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Jeffrey Hawk: Finger of Chaos

"Time to finish this. Kill the bastard. Right now." Jeffrey Hawk makes his move, rounds the corner of his trailer. He squints, sees footprints in the soft ground. "Bingo." Crouches low, belly skimming over the dirt. A crowd roars from the circus tent three hundred yards away. He uses the sounds to conceal his movement. Then he sees it: the shadow of his chosen victim. "Focus. Bring on the carnival of carnage." He shifts his weight to his back foot and springs.

"I'll shred y'up good, you sonnuva bitch!" He grabs the raccoon, ripping the creature from his trashcan. They tumble. Garbage spills to the ground. Sharp pain and dull discomfort as he rolls through broken glass, cigarette butts, and half-eaten corndogs. "This is the last time you invade my trash!" The raccoon twists, snaps at air until finding a fat chunk of flesh. "Ah, damnit!" Jeffrey loses his grip, recovers just in time to grab a bushy tail. He's on the defensive; swings the animal around, whirling it like a lasso. He loses his grip. The raccoon soars through the air, reaching incredible heights. The squealing, thrashing silhouette of the woodland creature flies over the backdrop of a full moon. Majestic. It arcs downwards and... lands safely in a tree. "Blast it all to hell!" With a furious hiss, the raccoon scurries into the foliage and disappears. "Scram, ya hairball... touch my garbage again and I'll make a balloon animal outta your intestines." He wipes a smear of blood onto his pants. A blaring of trumpets rings through the night, coming from the circus tent in the distance. The acrobats are taking the stage! He had nearly forgotten his plan. There's hope for this night yet.

Jeffrey hurries into the circus tent, anticipation buzzing through his veins. He stands at the back of the bleachers, avoiding the gawking, idiotic crowd. All eyes are glued to the trapeze artist swinging above. "Ha, they have no idea!" The best comedy is unexpected, and only Jeffrey knows the punchline: he greased the second trapeze an hour ago. Spotlights, a drum roll, the acrobat flips through the air, grabs the next trapeze and whoops — slips right off. Down, down... splat. The sudden and exhilarating crunch of breaking bones. But nothing compares to the splat. The splat makes it all worth it. Like a ripe tomato thrown against a wall. And then, silence. A hundred people in shock. Trauma forming in their brains. Future nightmares being scripted. The moment broken by a single woman's scream, followed by a hundred more. Jeffrey can't hold it any longer. He bellows laughter, nearly suffocates with glee. No one can hear over the turmoil. Half the crowd rushes to the exit, needing air, needing to be sick, needing a stiff drink. "What a show!" Jeffrey chuckles, wipes his tears, and then — "oh my..." His eyes glaze over. So many fingers pass by. Hundreds of them. He's a kid in a candy shop, and the possibilities are measured by the handful.

He's paralysed with indecision. As the crowd streams by, he appraises their hands. Long fingers, stout fingers, pristine, and ugly. "Don't be greedy now, you'll get one. Gotta keep things quiet, the fuzz will be snooping after the trapezist's 'accident.'" He spots a candidate worth his attention: three inches on the left hand of a young woman. Smoother knuckles than the norm. "What does it taste like? Candy apple, maybe. Or... brass? Why brass?" With considerable effort the memory arises: a first-grade teacher with a similar finger who used to wear cheap rings. He was a brat, but she was too hard on him. A burst of endorphins tickles his spine. How would he immortalise this stand-in for his first-grade teacher? A sharpened pencil to her jugular? Stupid. Obvious. Pandering to irony. But also, satisfying in its cartoonish simplicity. "Wait — what about the plump man with plump fingers? Thick sausages ready to burst with the slightest pinprick." A reminder of the mailman who yelled at him for flinging dog crap at a car. "Bastard. I was just a kid having fun. Could fry up that finger and feed it to the local mutt." The fantasy is liberating. A righting of wrongs. And then... he sees it. The one. He shudders, recoils like he's seen a ghost, but is suddenly drawn to it, unable to look away. It's the finger he's always searched for, always longed to make his own. Attached to a hand, to an arm, to a man with a very stupid moustache. He has found it: the Finger of Chaos.