𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐘 (+𝟏𝟖)

CH. 4: NEW OBSESSION

H U N T E R

TWO HOURS AGO

Killing is always the least satisfying part of the hunt.

That's not to say don't revel in the demise of my victims- I certainly do. While I found pleasure in seeing the lights burn out in their eyes as they experience a glimpse of Hell before I deported them there myself, it was simply just a means to an end.

The best part about picking prey is the little things. Studying them in their natural habitat, noting every facet of their pathetic lives; their morning rituals, work schedule, hobbies, eating patterns, clandestine affairs- everything before deciding to end it when I had enough information, or when boredom set in.

The chase was always more euphoric. The symphony of anticipation, the crescendo of power and control that came from composing the fate of these lowlife maggot pieces of shit that called themselves men.

Tonight's piece of shit was Wesley Callahan, PhD, a psychology professor at LIU, New York Times best-selling author and professional wife beater.

I observed him for a week and his routine had become predictable. On weekdays, he left for work promptly at 7 AM, making an occasional detour at Starbucks along the route. He worked from 8:30 AM to 5 PM before returning home to cycle through his routine of eating, hitting his wife and sleeping.

The only deviation from his schedule is when he was cheating on his wife. I found it amusing how hits his wife after accusing her of cheating, meanwhile he's whored around with at least eight of his students.

Tonight, I find the wrinkly motherfucker at some upscale Japanese steakhouse, casually sitting at a booth. I take a drag of my cigarette, letting the smoke kiss the cool autumn night air, observing him from the sidewalk across the street. He was engrossed in his phone, oblivious to what I had planned for him.

I had meticulously planned every detail, from the moment he left work to his screams and final breath.

Only I didn't anticipate fate derailing both my plans and train of thought with its own fucking scheme, embodied in the form of a brunette vixen donning a sleek black dress that accentuated her curves, with legs for days and a rack that rivaled any supermodel.

My brows furrow as she enters my view, the cigarette falling from my fingers to its death, long forgotten, as the ethereal sight of her enraptures me completely.

Fuck...

Her mocha locks bounce with every step, exuding a harmony of innocence and allure. My mood darkens as she slides into the booth across from the breathing corpse I had marked for death; a death that I just now decided will be slower than initially planned.

Of course this degenerated waste of human sperm was on a date with the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. The old bastard had a particular taste for younger girls between the ages 18 to 22.

My jaw twitches as his gaze falls on her tits. Images of his wrinkly hands on her body clutter my brain and for some reason it boils my blood with white hot fury and another emotion I had yet to decipher.

The mental images were immediately deleted and replaced with gorey images of me gouging out his eyes with a spoon out for just looking at her.

I was already planning on killing him but this unfamiliar rage I felt was telling me to act on my impulses, storm into the restaurant, and break his fingers one by one before carving into him like a pig.