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Finding A Killer


I’m Mark Houston, my wife is Gloria Houston, we live at 1901 Kennedy Drive. It’s 7am, a Tuesday, and I’m leaving for work. I kiss my beautiful pregnant Gloria but don’t dare tell her where I’m going because she won’t like it.

After months of hard work and dead ends I finally got a lead on the missing women on the east side. The police haven’t had any luck finding this guy; he’s a real sicko who loves knives and sex, at the same time.

Now I’m no cop, and I’m not a hero by any means, but I do like to think I’m doing the Lord’s work.

I pull up to an old dilapidated brick apartment building surrounded by similar squalor. I pause in my Toyota Camry thinking about how this will make everything right and how good it’ll feel when it’s finally over. I breathe out, I grab my things and I rush in.

Behind his door I can hear rhythmic thumping. I get prepared and then knock. The sounds stop and after a few moments I can see the eyehole dim from someone on the otherside. The door opens and a large gluttonous man stands there with only a towel around his waist. Streaks of water with a reddish hue adorn his giant hairless gut.

I finally found the creep and now it’s time. I raise my hand and give him a piece of paper. I don’t say anything, I just turn around and walk out of the building.

The fat slob flips over the paper and reads, “Gloria Houston, beautiful, pregnant, at 1901 Kennedy Drive. She’ll be home alone all day.”

—

Credits to: JohnRoyale

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