Irony

I'm sitting on the steps. It's getting late, but I don't notice the chill much, because I'm wearing a coat. First of all, a description of my surroundings: I'm sitting on the steps of a large, official looking building, on Creedy Avenue at 8:00 PM, waiting for an internet buddy. We're scheduled to meet in front of these steps, after which we plan to go to the café across the street.

Her name was Susan Masson, and she was 15 years old. I had met her on a random chat site two weeks ago. We had talked, she had given me her e-mail, and we had then had numerous conversations over MSN since then. I was, apparently, a "great listener" and "really smart". She was a pretty idiotic girl herself, but no smart person is going to meet a 23 year old internet friend who they've only known for two weeks alone at 8:00 PM.

I like 'em young, you see. Illegally young. And I just didn't have the time or the money to put up with all that dating shit. It's more risky, too. 25-year old guy with a teenager? It draws attention. My way is quick, and painless.

Besides, it was purely sexual. I've yet to meet a girl I can actually stand. Tonight's gonna be my…twelfth, I think. Yeah, twelfth. I'd met each of them at different locations, of course, and I'd waited for different time periods before striking again. Once I'd done two in two days, whilst another time I had waited three months between two girls.

I usually burn down the place we're in, to avoid leaving any traces. I also wore disguises, different hair and clothes, that sort of thing, to avoid detection. If the police got smart, and searched the girls' computers, it wouldn't do to have pictures of the same guy on all of them.

Most of them were under 15 years. I haven't had any problems with the law, so far. Just slip a roofie into their drink, pretend they've had too much booze, and cart them off to a hotel or house somewhere. Sometimes I just break into places that I know are abandoned or empty.

Murder is remarkably easy to get away with. I've got a small backpack with me; in it is all I need: a knife, which I use to finish 'em off, once I'm done. A packet of condoms, for obvious reasons. Don't wanna pick anything up. A few roofie pills, which I got off this druggie bloke, a small bottle of petrol and some matches, which I'll use to start the fire. That's it. Well, I've also got my wallet, with some money, but I only use that to pay for the drinks and the hotels.

I sometimes wonder what people would think of me, if they knew. I imagine I'm telling one of co-workers about my hobby, and what their reaction would be. Most, I'm guessing, would pass me off as either insane, or evil. I'm neither.

I don't think evil exists. Well, maybe it does, but only in rare cases. Humans are just selfish. Or insensitive. Take me, for example. I lust after young girls. That makes me a pedophile. To get away with what I do, I have to rape, and I have to kill. That makes me a rapist and a murderer. But I'm driven by lust, not because I enjoy hurting people. I'm incredibly selfish, and insensitive to the needs and wants of other people. Nothing more. My only problem is that I'm not very good at restraining my urges, unlike everyone else. And I'm clever, so the cops can't get me. Given half the chance, any average person would kill to further their own gains. That's not evil, that's just people.

Ten past. I'm getting annoyed. It's getting dark. Where is the bitch? No-one's about. Well, there is one guy…he approaches me.

"Hello." He says, cheerfully. He looks to be in his late thirties.

"Are you James Masterfield?" He asks, smiling broadly. How does he know my name?

"Uh, yeah. Do you know Susan Masson?" I asked, feeling slightly alarmed. Was this her father, come to check me out before leaving his daughter with me?

"I am Susan Masson." He says, still grinning, and lunges at me, pressing a damp rag against my face. I try to scream, but the rag muffles my cry. The chemicals begin to work, and everything goes wobbly. Then I fall over, and hit my head on the concrete.

I awake. I find myself tied to a wall by ropes. They're very tight, and hurt my wrists. I turn my head to the side, and see other figures tied to the wall. I soon realize by the horrific wounds that they are no longer alive.

"Hello, James Masterfield." Says the man, appearing suddenly out of the shadows.

"Or, as your driver's license says, Jim Hadderson?" He's holding my driver's license.

"What the hell is this?" I asked, vainly struggling against the ropes.

"You are Jim Hadderson. By the contents of your bag," He indicates to my bag, and its contents which are spilled out on the floor, "I assume that you intended to drug, rape and then murder young Susan Masson." He says, still grinning.

"Ironically, I have been posing as 15-year old Susan Masson in an effort to lure young men to a place where I can easily overwhelm them and bring them here."

"Who the hell are you?" I ask, panicking, and thrashing wildly against the ropes. They do not budge.

"I do not believe in chance, Mr. Hadderson. Fate has brought you here to be punished for your sins."
"What the fuck do you want from me?" I yell, struggling some more.

"In the next few hours, I plan to torture and subsequently kill you." Still smiling, he leans over to pick up a syringe off a table.

"It's nothing personal, really. It's just a hobby I have."

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