Catch Me, If You Can.

Catch Me, If You Can - Chapter 1. A hooker's scream heard around the world.

The night had fallen upon the town by that time. The cool air whistled through the deserted streets, as everyone refused to come out at such an hour. This part of the city wasn't the most appreciated by the locals, not even in the daylight. Let's say they had their reasons. Drug deals, thefts, murders, hookers. That was what happened over here, everybody knew it, and every single children raised in Jersey was taught to never come across this area.

The streets may have been desert, but some places were still living. And living dangerously. The only light illuminating the sidewalk was the red sign of this brand new bar, "The Spot", opened a week before by the largest Newark smuggler. The music was so loud inside it could make anyone's ears bleed, echoing in the surroundings, covering the hysterical customers' laughs. The strippers danced suggestively on the central stage, curving their over-siliconed body under blue neon lights, driving the plotzed men crazy. The drugs and liquors ran through their veins faster than their own blood, making them look so pathetic even a starving child would have mercy on them. But they seemed to enjoy it, as some of them fucked strippers shamelessly almost in front of everyone. The place was packed, like every single night. It looked frightening and disgusting, but still, the main frightening scene didn't took place in those walls.

The whole thing happened outside. A scream sounded in the dark and narrow alley just behind the bar. A loud shriek that would have waking up the whole neighborhood anywhere else. A noise coming from a pretty blond girl, driven out of the bar by a good-looking rick kid, now trapped under his control, her back on the wall, and blood spread all over her silver dress. The girl's scream died in her throat as she looked her attacker straight in his evil eyes, the darkness drawing shadows over his scary features. He covered her mouth with his leather gloved hand before thrusting the sharpened knife once again, deep inside her stomach, her eyes shutting and tears falling down her face, messing up her shiny make-up. After a few more stabs, he was letting go off her, allowing her wounded body to fall at his feet, blood spreading all over the floor. He put his pants right up, closing his fly and crouched above his still alive victim, whispering as he talked to her.

"What a waste" he said, "You were kind of pretty" He stroke her cheek with his bloody glove before turning his attention back to his beloved weapon. His laugh was low, almost inaudible, tracing the blade with his fingers. "But you're a bad lay."

"W- Wh- Why?" whispered the girl, chocking on her own breath as she felt life slowly leaving her. He brought his face close to hers, drawning his black gaze into her blue and wet eyeballs.

"Isn't that obvious?" he answered with a devilish smirk, enjoying every second of this. "I'm just cleaning the world from all of you, useless pieces of shit." He grabbed a handfull of her blond locks and brought her lips to his, kissing her violently, sticking his tongue in her mouth before slamming her head back to the floor.

The man brought the cold blade to her forhead, running it slowly on her sweaty skin. She wanted to scream again, but as breathing became even harder, she knew she didn't have enough strenght left. So she prayed silently for this to end. Quick. Unfortunately he wasn't done with her yet.

"You're a whore honey, you're just getting what you deserve."

After his words, he started to lacerate his forhead, planting the blade deep to the skull, carving bloody letters with the concentration of an artist giving the final touch to his masterpiece.  He sighed at the girl's cries, closing his eyes just to appreciate every strangled noise she did, her face now covered of the warm and red liquid. One last sound, one last breath, and the girl died under his touch, eyes wide open and terror wrote on her face. 

He got up and arranged his jacket, removing his gloves and throwing them in his pockets. He picked up a cigarette from the back of his jeans and lighted it, sucking the poisonned stick through his lips, letting the bitter smoke invade his lungs. He smiled at himself, blowing a grey cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, watching the hooker's corpse lying on the floor, the word W-H-O-R-E now inscribed on her head forever. This was his signature. A way to show all of this was his work, without shouting his name from the rooftops. He was proud of himself tonight, proud of what he did. Of all the things he loved -alcohol, sex, cigarettes, sex again- nothing compared to the feeling he got when he killed. Never once he ever thought about the probability to get caught. They couldn't catch him. He knew exactly what he was doing. It has been over three months now, and he was still safe. And anyway, who could suspect him? Young, nice, funny, quite attractive and vice-president of a multinational computer company. He was the perfect kind of guy everybody loves.

He looked at his work of the night one more time, before walking away and disappearing in the darkness. No, no one would ever see the massive murderer in him. He was Frank Iero, after all.