I'm So Dirty Babe

Are You Going To Kill Me?

"Man, please don't kill me. I-I got two little girls bro. My wife, I love my wife." The man stuttered. I glanced at my wrist watch. I was running out of time. Dawn was coming, I needed to slice this guys throat. I couldn't use a gun too many times in a row, they cops would realize all these murders are linked. That's the difference between me and your everyday average serial killer. I don't stage my crime scenes, the reason for all the murders are my signature. The cops would never get that smart, not unless I fucked up. I wasn't going to fuck up. I'm much smarter than them.

"What are you raping little girls for then? You do that to your daughters too, huh?" I asked him, slowly cutting into his throat. I was extra careful this time and I was wearing gloves. The sun peaked over the buildings in the distance, I ducked us deeper into the alley. The guy squirmed at the pain and coughed out,

"Fuck no man." He said.

I don't believe him. I'd found him in this very alley with a blonde girl, no older than 12 years old. He had his hand clamped over her mouth, her pants and underwear pushed to her ankles, her shirt ripped. I told the girl that I was going to help her, making my voice low to disguise it. I kept my face away from her, I was also wearing something I'd never wear in public, clothes Frank never saw, and never would see. She wouldn't recognize me, she'd be to shaken.

"How many? How many!?" I raised my voice and began to finish my job.

"10." The man coughed and sputtered out blood as I sliced his neck.

"Sorry dude," I said and left.

---------------------------

I walked into the kitchen and washed my gloves before burying them in ashes in the fireplace, to burn later. I began down the hall to change my clothes when the bathroom door opening stopped me,

"Gerard?" Frank asked, I turned in shock, not thinking. Why was he up?

"What's on your clothes? Where did those clothes come from?" He stepped towards me, visibly apprehensive.

"Frank..." I reached towards him.

"God Gee, that's b-blood. That's fucking blood and it isn't yours!" He yelled. The fire in my eyes flared, he needed to shut up. I lunged forward and covered his mouth with my hands. He looked petrified, his eyes searched for something to look at besides me, like I was crazy, disgusting. He tried to scream so I squeezed his mouth tighter. His throat made a noise resembling a cry for help.

"Shut up Frank! Shut your god damn mouth!" I yelled, shaking him.

Then I felt his tears on my hands, and took them off his face. Bruises were forming on both of his cheeks. He sobbed loudly and dropped to the floor, clutching himself and rocking back and forth. I punched the wall, sending an echoing sound down the hallway that mixed with franks cries. I left him there and went to change and hide the clothes under the floor boards before he would find where they're hidden. Then I plopped down next to him. He was still shaking, but the cries had ceased.

"Frankie," I said rubbing his thigh, he smacked my hand and pulled away. Then he looked up with the most terrified expression I'd ever seen, -and for a serial killer, that's saying something-and said

"Are you going to kill me now?"