A Running Man…

Jason inspected the edge of his blade, smiling with appreciation as to how sharp he had managed to get it, and the others that lay out before him. There were seven of them all together, each ten inches long with a knuckle guard of ivory set into a handle of polished mahogany.

The blades had been his great-grandfather's, the elder Tennerman reputedly having procured them from the Chief of some impossible to pronounce tribe in Africa. Jason had never heard the entire story, but he knew that however his great-grandfather had gotten them, it had involved a number of natives dying.

The dark history of the blades suited Jason all the more, giving them, in his mind, a mystical ambience that spoke of their destiny.

A destiny that would be darker than their past.

Jason's smile turned wicked as he thought of what the quickly falling night would bring to his town. His name would become infamous, spoken in fear, and held in regard above his predecessors.

He couldn't recall the line exactly, but its meaning had burned its way into his psyche. No, into his very being. And it had been the driving force behind him for the last year and a half as he had planned out exactly how he was going to perform this heinous act.

"A running man can slit a thousand throats in but one night."

The phrase, spoken in some movie that he couldn't even name, had become his quest to prove possible.

He had spent every free moment studying the terrain for blocks around his house. He knew every short cut; every obstacle; every nook and cranny of every house that he intended to enter.

He knew the habits of the families that he was going to slaughter. He knew the pets that he would have to dispose of and the ones that he had managed to become friends with.

He knew the adults. He knew the children. He knew the infants. He knew that he would never be beaten up or called a pussy again.

He knew that this would become a dark day in history; a day that he would become the most despised serial killer to have ever existed.

Picking up the blades and placing them one at a time into the sheaths that he had stitched to his leather belt, Jason gave thought to how he imagined that the night would go.

It would start with the most harmless. Their neighbor, Mister Feldman, who worked nights and never woke up until late evening, would be the first. The only thing that Mister Feldman had ever done wrong was to move into the house next door, just within the last two weeks, placing him within Jason's grasp.

The last, and most terrible of his intended victims, would be his own family. The family that barely acknowledged his existence; that would as likely slap him as give him the time; that left him on his own for days on end.

Assuring himself that the six blades were securely tucked into each sheath, with no chance of accidentally falling out, Jason picked up the seventh one and admired his reflection in its polished surface.

He imagined that surface stained crimson.

As the purple tendrils of dusk became the blackness of night, Jason slipped out of the tool shed that no one in his family ever used, and bolted across the back yard.

Leaping the row of hedges that separated their yards, Jason landed deftly on Mister Feldman's lawn, and made a beeline to the basement window that he had broken the lock on long before the house had become occupied.

Jason dropped down into the basement with barely a sound, just a hush of his sneakers on concrete, and he made his way through stacks of unpacked boxes to the stairs.

Staying to the edges of the stairs, next to the wall, where they were less likely to creak, Jason quickly made his way to the first floor. Slithering down a short hallway, Jason turned and ascended up the main stairs, treading as softly on them as he had the previous.

Edging into the bedroom, Jason paused briefly as he saw the bed that Mister Feldman slept in. It appeared to be a single waterbed, but without a mattress, only rich folds of red satin draped over the sides and down into the frame of the bed.

"Blood on satin," thought Jason, chuckling within his own mind.

Stealing up to the sleeping man, Jason swiftly brought the blade down and slit Mister Feldman's throat, the man's eyes springing open instantly as his blood began spraying out in a crimson shower.

Jason knew that he could not loiter at each scene to revel in the demise of his victim, but as this was his first, he wanted to watch until Mister Feldman's chest rose no more.

The man looked at Jason with eyes that were full of terror and questions, his hands futilely trying to stem the blood pumping out of his slashed artery.

Jason felt a wave of ecstasy tremble through his body as Mister Feldman's hands slowly fell from his throat, the man's eyes glazing over with a lifeless sheen.

"This is going to be so easy," thought Jason, turning to exit the room.

He froze as he heard the faintest creak of movement behind him.

"Do you have any idea how much that hurt?" demanded a deep, powerful voice from behind him.

Though he wasn't aware of it, Jason emptied his bladder, a feeling of disbelieving terror coming over him.

"The energy I had to waste to heal myself," growled the voice.

A hand fell on Jason's shoulder and his bowels let loose, adding to the stench of death in the room. The hand slowly turned Jason around, and the youth gaped in horror at the bloodied form of Mister Feldman standing before him, the man's eyes glaring at him with pupils of red.

"And I think it only fair that I replenish myself with you," snarled Feldman, showing incisors that were impossibly long.

Jason's dreams of infamy dwindled into a black oblivion as Feldman tore into his throat, hungrily drinking down the youth's blood.