Celebrity Serial Killer

Standing at the window, curtains drawn against the crucifying noon light, he zoned out, waiting, waiting for Yellowtail’s turn. He didn’t care what those shithead FBI agents were droning on about, that blond one in particular, the one who busted Gracie the other night. Asshole. The camera focused in on some big screen showing Melody, Amy and Shayna, their smiling faces beaming out at the trapped audience. The blond agent gave some old spiel about them being radiant women with bright futures, but he knew, as well as that Federal jackass that no one was there to find out about dead girls. They were gone. They all wanted a piece of him, the big fucking bad.

Someone asked, “Has the Governor put up a reward?” but the super Special Agent shot that one down saying that rewards were only put up when they were clutching at straws and had nothing to go on. They had plenty to go on, they were close to making an arrest, it was only a matter of time, but the public needed to be aware because The Angel Maker was out there, he was a ruthless mission killer who would not stop killing and he had no moral compass whatsoever. None.

A couple more boring questions and then the spotlight swung. She was up. Yellowtail. He could smell the arrogance through the TV set, the way she moved her head and that goddamn ponytail, he remembered it flicking against his face as she strode past him that day in Shiprock, her dark glittering eyes, hard. He sneered. So she was hard, well that was okay, hard was easier to shatter. When she spoke, though, all eyes were on her. He had waited so long to hear her voice, to be that close to her; he wanted to feel her breath on his face and he knew more than anyone that she was speaking directly to him. He’d made it, he was finally on her radar. And everyone else’s.

Image by Brett Stoutbrent stout ramirez

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