Shock Factor

One

He smelled like beer and cigarettes, and I did not like him. But he was cute, so that made up for a little of it. He must have been thirty or so. Too bad, he had so much to live for. But he made the mistake of approaching me in the one place I expect everyone to leave me alone. Poor guy. If only he knew what I was going to do to him. 

"So what's your name?"

"Kate."

"Just Kate?"

I gave him an indifferent look, "Yeah, just Kate."

"Well, I'm Peter."

Ah great. Now he has a name. He's no longer a John Doe. That'll make it easier for the homicide unit. But the medical examiner is going to have a hell of a day with the murder weapon. 

"What do you do for a living?"

I smiled a little at that. If I told him the truth he'd back off right away, but that would be just too easy.

"I'm an artist."

If everything I'd ever said had been the truth I'd be many things. Off the top of my head I can thing of a few. Florist, teacher, musician, chef, photographer, editor, EMT, and a bartender. None true of course. So that begs the question: What am I doing sitting in a dingy bar like the one I'm in now? Even a master needs practice.

"That's cool. Do you paint?"

"Sure."

"What do you paint?"

I examined my right thumbnail, "Oh, lots of things. Whatever people want really."

"Cool. I'm a loan officer."

How interesting. 

"So can I buy you a drink?"

I didn't say anything, but he went ahead and took the liberty. I didn't like men that took the liberty. More often than not, it was a matter of assumption rather than kindness. 

And what happens when you assume? It makes an 'ass' of 'u' and 'me.'

I don't know why the strange, obscure platitude pervaded my thoughts.  Maybe I was just trying to control the magnified rage I felt bubbling inside of me. 

Silas sat there staring at me for a long time. I took a drink of whatever he'd bought me knowing that it wasn't such a good idea. Men these days knew how to use everything from roofies to scopolamine. But I'd take my chances. Silas seemed harmless. 

"You're very beautiful."

"Thank you."

I almost felt bad about what was to happen, but I promised myself I wouldn't back out of this. After ten years, I'd gotten pretty good at what I do, what I love, and I wasn't about to let some cute stranger ruin that. 

"So can I get you number?"

I raised an eyebrow, "Why?"

"Because I think we should hang out sometime, maybe over dinner."

"I don't do dinner."

"Well you gotta eat sometime. Lunch? Breakfast?"

I shook my head, "Thanks but no thanks. I don't plan ahead." A lie, but a convincing one I might add/

"I understand," he was quiet for a few seconds, "are you free right now?"

Yeah, so free. And the rest of my night's going to be ever more so after I'm done with him.

"I might be."

"I was thinking, that maybe we could go back to my place?"

I resisted my disgust, and instead smiled a little. I didn't like how forward he was. Maybe in some small way he deserved the future I was about to give him. No, it was wrong to think about that. No one ever deserved to die like this. You can't die with dignity, but you should at least see it coming when the time comes. That's the problem with what I do. No one ever deserves a knife in the back.