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The Fireringer

He stepped into the dreary room with choking smoke. The air filled his lungs which felt invigorating rather then sickly, like it used to. Something that only could develop with time; he had a lot of it on his hands now.

Dressed in a smooth leather jacket, slick as ice, it covers his everyday clothes. The navy blue collar protrudes from underneath, a slight revelation of what he wishes to escape. Too bad this job doesn’t pay a cent. Well, what his wife would consider money, instead he receives exhilaration.


His fingers rubs together, what used to be a way of dealing with his nerves is more like a habit now. He’s not nervous anymore. His hands have grown coarse and dry, perfect for the job. Maybe it was the smoke, or just another chilling effect he desired for. The feeling of calloused hands on their delicate necks before the knife rips it open. The thought ripples down his spine, he was ready.

The shoes encasing his feet are not heard through the halls. Soft steps, to prolong the shock. Sometimes he’ll purposely unwrap his toes and let his foot slap the ground, sending messages of fear or survival to their brain, while chuckling at their ignorance.

Who was today’s victim? The question was sardonic in his mind. Oh yes, Miss Abigail Reavens, living on floor 6 room 3A in this apartment on 12th street.





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