Trying to Kill Lamb

Chapter one, the hunt

I sit across from my latest victim. She tosses her blonde ringlets over her shoulder and smiles. She is the CEO of a company that sells boxes. Her father’s company that she pretends to know anything about. Easy prey.
I’m not going to lie, I’m particularly excited to kill this one. She is even more void than most of my victims.
Another seductive smile is sent my way as I reach for the bill. Of course, she tugs it back claiming that she has enough money to toss around. I smile back, lust in my eyes. I grab my coat and hers, leading her out the door, and into her pink convertible. Clearly subtle isn’t her strong suit. We climb inside, and she starts driving like a maniac, not sure if she is trying to impress me or kill me.
You can tell a lot about a person by whose house you go to when you hook up on a first date. Their house they are safer, they know where they are, where they can hide, it’s comfier to them. If they go to the other persons house, it’s braver, they are more vulnerable, nowhere to go. She takes us to her apartment, fancy and overly expensive, of course. Showing as suspected that she is more into comfort than bravery. Smart girl.
She grabs my dress shirt once we’re through the door, dragging me to her bedroom. Clearly, she doesn’t want me for my conversation. She tries to tug my shirt off, hers already on the floor, but I yank her hand away from me.
I’m not a cruel man, I will make this quick, no need for her to suffer. I grab her head and slam it on the headboard at the foot of her bed. I hit her just hard enough to knock her out instantly, but not bleed. From there I stole a bag from her laundry room, returned to the silk wrapped bedroom, and sat on the floor next to her. I slid the garbage bag over her head allowing her to suffocate in peace. Painless, quick, simple. That’s how I like to do things.
I carry her body wrapped in a blanket from her bed. From a distance her 5’9” 150-pound body would look like a pile of junk. Which is good for what I plan to do with it. My local landfill has a terrifying machine that rips apart trash as it is dumped into the giant hole. Thankfully I have a friend who works there and made me a key thinking that I had a date with a girl who had a kink for junkyards. I never got rid of that key. Also, thankfully my junkyard is so underfunded that there is no cameras or security after 1 am. So, I wait until 3 am to arrive at the junkyard, unlock the gates and carry her through to the great big machine landfill.
Her name was Genie Wenthel, she was twenty-four. She wouldn’t have done anything to improve the world, she in fact was a real bitch. She did nothing on social media except destroy other women on social media, wasn’t even nice in real life. Our poor waitress was in tears after having the misfortune of giving her too much ice in her drink. I won’t mourn her, but her family will. I repeat these facts to myself as I drop her lifeless body into the contraption and turn it on, looking away after it tears through the blanket and clothes. I’m not a big fan of gore.

I put a lot of thought and research into my killings. It takes me weeks sometimes months to successfully carry one out. But first I need to identify someone as meeting my criteria to kill. It’s quite simple really. I believe that tall blonde heiresses are the anti-Christ of society. Honestly, I’d rather be killing men, who are bigger problems to society, I’m a feminist so I am aware of how my own species are destroying the world and women’s rights. But to be honest, women are easier to kill. I also am a straight man and would have no idea how to seduce men. Actions speak louder than words though, so I only kill the most cancerous of women. The ones that don’t help anyone but themselves, who tear down other people, who will and do make the world worse.
That’s when I see her. A beautiful, and empty-headed blonde. My next victim, she can’t be older than eighteen maybe nineteen. We’re both standing in line at a secondhand bookstore, not a place where I usually meet my victims. Her hair is dyed blue, but she has about an inch and a half of yellow blonde root. She has a pile of books in her hands that she is struggling to hold without dropping, occasionally swaying to keep one from falling. It was adorable, really, anyone else I would offer to help. But she is also tall, about 5’8” wearing a fancy but casual dress and designer combat boots. She also has a full face of makeup and big dangly earrings.
It’s her outward appearance that initially catches my attention.  It shows someone who takes good care of themselves, someone who doesn’t have to worry about much. Her age also catches my attention, she clearly didn’t afford those boots and earrings herself. These things don’t necessarily mark her for a garbage compactor funeral, just point to my motivation. I dismiss the thought though when I hear her speaking to the cashier once she reaches the front of the line. She has a sweet voice as she apologizes for her abundance of books.
“I know I look crazy; I just blow through books like a sledgehammer to a wall.” Her analogies make me chuckle, she turns to me and smiles.
“All of these are for you?” The cashier asks, laughing along with her. “It would take me a month to read one of these!”
“I like to be able to say to people that the book was better.” Her humor and love for books doesn’t necessarily make her a good enough person to live, though I’m quick to judge.
Then she pulls her wallet out, paying for her books. After that she does something, I definitely didn’t expect. We’re the only three in this part of the bookstore, so she pulls out a little container of cookies. She hands one to the cashier, hold one for herself, and motions me to come closer so she can give one to me.
“No Miss I can’t take this, you keep your cookie,” the cashier worries as she tries to return it.
The girl just smiles and says, “You’ve been at this register all afternoon, you deserve a cookie in my opinion.” The cashier laughs as she takes the first bite. I gladly accept my cookie, finishing it in a flash. She smiles, she enjoys making other people happy. That disqualifies her from my wrath. I do, however, want to keep a close eye on her. So, from a distance I follow her to the front of the store after paying for my book.
“Excuse me,” I say catching her attention before she walks out the door. “I don’t mean to corner you or scare you,” I don’t, “But would it be okay if I gave you my phone number.” I offer her a free bookmark I took off of the counter, with my number on it. “You’re really nice, and we both love books. Don’t feel obliged though.” I stick out my hand, she takes it, my hand enveloping hers.
“I’m Jackson.”
“I’m Lamb.” How on the nose. With that she sends me another sweet smile, and walks through the door, setting off the bell. I wait a few minutes before walking out the door to my car, so she doesn’t think I’m following her.
Once I reach my car, I hear my ringtone go off. I look down to an emoji sent by an unknown number. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s a sheep emoji. Still got it.