“Ian thought it was quite a beautiful morning, considering. His back was stiff from sitting up in the car all night, watching and waiting for an opportunity to snag his prey. Funny how hard that can be, taking into account all of the things he had to watch out for. It was definitely a big gamble. No surprise: he liked gambling.”

Chapter One Another Day

The sun fluttered into the hotel room through the open curtains, illuminating the room as it danced about. It beamed its presence onto the wall across from the window, its golden rays highlighting the panic in Ted Ganely's face.

"I have a family, please!" He gagged, his torso held tightly against a chair with a fixture of wire.

"Lots of people have families," His captor said, bluntly. Hey, it was true.

The captor removed a handsomely crafted knife from its sheath. It was constructed beautifully--a brilliant mahogany handle held the stunning stainless steel blade, which was perfectly curved and sharper than a razor. Yeah, it was nice. The specs were nothing compared to the damage it could do. He should know.

He'd since been lying on the bed, his left arm folded behind his head. With the knife held in his other hand, he stared back at himself through the reflection in the blade. Shallow green eyes stared back at him. He saw life in them, he didn’t know if others did, though. His shadowy black hair drooped lazily past his eyebrows and was long enough to cover his ears. His face was evenly proportioned and his complexion fairly even, or so his ego thought. Psychopaths are allowed to look good, too.

"It’s odd," He blurted, and after sitting up in bed, he leaned closer to his victim. "I don’t feel like I’m giving my 100 anymore, you know?"

Ted gulped. His eyes were wide and his body was stiff, as if he thought that a single movement would cause his tormentor to snap. He didn't know what state of mind this madman was in. For all he knew, breathing the wrong way would deliver the final agony that would end his life. It very well could have. Ian Warrick was getting bored.

Ian Warrick, the serial killer. It had a nice ring to it.

"Wh-what's that supposed to mean?" Ted quivered.

"Oh, I don’t know. I think I should try harder."

"You won’t—" His voice broke away as he watched Ian play around with the knife in his hands. "You won't get away with this, if you kill me. I know people."

Ian leaned forward, interested. “You know people? No way.”

“You’ll be one sorry sonuvabitch!” Ted laughed.

"Oh really? I know people too, but they can’t speak to the dead. You keep interesting company,” Ian retorted.

He then howled a laugh that would have been sadistic enough to come from Hell itself. Pulling away, he back down on the bed. Swiftly, with precision, he hurled the knife towards his victim. It wedged itself in the wood backing of the chair, just inches from the man’s neck. Ted took in a deep breath as his eyes shifted over to the blade hanging dangerously close to his jugular.

What the hell is this? This is what I chose? Ian thought to himself, staring intently, although rather baffled, at the man tied to the chair. Ted was pathetic, just as he had figured. What else could he expect? The pickings were slim these days.

He lifted himself off of the edge of the bed, stretching as he stood. His feet touched one of the tarps he had used to cover the carpet with. When he reached forward to yank the knife from the chair, Ted held his breath and clenched his teeth, which inspired a look of shame from Ian.

"You are so...boring," He sighed and slipped the knife, sheathed, into his belt.

Ted was silent, sweat pouring down his face. He sincerely wanted it all to be a dream, but he knew that sincerity wouldn’t make it any less of a reality. The captor stepped back and made his way over to the window, contemplating again. Ted didn’t like the idea of this man contemplating.

Ian thought it was quite a beautiful morning, considering. His back was stiff from sitting up in the car all night, watching and waiting for an opportunity to snag his prey. Funny how hard that can be, taking into account all of the things he had to watch out for. It was definitely a big gamble. No surprise: he liked gambling.

The sun that shined through the window warmed his face comfortably, something it rarely did, since his pale skin was proof of his dislike for it. His reflection appeared on the window, and he saw the blood on his shirt. He always got blood on his clothing, even if he never sliced up his victims. Figures. It must have happened when he tried to bind Ted to the chair – the idiot struggled violently and ended up hurt because of it.

All jobs had their downsides. Killing people was obviously messy. Blood had a tendency to stain, but to give it credit: it did leave a nice pattern on whatever it happened to fall upon. The color of it, too, was intriguing; such a dark, rich red. The look of it on his hands gave him a god-complex mightier than God Himself.

Muffled screams came from behind him, and he sighed.

He turned around and put his hand to his forehead as he noticed that Ted had knocked the chair over. His brief moment of thought was so rudely interrupted.

The genius was now choking on the wire that bound him, part of it hanging loosely around him whilst the other portion was entwined tightly around his neck and upper body. Ian didn't really want to deal with it; let the bastard choke himself to death. But his screams became louder and less muffled. Someone would grow curious if this kept up.

"You are a waste of time," Ian said in disappointment as he walked over and pulled the chair upright, his victim struggling in it. "Almost makes me feel sorry for you. It's discouraging."

Now came the process of removing the wire he had so charily wound to begin with. It dug into Ted’s flesh and peeled away painfully as it unraveled. Wire was an interesting device to use, really. Human strength couldn’t break it, and if someone was stupid enough to try, the pain inflicted would cease that attempt. Barbed wire was fun too, but he was fresh out.

Ted was left shuddering on the floor after all of the wire was removed. Ian propped him up against the wall next to the chair.

"Please! Please, I-"

Ian merely smiled. "You what? You're still begging for your life or something?"

"Please...I beg you." He managed to say, his voice choked with sobs and rough from the minor asphyxiation he experienced from the wire.

