Chapter 6
Six
It’s a bit too early in the day to drink, but Bunny accepted my invitation.
Admittedly, ambushing her after an orgasm was opportunistic. But she insisted we go out drinking early, claiming she had to work the next day and that it would be better this way. She also confessed to being a total lightweight—information that I filed away for later—who needs time to get the alcohol out of her system.
After all, you wouldn’t want to get drunk with a serial killer on the loose.
After I devoured her, Bunny ran into the bathroom to clean herself up. When we got into the car, she still looked flustered, her hair mussed and face flushed. I suggested we go to the Bottle Grounds bar—which is probably the most creatively named business in this Podunk town. And then came Bunny’s mouth, blurting out details about her constitution that were better left unsaid to someone she barely knew.
The girl lacks a strong survival instinct. She didn’t even question why the newcomer knew so much about Ashburn. I’m not sure what I expected, really.
To efficiently stalk my targets, I had previously canvassed the area extensively, cataloging most of the town’s hotspots. Scott Robinson, for example, tended to ‘hang out’ at the roller rink when not preaching lies and ringing doorbells to spread his fictional gospel with hollow words and shitty pamphlets. It was where he preferred to prey on his victims, where he sought lives to ruin.
Hand in hand, we step inside Bottle Grounds, a rustic place that straddles the line between a dive bar and a proper establishment. The ceiling fans spin lazily, their white blades discolored from years of tobacco use, and I shudder at the thought of the decades-old stains embedded in the carpet. Old show posters for punk bands stick on the walls like a sad reminder of Ashburn’s relevancy.
The bar primarily attracts older men who sit quietly at the counter, alternating their gaze between their cheap booze of choice and the TV broadcasting a sports game. Bunny briefly glances at the jukebox in the corner, likely questioning its functionality. We walk past the dingy pool table and make our way toward the bartender.
“Have any preference?” I ask, squeezing Bunny’s hand.
I swear her face hasn’t cooled since the theater.
“Nothing too hard,” she replies, before the phrasing of her words prompts her to gnaw her lip. “Nothing too strong, I mean. Something smooth or fruity sounds good.”
I chuckle to put her at ease, as her trust in me must remain. “Just expect nothing too fancy in this place. Better to stick to the basics, hm?”
The bartender finishes cleaning a glass and finally acknowledges us. “What’ll you have?”
“A glass of Irish cream for the lady,” I say, tilting my head down closer to Bunny for confirmation. “That okay?” She nods, and I add, “And a glass of spiced rum for me.”
The bartender gets our drinks ready while Bunny looks on with fascination. Once he hands us the glasses, I gesture toward the empty booths, and we slide into one of them. Initially, the dim lighting had concealed their subpar condition. But now, under the hanging lamps, the peeling vinyl is visible.
Bunny takes a cautious sip of her whiskey. “Do you make this a habit?” she asks. I raise my brow, and she continues, “Spending money on girls you hardly know? And … servicing them.”
“Not always,” I begin, leaning forward as I dial up the charm. “But when they’re as gorgeous as you are, I make an exception.”
That shuts her up. She busies herself with her drink, the wheels turning in her pretty little head as she desperately tries to come up with a response. How smooth, I self-congratulated. I merely sip my alcohol while Bunny anxiously tosses it down like a seasoned pro. I suppose I should tell her to turn it down a notch, but the easier she is to mold to my liking, the better.
And maybe once her serial rapist boss is out of the picture, she’ll stop being so jumpy all the damn time.
Bunny guzzles down the contents of the tumbler and orders another. I remain silent, knowing that the more she drinks, the more likely she is to reveal more information. Which is never a bad thing.
“How long has he been harassing you?” I ask, wanting to pry just a bit—enough to come off as a concerned boyfriend. Or whatever she wants me to be.
Bunny doesn’t need any clarification about who I’m referring to. “George is a fucking dick.” She washes down her anger with more whiskey, her nostrils flaring. “He gawks at me like I’m nothing but a piece of ass. He treats me like I’m disposable, a toy for him to use. Probably expects me to let him fuck me to keep my job, too.”
As she stews in her bitterness, I prod further. “I overheard him mention someone named Diane. Who is that?”
“My mother,” she practically spits. “Pretty sure she’s opened her legs for him before, too. But if I don’t do it voluntarily, I’m afraid …” She trails off and finishes another glass.
From my research, George Tyler has a history of using his position of power to sexually exploit his female employees, especially the younger and more attractive ones. He is nothing but scum and deserves to be crushed like trash in a compactor.
Small towns have no shortage of filth.
“I’m sorry, Grace,” I say, taking her hands in mine and giving them a gentle squeeze. “If there’s anything I can do …”
She initially flinches at my touch, but eventually relaxes. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.” No, you won’t. “Can we go to the bank? I still need to cash my check.”
I leave my rum unfinished, and she doesn’t notice; I need to stay sober for what I’m planning on doing. After taking care of the bill, I lead her to the door. “Let’s go.”
I lean backin my seat and take a sip of my coffee.
After stopping at the bank and dropping off Bunny at her house, I grabbed some much-needed caffeine at Mackay’s, swapped out my attire to all-black, and drove to George Tyler’s residence. I parked the car in a nearby lot to keep it hidden and waited for him to return home.
I wouldn’t typically do a cleanse so soon after another.
But tonight is a special exception.
