Dan Cooke (the_predator) wrote in supernextdoor, @ 2012-07-26 16:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | #group scene, 10.20.11, 10.21.11, bill, dante, jason, jimmy |
Run, Run, as fast as you can
Who: Jason, Bill, Dante and Jimmy
What: Another crime scene
When: 10.20.11 - 10.21.11 - Thursday night into Friday before sunrise
Where: The psychic office of Brenda Lockwood
Warnings: Gore, Blood, Guts. Other disgusting things found at crime scenes
Blood. The stench of blood had become so comforting to him. Third time was a charm, after all. The third time was so much easier than the first. Than the second. And this woman, this ridiculous woman, she was so trusting. So eager to help him, so believing, so wonderfully accepting. She was generous, hospitable. Lovely and entertaining. Charming. Inviting him into her office so easily even though she'd intended to be on her way out that evening. She was so damned eager to spread her grand gift around, get a little money for telling tales of a grandiose nature. So trusting.
So fucking stupid. An ignorant little twit.
So trusting. So unbelievably trusting. She hadn't even suspected a thing. He'd lied. Lied about how he thought his wife was cheating on him. That his baby might not be his. He needed help. Counsel. Advice.
Please. Please help me. Please. Please help me.
It was funny how his cries for help were mirrored by hers as he grabbed her from behind, his gloves still on his hands, hood still raised. The rain was a spectacular and wonderful thing. No one could see his face, not with the hood in the way, even if she did have some sort of camera system in place, though he highly doubted it. His hands around her throat hadn't stopped her cries. He'd heard every gasp, every desperate plea for him to stop, to leave her be. To let her go. Dan smirked wickedly, eyes on hers as the light dimmed from them and just before she slept, just an instant before her air supply would have made her pass out, he snapped her neck.
The sickening crunch, the breaking of bone. It was delicious. Audible. Like the cracking of knuckles amplified. Stereo pops and cracks and god he was just getting started. No one would suspect a thing. Not of little miss professor lady. She was older. Forties. She didn't have a husband - at least not anymore. She had children who were groan up and moved away to the far reaches of the states. No one to miss her for hours. If then.
At least she wasn't fat.
She was easily moved, lifted up, lifeless like a rag doll drooping at the head and at the feet as he carried her further into her office. He wanted to play with her. Wanted to spend time with her. Get to know her. Perhaps learn what the fuck Arabella had seen in this bitch. She'd loved her class. Loved to listen to her talk. Gone on and on and on about this cunt and how spectacular she was. A regular role model.
A fucking super.
The thought of Arabella just angered him more and that line between coherent and otherwise was blurring quickly. She'd spent days shacked up with that older guy. A fucking florist. A fucking pansy ass florist. Yelling and screaming from within the home of the man like she'd never been laid before. The slut. The fucking whore. She had to be faking. There was no way he was urging sounds like that from her. They weren't anything like the sounds she made with him. Those were real. Those were right. Those were the sounds she should be making.
He laid Brenda on the floor in front of her desk, arms out like a cross, legs together. They'd love that. See some sort of religious bullshit in it even though there wasn't any at all. It would throw them off, confuse them. It was exactly what he wanted.
Sifting through the desk drawer, he found a letter opener and carved out the woman's eyes skillfully. Barely even needing to go back and get more goop from the sockets. He was pleased with himself as he dropped them into a bowl. It had held candy which he'd flicked aside, strewn about the room. Little tootsie rolls and jolly ranchers. Sweets for the sweet. With the eyes removed, he removed his zippo lighter from his pocket and lit a piece of paper from her desk on fire, setting it in the bowl with her eyes and letting them burn until they were no more than red slush and ash from the paper.
He thought about cutting off her head, but didn't. Why bother? Too much work. Too taxing. It would just make his head hurt and he didn't feel like popping pills today. Instead he sat with her for a while longer, watching the woman's body, liking being able to visit with his victim even after she was dead. No rush. No sirens. No fucking lions. He needed to plan more, needed to carry out things more like this. No rush. Slow, easy.
For the next several hours, he trashed the place. Yanking things from the walls, breaking everything that he could find to break. Only a circular area around the woman was safe, everything else in the office, save for the desk which he wiped bare of items, was up for grabs. By the time that he was finished, it looked as though a tornado had gone through her office. They'd likely say it was a burglary until they realized nothing was taken.
Dawn was approaching. Quickly. Quickly, fast, soon, going to happen, right there on the brink. Grabbing a magazine and a pair of scissors he'd strewn on the floor, he cut out letters and arranged them on the desk in the shape of a few words sure to rile up that fucking cop.
Run, Run, as fast as you can.
And then he left. He didn't go far, lingering until he saw the cleaning lady approach and go in. The sound of her scream was enough to make him smile as he left the site and disappeared into the early morning darkness.