Leaning closer to Ted's face, Ian whispered, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Ted nodded as his tear-ridden eyes met with Ian's, his face growing redder.

"It's amazing what death can do to a man," Ian slipped the knife out and slid the blade from its sheath once more. "You’re crying like a child.” He maintained a monotone voice as he kept his eyes locked onto his victim's.

"W-why? Why do you want to kill me? I don't know anything. I just..." Ted's words were barely audible, as his sobs were doing their best to drown them out.

"'Why'? You ask ‘why'?" Ian began, speaking as if he were visiting a memory he wished not to visit. "My parents were just horrible, you know? My father beat me, and my mother was a drunk," He paused for effect. "I'd come home from school after being bullied only to find that my father had the belt ready for me. It was... absolutely unbearable, and left permanent scars on my poor broken frame. So, now I take it out on society by killing people who have had a better life than me! Great logic, isn't it?"

Ted heard this and for some stupid reason loosened up a bit, as if finding a way to justify what was happening to him made things better. Ian laughed.

"Just kidding! My childhood was perfect. In fact," He said, "it couldn't have been better. My father was a highly respected businessman, my mother a teacher, blah, blah, blah. Clean as a whistle. You want to know why I do this?” He grinned. "Because I can.”

Stripping such a crime of any reasoning flipped a whole new boat, most of the time. Ted was compelled to let him know that he wouldn’t get away with this and that he needed help.

"'On the contrary," Ian said, sliding the knife across Ted's cheek, a line of blood tracing the knife's path. "I’d like to think I’m pretty good at this. I don’t think anyone’s going to catch me soon. Knock on wood, of course."

He watched as his victim's face took on its final stunning shade of bright red. It wasn’t getting any redder at this point.

"You're fucking sick! You all will crumble, I know it! I know they hired you!" Ted yelled.

What?

Ian was taken aback at his sudden outburst of anger but was more puzzled at the words that came from Ted’s mouth. Another attempt at justifying the crime, perhaps. This one was new.

Ted got to his feet and kicked at him, failing miserably. He missed and crash-landed on the bed, toppling onto the floor at the foot of it and taking the blankets with him. What did he plan to do? Hide under the blankets so the mean monster with the sharp objects wouldn't hurt him?

Of course, he only managed to get himself wrapped up in a multi-layered cocoon of cheap hotel bedding. Ian unwrapped him from the cloth like he was an unsightly Christmas present. Tossing the bedding off to the side, he looked down at him.

A light bulb flickered somewhere in the demonic landscape of Ian’s mind.

Ted tried to crawl away as Ian left in search of his bag of goodies. The bag was sitting on the floor, perched up against the dresser. It was open, spewing out some of its contents: a hacksaw, his toothbrush, some clothes, some leftover wire, and…a pair of pruning shears.
Gardening really wasn’t his thing, obviously. He picked the shears up and held them in his hands, flexing the blades open and closed.

The man was near the window now. He wanted out.
“I don’t think so!” Ian laughed.

He stepped his way over and grabbed him, pulling him away from potential freedom. Once he made it over to the chair again, he propped him up on it, and forced his left hand under his chin, smashing his head against the wall.

The thrill rushed through him like some kind of drug, and he pried open Ted’s mouth. In went the shears, clamping onto one of the corners of his lips. Applying a little pressure produced a terrified half-scream from the man.

“Sit up,” Ian said.

Ted complied, with Ian still holding the shears in his mouth, pinching the skin painfully. He loosened them and laughed. A sighing victim stared him in the eye. With a final cruel chuckle, he squeezed the blades together.

Snip.

Blood streamed from the corner of Ted’s mouth from the slit made by the shears, falling over his chin like a waterfall. It was sure to be blindingly painful, and no doubt that pain was elevated by the man’s mortified screams.

Screaming was no good. Well, no shit. Hotel rooms were paper thin and sound definitely traveled, but Ian continued anyway.

“Gah, ahh! No!” Ted gurgled.

The predator moved in again. The other corner was the next to go. The shears sliced so easily through his cheeks…

Ted collapsed to the floor, practically throwing himself off of the chair. Blood fell from his face, piloted by gravity, onto the tarps as he crawled on hands and knees towards the door. Ian stepped back and let him get close; close enough to touch freedom, but then he lunged at him.

He grabbed his right arm and dragged him across the tarp, blood coating the path he went over. A bloody handprint was stamped onto the white paint on the door. How classic.

Forcing him onto his back, he placed a foot on his chest and held it there. The mutilated man shivered and convulsed violently, not sure whether to cry or to scream, neither of which he knew would help.

Ian tossed the pruning shears onto the bed and let his knife grace the scene once again.

He held it in his fingers loosely. It dangled above Ted’s chest and he swung it like a pendulum. Every time it swung, his grip got weaker, daring to let the knife plummet into the soft flesh.

And it fell. It slowly dove at him, falling as if someone had tweaked reality. Movies never captured slow-motion like this. He didn’t see anything but that blade. It flashed before him; not his life, not his memories.
Ian ruined the suspense and snatched it out of the air just before it hit him. The man wanted so badly not to be taken by the blade of his tormentor's pretty knife. You can't always get what you want. With that knife, he drove it across Ted's short little neck; it sliced through as smooth as butter. Blood surged out, powered by the heart's own pumping, and Ted, conscious enough, choked and coughed horrendously. He fell lifeless at Ian's feet, his eyes frozen open. He looked like a dead fish.

How astonishing. They all did, really. That lifeless stare looked the same as it always did.