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Night enveloped the city and good people fell asleep. Good people did that- staying in their routines, never making dangerous decisions, falling asleep at night. The hours darkened and dimly lit alleys began morphing into fairylands as heroin injections went dancing up the bloodstreams of wasted youth. In one such dark corner under glow in the dark graffiti was crouched one figure dressed in black from head to toe. His chiseled good looks didn't belong to that corner otherwise surrounded with anorexic or overweight sloths.
The Nizari Ismailis were a sect that formed in the late 11th century. They were a well-organized clan of murderers killing for political reasons. The old Nizari Ismailis used to celebrate their murders with Hashish. Their lore spread and they came to be known as Hashashins; later morphed into 'assassins'. Trent had always fancied himself as a descendant to the murderous Hashashins. The glowing Graffiti danced around in front of his sedated eyes- sometimes a dragon incinerating villagers, sometimes a snake shedding its old flesh for a new one. Trent drew great pleasure from this cosmic dance. Today's kill had been like a snake- shedding her masks of honesty and courage as soon as it was time to die. Trent didn't blame her though, the method of his madness always burnt through people's covers and left them in their truest form- the true form every human possesses yet no human accepts.
A few hours ago, just as all the apparently normal were retreating into their homes after a long day of pretense, he had went up to an old woman walking down a road and had offered her a ride. All of his potential victims- old people- had the stupid belief that a young man dressed in Belstaff Milford was the grandson they never were blessed with. Quite unsurprisingly, she had agreed readily.
Turmoiled Trent's buzzard brain was now playing the entire episode on the wall. He saw how he had stripped her and tied her to the ceiling.His murder weapon- a household needle- had shattered all the wrong stereotypes the woman had about murderers. The graffiti wall projected how she had begun enlisting the wrong deeds she had committed in hopes that he'd let a fellow criminal go. This supposedly honorable woman had been an amalgamation of masks- her list ranged from shoplifting to opium and adultery. "Adultery". The word had flashed when he delivered his first piercing. Moving slowly now, he pierced through each important vein in her body- just enough to let her breath. His finisher came with a humongous dose of morphine induced in the now barely functional bloodstream of the woman. He carved out a rose from her chest- yet another trophy to hang on his wall at home.
Trent returned to reality and looked at a faraway corner where the morphine people sat. A body lay motionless- an old woman presumably dead from an overdose. The paramedics were never called, nobody touches a fucking junkie anyway.
The slight detour had been fulfilling, but it was time to get back at his original goal- Schrectzberger.
