Thread: Internet Killers [	Mr Quixotic & Dovakitten]

RE Internet Killers Very Dark Content The man finished his meal, and felt a sense of peace. His hunger satiated, for both food and killing, he tapped his fingers against the keyboard, and re-read the messages from Analise. He knew what she looked like, where she lived, and worked, but he still didn't really know her. What drove her desire to post to the message board, and engage in conversation with him? What he was doing, really, as he contemplated those questions, was passing time in the hope that she'd respond . Possibly she was at her neighbours right now. How would she react, how would she feel? So much more graphic than what was shown on film, it was the smell of death, more than the sight, which got to most people. His eyes closed as he relaxed and replayed the night's events over in his head. The images and sounds returned in full, glorious, detail. Whitney's expression of pure terror her shaking body, quivering lips, and quaking, tremulous voice when he'd pressed her against the kitchen wall, and held the blade to her chin. The scream - not a loud one - of disbelief and shock as he'd slapped the woman, then slammed his fist into her soft gut with enough force to cause her to keel over and expel every last breath of air. The manner in which she'd squirmed from his touch, and her mouth opened and closed like a fish on dry land as he'd brought out his cigarette lighter, and pressed the cold metal to her arm. She'd wanted to beg him to stop, but had been unable to form the words. Then the expression of pure relief as she'd dropped to her knees, wrapped her arms around his legs, and breathlessly thanked him when he put the lighter away, and promised that she would be safe. If she just told him what he needed to know. The stupid bitch had believed him. He'd laughed minutes later when, almost in slow-motion, her two hands moved up to clasp her neck, and her eyes widened in surprise and confusion. Her gaze lifted to his, then flitted down to focus on the flow of blood which had suddenly erupted from her throat. He'd cut her jugular, then dug the point of the knife into her skin and twisted the blade. Her face screwed up in pain, and Whitney emitted a soundless scream. Air whistled and gurgled through the ragged hole he'd cut, and all colour drained from her face. She'd finally realised what he had done. The man had stood motionless, one hand curled in the kneeling woman's hair, and the other holding the knife at his side, until her body went limp, and eyes glazed over. She'd barely still been breathing when he'd stripped her naked, bound her with her own clothes to the kitchen table, and stuffed the panties in her mouth. His exertions had aroused him so he pulled his cock from his pants and ejaculated on her stomach. By the time he'd selected a kitchen knife from the block that sat on the counter, with which to carve the crucifix into her skin, she was dead. At least her weight problems were now over. Every cloud had a silver lining. He was aware most serial killers left a distinct signature, and tended to stay within their own ethnic group. They usually also selected prey of a similar nature whether that be age, physical appearance, the colour of their hair and eyes, or just easy marks such as hookers and runaway's. Although his initial two had been the latter, they'd nothing else in common. He wanted this scene, and Whitney's wounds, to be appear sufficiently different, so that the three crimes wouldn't be immediately connected to each other. If at all. The hooker was African-American, no younger than thirty, her body bruised and battered by his fists, with no cuts to her body. Except for the slit throat. The runaway had been an eighteen-year old Caucasian, and he'd mutilated her with a sharp blade, before he'd finished the job with a tyre iron. He'd then sat back to watch the brain fluid leak from the hole in the skull, and listen to her babble and moan incoherently, until such time as she joined the Grim Reaper. None of her lacerations exhibited any religious symbolism. Whitney was neither hooker nor runaway. She was a middle-income, middle-class, thirty something woman, living in a nice, safe neighbourhood. The man whistled as he finished the crucifix with a flourish, then chopped off her finger. He'd removed an ankle bracelet from the whore, and a navel ring from the other, but this was his first body part. Although he wasn't some sick fuck like Jeffrey Dahmer, who planned to eat it - that was just wrong - it still would have been more fun if she'd been alive and conscious as he performed the amputation. However the man had other priorities, and beggars couldn't be choosers. He tossed the severed digit under the sofa for Analise to discover. After returning to the present in the restaurant, he checked a few websites for breaking stories on the murder, but found none. It had been after midnight when he'd finished with Whitney, and he decided that Analise had