Miricles and Murder (Kurloz X reader)

Part 6

The killer walks the deserted streets of the city, watching the populace meander beside him. They give him a wide berth, as if they can sense the danger in him and some inner warning tells them to run. A grin marks his face, confidant and cruel. They have a right to be. He's bored.

His follower hasn't left that sanctuary for months, instead choosing to tag after that weak little human girl while ignoring him. His smile turns to a scowl, a low rumbling vibrating darkly from deep within his chest. Those nearest to him can't hear the low utterance, but the scent of their distress permeates his nostrils anyway—the hair on their
pathetic arms and scalps rising fearfully while their bloodpushers pump the miraculous gift of the Messiahs through their bodies with quickening beats. The troll's eyes lock on one of the sheep before him, and his breath quickens in preparation for the hunt.

Maybe it's time to send that deserter a motherfucking message.

That you can't just ignore this highblood and think there will be no repercussions.

He follows behind the male he chooses, walking for a dozen streets before they leave the busy market division behind and enter the private housing area. He's more careful here, keeping to the shadows where he can't easily be seen. The weight of the club mostly hidden in his pocket is reassuring, and he is briefly thankful to the Messiahs that beings don't always see more than they motherfucking want to. He's flecked in the miraculous colors of life from horn to shoe, and they likely think the substances are no more than paint. They are so oblivious.

The man ahead of him walks up to a darkened hive, fumbling with his keys for a minute before he finally unlocks the door and enters. The killer watches his antics from nearby, hidden behind the overgrowth of a neighbor's tree. He waits patiently as different lights flicker on and off throughout the building, watching for the perfect opportunity. He can almost feel the warm blood of the human on his hands, his blasphemous breath bubbling through his mutilated throat. He prefers hunting human males, as they prove more entertaining in their struggles. The pathetic creatures are nearly as strong as some of the weaker female trolls.

Finally the last motherfucking light goes off in an upstairs room—presumably his respiteblock. The murderer smiles coldly, showing signs of life for the first time in an hour as he slowly rises and stretches his limbs. A quick check proves that there is no one else awake around this area at this time of night, and he silently moves to the back of the building. A check of the windows proves fruitful, as the man has left one unlocked. He opens it quietly, easily sliding his lanky, yet muscular build between the panels. A short drop to the carpet, and a light trip upstairs, and he's standing just outside the open doorway of the room. It seems there is no one else in the house, and what a shame that is, but he doesn't mind. He only needs one sacrifice tonight.

The troll moves to a corner inside the doorway, watching the rise and fall of the human's blanket as he breathes evenly. What a shame that such a miraculous movement will have to be put to an end. But he steps forward anyway, already knowing what he plans to do.

He silently retrieves a long-sleeved shirt from the floor, which had been tossed there and forgotten, and knots a cuff around each side of his club. The man groans in his slumber, as if subconsciously aware that he is not alone. But it's already too late, isn't it? The tall troll carefully drops the torso of the shirt over his neck, smoothly enough to keep the cloth from trembling and waking him up. That would just ruin the surprise. Then, with deft and quick movements he flips the human over onto his stomach. The man gasps in sudden awareness, but that is the last breath he'll ever take. The killer skillfully twirls the club like a baton around his fingers, tightening the makeshift rope until his air supply is cut off. The man bucks underneath him, trying to throw the intruder off and gain some air to call for help, but the troll is too strong for his inferior body to overcome. The victim begins twitching more desperately as the torture goes on, the movements becoming random and spasmodic as his thoughts begin to become disjointed from his lack of oxygen. And soon enough the man is still, staring sightlessly out the window into the night.

The troll steps back to view his handiwork, his eyes sharp with excitement. With two fingers he closes those sightless eyes and pulls the grimacing mouth into a peaceful tilt of the lips.

"Enjoy your trip to the dark carnival, YOU MOTHERFUCKING BLASPHEMER!" He laughs deeply, darkly, and releases a loud 'honk' to drift through the night. A few neighbors awaken, blinking sleepily around their bedrooms and wondering what sort of nightmare they had been spared by the blessing of wakefulness before they roll over and drift back off to sleep. One brave child dares to look out her window, spying a silhouette drift across the filmy curtains of his room, but she can't make out any features. It must be old man Kurjack getting up for a drink of water. Maybe he had a nightmare and fell out of bed. The small girl yawns and goes back to sleep, content with her childish conjecture of what the strange noise had been and hoping he doesn't have any more nightmares tonight.

The killer stalks back down the stairs and procures a butcher's knife from the food-preparation block. He tests the edge on his thumb, admiring the neat sharpness of the blade. Yes, this will do nicely. His tongue laps at the drop of indigo, tasting the liquid that flows from his body, and then heads back to his victim. For a while he just stands there, considering his options. Then, reverently, he picks up one of the arms and slashes deeply, hacking the hand from the limb with a single, powerful stroke. Blood does not spurt everywhere. No, he has wasted too much time for that wondrous fountain to spew its miracles and all the blood has begun congealing already. Instead it flows in a trickling stream, forming a graceful pool underneath the corpse.

He carefully positions the fingers together and squeezes the excess fluid from them, drying the stump of the wrist on the white sheets. For a while he gets lost in the hypnotizing contrast of the red against the white, his jaw slack as he watches the scarlet devour the ivory. The hand grows cold in his grasp, rigor mortis threatening to overtake it. After a while he finally looks away from the sight on the bed, and considers the one in his own motherfucking palms. The blood from his thumb has smeared the pale flesh, tinting it unnaturally purple. Amused, he smears the color over the entirety of the palm and then holds the fingers in a supplicating position. The fingers are once again together and slightly cupped upward, the thumb flat against the side of the hand, and overall the appendage looks as if it is inviting the observer to join it.

Motherfucking. Perfect.

He holds it that way until the piece is stiff and unbending, then takes the knife to it and carves his little message. After this has been completed he retrieves his club, sticking both items into the deep pockets of his pants. The male sets about tidying the room up, folding the blankets cozily over the body, closing the open window he crawled through, and wiping his fingerprints from the surfaces he has touched. Humans wouldn't have his fingerprints on record, but surely some decency is expected. He cleans the knife in the sink and returns it to the drawer it came from.

After he finishes the troll makes his way around back to the shed, simply pulling the padlock free and walking inside. Some cans of gas sit in a corner, right where he'd been hoping. There is enough to cover multiple areas of the house sparingly, and he is sure to drench everything that will need the most help to burn—as well as the body itself, which he pulls out to lie atop the covers. He picks up the lighter sitting on the nightstand and flicks it open, fangs gleaming in the gentle glow. This is going to be one motherfucking miraculous fire show.

The greedy flame seems to leap from the device to the body, a carnivore finally finding prey weak enough for it to devour easily. It's the same throughout the house, and by the time he is ready to leave smoke clogs the sky and flames act the part of marionettes in the window of a puppet theater, dancing about and throwing themselves from the stage. Enchanting. The killer calmly pockets his treasures and strolls away down the alley behind the blaze, disappearing before those sirens in the distance even drive close enough to spy him.