Out on a Limb

Getting To Know You

Donald's souvenirs were as unique as the women he took them from, and he prided himself on his ability to pair every item he'd ever collected with the appropriate person. His memory also extended to being able to recall the details of each kill, when and where the special events took place, and in which order each of his forty-seven lovelies had been treated to his ministrations.

Like a parent with multiple children, he knew he wasn't supposed to have favourites, but of course he did. It was only natural. There was Laura, lovely Laura. And sweet Valentina. Camille. Collette. And Genevieve, someone so special to him that the gold band she'd bestowed on him was worn smooth of her engraved initials from years of stroking and was more often in his pocket instead of his safe.

The others were all special, too. It's why they'd been chosen. Seventeen of them held places of honour as signified by a key ring with seventeen keys, each one of them a reminder of seventeen padlocks and seventeen storage trunks filled with seventeen secrets and sunk deep beneath seventeen bodies of murky water across the country. He also had a small collection of earrings freed of lobes, delicate gold chains slide over collar bones and pulled from necks, a few watches with cracked faces stopped and reset to times of death, and even a candy apple red colored fingernail that had once belonged to a delicately manicured hand he had gifted himself when he was just twenty years old.

Barbara was nice, he thought absently, and opened a bottom drawer and withdrew a soft duffel bag filled with his necessities for tonight's activities. The too-expensive bag with its designer initials contained lightweight climbing gear, a microfibre towel and small bottle of liquid chalk, and most importantly, a covering to obscure his identity.

Tonight was different than other nights because he typically didn't worry about hiding his face. There was simply never a concern that one of his acquaintances would survive to identify him. And while he didn't anticipate anyone seeing him in the pitch of night this evening, it was always better to take precautions than to find oneself caught unawares.

Part of Don's allure relied on the investment he made in maintaining his body, yet somehow, he was able to do it without bringing added attention to himself. Sure, he had a personal trainer and fitness coach, and he benefited from an in-house chef and masseuse, but that didn't set him apart from any of his other seven-figure associates. On the contrary, indulging in these luxuries – nay, necessities – simply made him blend in among the elite masses.

Unlike some of those acquaintances though, Don actually did work out six days a week and only put healthy foods into his body – he didn't just pay someone so he could lie and say he did. He was also a strong believer in things like bio-stimulation, hydrotherapy, IV therapy, and ultrasonic body massages. Coupled with his physical activity and commitment to clean living, such treatments kept him in peak physical condition for stalking and hunting. He also believed his routines cleansed him of negative energy and kept him mentally sharp and agile. Afterall, his brain was also a muscle, and it needed to be in as good a shape as the rest of him.

Marrying Constance had opened the door to endless opportunities, and thanks to his wife's (and by extension his own) access to every amenity he could dream of, Don had been able to become the very best version of himself. He possessed well-defined, lithe muscles that were suited to carrying dead weight as the need arose, and his body was lasered free of incriminating hair years ago. He used Constance's tanning machine to maintain his vitamin D levels and the healthy glow his skin carried always seemed to lead women to assume he'd just come back from the Maldives, the Mediterranean, or some other bullshit m-word destination that convinced them to trust a man they had no business trusting simply because he had an enviable tan in the middle of February.

His looks and body created the perfect combination to suit his needs; he was moderately handsome but not dazzling, catalog good-looking but hardly runway model striking. He thought of himself as a 'seven, maybe an eight' because he was blessed with symmetrical features, but they were nowhere near the chiseled perfection of a thirty-something Brad Pitt, or even forty-something George Clooney. He was attractive but forgettable, and shockingly strong but to virtually no one's notice. He wielded these tools like a finely honed knife, dangerous enough when slicing on its own, and twice as deadly when used by someone with a skilled hand.

All of this was irrelevant though, as leveraging his looks for tonight's adventure would be unnecessary. On the other hand, his skill and athleticism would be tested in a way he'd never attempted before, and the prospect of his challenge so excited him that he debated masturbating onto the desktop portrait of his wife just to kick the evening off.

Steady, he cautioned himself, and called upon his practiced breathing techniques to harness his energy and focus his mind on the task ahead.