pants. He felt the leatherette of the glove slipping against his cum as he rubbed his fingers against each other. Her blood and his sperm mixed on the leather. He fondled his now-limp penis, hoping to feel some flicker of excitement. Not even the thrill of having her blood on his cock excited him anymore. He felt nothing. He always hoped, with every victim, that he would feel something: something that would make sense. Something that would stem the flow of anger and hate he felt. But he never did and he would have to keep searching until he felt it. Retracting his hand, he stared at the creaminess of his semen against the black of the glove. He slowly licked his fingers, relishing himself, savouring the sour, acrid tang that was his. He wondered if his diet really did affect its taste. He'd read that it did in some health magazine, but like most magazines they were probably full of shit. He stared down at her body. Blood pooled around her head and his feet. It trickled into the grooves between the tiles, like red streams wending their way across the kitchen floor. He remembered the other two women who had taken her place. He'd killed them the same way and wished that each of them had been his mother; it was all her fault that these women were dead. He remembered the first one he'd killed. It seemed so long ago now, but it had only been a