It’s evening, so the bastard should show up any time now. George had already been a target of mine for a while, so bumping his name up my list and ending his worthless life sooner would do the citizens of Ashburn a favor. As expected, his shitty beater comes thumping down the street, spitting out fumes that stink up the entire neighborhood. He pulls into his driveway, parks, and staggers out of the vehicle.
It’s only 9 PM, and he’s already wasted. Typical. George likes to close shop early on Saturdays—another excuse to cut pay for his employees—and get blitzed over at Bottle Grounds. He stumbles onto the porch, fumbles with his keys, and nearly falls face-first into his house. Then I wait. And observe.
He appears in view through the kitchen window, talking animatedly but sluggishly. His expression is pinched like he got a whiff of his probably unwashed taint. He opens the fridge, gets some foul abomination in the form of leftovers, and shoves them in the microwave. I skim my notes to make sure the family living nearby is still on vacation. The only other resident in the area is an elderly person with bad hearing.
George goes to the living room and sits in a recliner, stuffing his face with far too many calories. His TV blares and lights up the room like a beacon. I continue waiting, making sure he’s fully dozed off. I gulp down the rest of my coffee and put away my binoculars in the glovebox. Snatching my duffle bag from the passenger seat, I scan the street to make sure it’s deserted and exit the car.
I jog over to the side of the house, jump the fence, and set down the bag. I take out my matching black hooded coat, gloves, and my custom mask with a voice changer, affectionately caressing it. It’s white with a smiley face that I carved on it, and the shrouded eyeholes make it impossible to identify me. It resembles the mask worn by Cameron Cirillo during one of his sprees. I’ll make you proud, carry on your legacy.
Donning the mask, I’m neither Luke nor Damon.
I am what the filth of this world will soon learn to fear.
I pull up my hood, hide my bag in a bush, and circle to the back of the house. Peeking through the back door, I notice the only light in the kitchen is coming from the TV nearby in the living room. Carefully, I jiggle the knob and it turns, the door sliding open. I smile. Such a bad habit, leaving doors unlocked when there’s been a murder recently in the area.
I let myself inside. The place stinks like a college fraternity. Empty pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers litter the table. Old soda cans clutter the counter, and dirty dishes are piled high in the sink. It all reeks of apathy, which is not surprising considering he’s a bachelor now. And a lazy one at that. His ex-wife Kimberly left him a few years ago after catching him assaulting a hapless girl trying to secure a job to feed her family.
Still doesn’t excuse turning your home into a landfill.
The shrill voice of the game show host filters in from the living room. I creep toward George, keeping my steps light. As I approach him from behind, the floorboards creak—and I freeze as he stirs. After he slumps back into his recliner, I slink closer, retrieving the knife from its sheath and raising it above his head, ready to strike. But before I can make my move, he suddenly turns around and screams.
I realize then I had not considered my reflection being caught on the TV screen. A rookie mistake.
George moves to escape, but the alcohol hampers him. I bring down my knife, stabbing him in the chest, right next to his heart. He falls to the ground, his face contorted in pain. I haul him up by his back collar and cover his mouth to muffle his cries as I drive the knife into his left thigh, disorienting him.
“Why did you have to wake up?” I ask, shaking my head in mock disappointment. “If you would have just stayed asleep, this all could have been over much faster.”
George groans behind my palm, but he eventually quiets down. I remove my hand—only for the fat fuck to start yelling again. I roll my eyes and resist the urge to slash his throat. Instead, I stab his other thigh, narrowly avoiding any major arteries.
“Listen, George,” I say, covering his mouth again as I push him back into the recliner. “If you don’t stop making a ruckus, I’m going to make things much more difficult for you. Understand?”
Tears spill down his blotchy cheeks as he nods, looking like he’s on the brink of wetting himself.
“Why are you doing this?!” he babbles, making a desperate attempt at staunching the flow of blood from one of his legs. “I haven’t done anything to you! I don’t even know you!”
I wipe my blade on his pants, smearing his blood on them. “I’m not here because of some personal vendetta, George. You know what you did.”
He coughs up blood, spattering it all over his grimy white shirt. The crimson liquid blooms like a flower, staining the material like a macabre art piece. George’s eyes flutter shut as his breathing grows increasingly shallow. I slap him, and he moans groggily.
“Is it revenge?” he mumbles. “Did Steven send you?”
I lift my brow curiously. Steven Jones is Kimberly’s new husband. “What are you talking about?”
He hacks up more blood. “I didn’t mean to touch Angie. But … I mean, the way she dresses.” He manages a weak smirk. “Those short skirts, that tight ass … Bitch had it coming.”
The mask hides my sneer as I put two-and-two together. So he molested Steven’s teenage daughter? Not at all shocking that a depraved sexual predator would retaliate against his ex by violating the dignity of an innocent underage girl. And I can’t help it—I laugh sardonically. “Oh, that is so incredibly fucked up.”
“She felt good, though. Her pussy fit like a?—”
I run my blade across his throat before he can finish his deranged bragging. “Miserable piece of shit,” I mutter, kicking him off the recliner. He tries to speak, but nothing comes out but wet gurgles. “I may be a murderer. But people like you, George,” I begin, standing over him, “you destroy lives—and let them live to suffer. You’re more of a monster than I could ever be.”
Blood pools at my feet as the spurting slows. George’s eyes glaze over as his wretched soul departs his body. Once his light entirely fades, I leave the same way I entered. I strip off my killer garb, grab my bag from the bush, and deposit my things inside before returning to my car. As I start the engine and turn on the radio, I decide on a change of plans.
I think I’ll take a little detour tonight.