Darkly Demonic Dexter

Darkly Demonic Dexter

By Mortimer Jackson

I love Halloween. I love everything about it. The nightlife, the sin, the celebration of all things dark, wicked, and vile. I love the costumes. I love walking down Miami at midnight, and seeing the cavalcade of freaks at the turn of every block, marching along with their fangs, their horns, their monster masks, and their devil’s tails. They make me feel at home with the world. They make me feel like I’m not such an outsider after all.

And maybe in the end I’m not. Lord knows I’ve met my share of travelers with secrets as depraved as mine. Maybe there’s more of us out there than we like to think. Though it’s a shame we all have to hide behind our masks of sanity. Some of us do it so well it’s hard for one passenger to see another.

Fortunately, tonight I know just where to look.

Club 87; a seedy little place rife with trance music, dim lights, and all the little creatures they attract. The air inside is thick with sweat and hormones; mother nature’s love drug. Making sure that in this big empty world of ours, at least we’re not alone. And no one here is. I can guarantee you that. But with all the touching, with all the crowds bunched so close on the dance floor, I’m finding it hard to find my own playmate for the evening.

Fortunately, it doesn’t take me long to search. There she is. Sitting by the bar, alone. My passenger sees her. A woman in her early twenties. Glasses, blonde hair, and long legs visible through the stockings of her angel outfit. Her lips are especially red tonight. Like cherries, or fresh blood. She is quite the thing of beauty if I may say so myself. My skin tinges with anticipation. I can’t wait. She will be mine. Tonight. She will be mine.

I take the empty seat beside her. She notices, and turns to me. Smiles. I smile back.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she says to me.

“I like your costume.”

Pleasantries aside, it’s true. In between her white dress, the wings on her back, the halo around her head, those glasses, and not to mention her smile, there’s no denying that she wears the disguise of innocence quite well.

“Thanks.”

She sizes me up, looking up and down my costume. The one I’ve grown so accustomed to hiding in. A regular green collar shirt with brown pants and dress shoes.

“I like your costume too,” she says, still with a smile. “Who are you supposed to be?”

My girl has a sense of humor.

I tell her, “Myself.”

She laughs. I take my hands out of my pocket, and signal the bartender, who’s dressed as a Catholic priest. Black colors, white collar and all. The bartender’s a busy man. So many customers calling him, bothering him with their undying desire for alcohol. The bartender has little time to catch his breath. I raise my hand for his attention, with a hand that catches my playmate’s eye. She sees the ring on my finger. Her eyes widen, but she brushes it off, and pretends she doesn’t notice.

The bartender sees my hand as well, and he gives me the gesture that says ‘be with you in just a sec,’ before going on to serve the other patrons. I return to my friend.

“So why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

She starts by telling me, “I’m Caroline,” which I happen to know is the truth.

“Phil,” I say, and we shake hands.

“So, Caroline, what do you do?”

She doesn’t tell me that she works as a secretary at G.R Nobleman. She doesn’t tell me that she finished her master’s degree in business administration last year, and that she’s a student of law. She doesn’t tell me how smart she is for someone her age, or how incredibly well she does on tests. And she doesn’t tell me that she’s a cold blooded killer. All she tells me is, “I work in business. You?”