either discovered what had happened to her chubby friend - and was terrified out of her wits - or had retired for the night, and not yet read his message. He hoped it was the second. The killing had relieved his urge, but also left him wired and wide awake. The man knew there was no point in returning home, he'd be unable to sleep. Analise's street was dark and silent when he re-entered half an hour later. No lights, no flashing sirens, no sign of life at all. That reassured him that Whitney's body had not yet been found, and that his new pen pal wasn't working with the FBI to set up some kind of trap. He settled in the vehicle with a pair of binoculars taken from the cache of hunting gear kept in the trunk, and waited. He'd parked on the corner of a side street which gave him both an escape route, and an unobstructed view of Whitney's and Analise's residences. His body straightened when a short time after sunrise, he heard a door open and shut. And, there she was. Good Morning Analise . He lifted the binoculars, and zoomed in to follow her movements. She was headed to her neighbours, and he felt a strange sensation flow through his body. Excitement? Fear? Nerves? Adrenaline? The man wasn't sure, but it was unlike anything he'd ever previously experienced, and made him want to slide down the window and scream for her to hurry. Fuck. His hand slammed against the steering wheel as she casually knocked on the door, waited a minute or two, then gave up and set out on her jog. He should have known by her relaxed countenance that she hadn't walked up expecting to enter a murder scene out of some horror movie. She was yet read his message . The man was tempted to follow, but decided against it. She'd be back. He debated his next move, and was still doing so when she returned. His gaze followed her into the house, and he had his fingers on the car-door handle when she came bursting back out. The expression on her face was completely different than it had been earlier, and he felt that sensation again. Even more strongly this time. He knew the layout from the previous night, and as Analise banged on her neighbours door, then made her way around the back, he slipped from his vehicle, and cautiously entered Whitney's yard. He arrived just in time to see Analise through the kitchen window, holding her nose and dry retching. However, she seemed to recover quickly, and was soon taking a good, close, look at her first corpse. Then she disappeared from sight, only to reappear moments later, with a plastic bag which she slipped into her jacket pocket. No prizes for guessing what that contained. Good girl. He considered waiting and greeting her outside, but still wasn't entirely certain of her reaction. The man didn't want to have to end up killing her right there and then, so instead he quietly left the yard, and returned to the car. He'd message her later. By the time he heard the scream of fake? terror come from Whitney's he was in the drivers seat. He passed a few police cruisers, with sirens screaming, and headed in Analise's direction, on the drive back to his apartment. His day was busy with more clients, and the man had an incredible ability to compartmentalise. He pushed the mornings events from his mind - not totally, but enough so that they didn't consume his thoughts - until he arrived home. The first thing he saw as he fired up his computer, and switched on the television, was Analise plastered all over the evening news. It was as if she was stared straight at him. Whoever did this... You're nothing and I'm not afraid of you. . His jaw dropped in shock, and his body began to shake in anger. The fucking bitch had done exactly what he'd told her not to. He was going to kill her. Then, he took a deep breath, and calmed down. He'd remembered the finger. Was she just taunting him again, and putting on an act? If so, the woman had a future in Hollywood. There was only one way to find out. Immediately the item ended, his attention turned to the message board Subject Pig Squeals Message Tsk, tsk, Analise. Do you have a death wish? I just saw you on the evening news. Don't be concerned, I'm really not angry. Your performance was quite entertaining, and it reminded me of how attractive you are. The things I could do to you. We'd need a week. Unlike poor Whitney. As I mentioned, chubby woman aren't my thing. You did see her naked, didn't you? Not a pretty sight. It was a struggle to get it up, let alone ejaculate. We still had fun though, and I even managed to make her scream. It's a wonder you didn't hear it next-door. Oh, and before I forget. How was your day, did the police ask about my ring? I believe it's still missing. So, Analise, would you like to tell me where it is? The pocket of your wind-breaker perhaps? Or were you smart enough to place it in the freezer? That's what they do in the movies, isn't it? I'm happy to come looking if you'd prefer not to answer. Message sent. Let's see how the smart-ass bitch responded to that.