into a corpse.
“How easily life betrays you, friend” Our murderer whispered to the lifeless man on the ground. “How quick was it to leave you behind to rot”
There was a slight nip in the air that nibbled on the skin of our killer’s hand as it cleaned the blood off the cold steel of his knife. He deliberately ran the tip of his finger on the sharper end of the hunting knife, spilling a few drops of his own blood near the body of the now-dead Robert Shultz. Our murderer, here, was a peculiar man. He really didn’t enjoy a game that was made too easy for him. It was more fun when the opponent thought that they had the upper hand.
Though the quiet that had returned was comforting, it was broken by the executioner as he narrowed his lips and whistled a familiar tune, walking away from the open-eyed death and disappearing in the dark. It wasn’t the kill that appealed all that much to this man. It wasn’t the light leaving the victims’ eyes or the the beam of red dancing its way across their skins. It wasn’t the thrill of committing the crime itself, but the Power that surged through him every time the sharp steel cut through flesh. It was the fear in the victims’ eyes that this man always had the itch to see. The panic that could be heard in the pleas for mercy when he was about to take a life. The fun of being chased for it was just a bonus to a deal.
An “art” is what our slayer liked to call talent for killing. It could be looked upon as art, if one shared a similar mindset as our homocidal friend; it could be seen in the fine technique of butchery, the grace in which red danced across skins or the sweet melody of a pair of possessive lungs, struggling to keep the air within their walls. It could be appreciated if people just learned to keep an open mind. He’d gotten away with many “art pieces” such as this one. A gambler could make millions if he just bet all his money on this murderer’s tendency to be on the winning side of the table. You see, this fellow seemed to have a keen sense of escaping one’s own fate, or even better, changing fate itself. Another beauty to be appreciated was that none of his pieces were ever pre-planned. That would be an insult to the image that he’s spent so long in building and who knows what the critics would think.
Being the perfectionist that he was, he always left a trail. He wouldn’t just give it away; where was the fun in that? Besides, it was a move that he was already quite familiar with; the whole getting-caught-on-purpose thing. It always made him laugh when he re-visited the memories of those days when the prosecutor’s jaw dropped to the ground on hearing the jury stamp the guilty soul with a Not Guilty mark. He thought of himself as a magician at times, creating the illusion of a fake reality to keep the watchers in their constant state of awe.
But that was one of his older tricks and he’d recently got a new sleeve, which consisted of his most favourite ploy yet: creating false evidence. You see, this was the kind of man who was one belonging to the fist of Power, yet couldn’t resist the urge to stay behind for a good show. Though he enjoyed seeming inhuman, he wasn’t one who could fight the simple human pleasure of a good laugh in watching The System chase its own tail as the opposing side pretended to have an upper hand.
The blood that he’d so graciously left for the poor chap in charge of this case, actually belonged to a man named Anthony Normand. The fun part was that Anthony Normand was no longer to be a part of existence by the end of that night. But if one was to take the same blood the next morning and look for a match in the veins of a fellow named Bill Foster, one would probably find himself in ditch by the evening; not to mention, dead as a doornail.
And so the magician enjoyed the sound of the rhythm of his footsteps against the pavement along with the click of his lighter. He did not fear being noticed nor did he mind the blood of another man drying under his fingernails. He was too engrossed in the tune in his head that had made its way to his narrowed lips. And went one foot in front of the other as the Whistling Predator walked on with his heart beating with excitement as his fingers wrapped themselves around the handle of a blade, which was blanketed in a coat of dark and rusting red. Inwardly, he smiled as his feet took him further and further away from the open-eyed man lost in eternal sleep. His whistling lips paused mid-tune to make room for the smile that invaded his lips at the thought of the opponent’s counter-move that excited his heart and his fingers clutched the blade tighter in his grip.
This, he thought, was going to be a fun one.