Thread:Rocketlauncher22/@comment-29711200-20160922031821/@comment-26444418-20161201233934

“Kind of late to be wandering outside, huh?”

He whirled around quickly, heart thumping. A young lady stood in front of him, hands on her hips.

“Oh, um...” he stammered. “I was going to visit someone. A someone… yes, yes, someone by the name of John. John - er, John Smith. Yes. That’s right. Yes, um, I think. Ahem.”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Old excuses.” She huffed loudly.

A bang followed by a scream tore the apart the silence like a tiger tearing apart a deer. The two people whirled around. The lights in the house across them swayed and flickered. There was a crash and another scream.

“Isn’t that Rupert’s house?”

“Yes.”

Silence. The screams faded away and the door opened and recoiled off the wall with a terrific bang. The two of them ducked into the shadows of the house. Footsteps approached, then passed, echoing into the distance. A door opened and closed, followed by muffled angry talking.

“So… I take you’re Willard?”

“Yes,” he answered. It was not possible to hide his name, anyways.

“What’s your occupation?”

His eyes flashed. “Not for you to know.”

“Of course,” she answered smoothly. “My mistake, I apologize.”

He could not be fooled by simple words. His hand went to his pocket subconsciously.

“So… are you the Escort, Mary?” Deception was vital.

“Of course. Who else would be as charming as me, hmm?”

Running footsteps suddenly echoed outside of his house. Silence fell over them like a blanket. There was a creak as the door opened. No one moved. Papers were shuffled, and he was glad he has hid his most important and secret belongings under the trapdoor.

Finally, whoever it was left, shut the door with no gentle force and strolled casually back, their face obscured. They ducked behind the house again.

“Well, I suppose my job is done.” She sighed over dramatically. “I shall leave now.”

“Please do.”

She turned to leave.

The knife slipped out like butter. With one, quick movement, he stabbed her in the back with perfect accuracy of one who killed one too many times. Before she could register what happened, before she could scream, he stabbed her, again and again, till her corpse lay bleeding into the ground. Blood splattered. A letter dropped out of her pocket, sealed with a red insignia, a red rose crossed with a run. The Mafia’s mark.

“Sorry,” the Serial Killer said calmly, wiping his knife on her already stained dress.He picked up her body with perfect balance, and carried it down the road. Dawn was coming, and with it will be the cries of the dying. Those who defied him.

“You wouldn’t have died today if you visited someone else.”

End of SK/Consort Story.