Routine

It was routine.

It was Tuesday. Sunset rolled around. Get up, get dressed, and head down to the nearest night club. Dance with half a dozen girls, find the best one. Get her slightly tipsy, offer to walk her home. She would accept, giggle, and say something suggestive. A grin and nod, and out they would go. Half way back, take a wrong turn; she’d be too busy getting excited to notice. Lead her into the middle of nowhere. She’d finally notice after fifteen minutes or so, so assuage her fears. Then, when she really starts to panic, turn on her. In a flurry of claws and fangs, she would be no more than a missing persons report in the newspaper the following week.

But this time it was different.

Everything was going according to plan, already to the stage of walking her home. But, when the wrong turn came, she noticed right away. A frown, and back on track. Perhaps she had not drunk as much as previously thought, but her home was on the outskirts of town. Things could manage without getting her lost first.

There’s no panic or concern, just a sly look. It’s disconcerting, like she’s evaluating every move, knows just what to expect. A shift in weight, a question about the next turn, and she laughs and points it out. A small, uncertain nod now and the walk continues as if nothing had happened.

Five minutes from her assumed destination. There’s not much time left, and so precious few alleys left to do it in. But there’s one now, with no houses to either side. It’s safe, and passing by now.

A quick attempt to shove her into the alley, but she just laughs and pulls the offending arm. Stumbling, reaching for purchase, but a swift kick rips the world out from under. Falling, but never hitting the ground. Her hand shoots out, and there is a stake in it, and the stake pierces upwards through the ribs. The echoes of what must be pain shoot through every dead nerve, and a scream rips through the night.

She laughs, and kicks away the body. The “serial killer” known as the Tuesday Assassin has been vanquished, though she doubts anyone will realize it. In the morning, the body will be nothing more than dust in the wind. Eventually, the so-called “assassin” and killings will fade from memory, as they should, and life will go on.

She picks up her wooden stake, Hawthorne for best results, and makes her way back home. Another day, another threat to humanity triumphed.

It was, after all, routine.





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