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The night was still warm. 'Twenty-something' enamoradas strolled along the mellow brick lanes of The Old City, as the moon peeked down through gossamerclouds. The young woman left her friends, exited the club-like bar and proceeded west along the quiet thoroughfare. She passed couples whispering together at outdoor tables. Pampered, Center City dogs dragged humans for that one last pee before bedtime. All was still, but far from deserted.
And he saw it all. The almost-monk watched from the shadows. Odd how his clothes mirrored the traditional habit, though altered to fit the current pattern --- black flip-flops, a black hoodie and black jeans. He left the dim recess of a commercial arcade and silently drifted along the pavement. His footfalls practiced and measured, an unseen cipher haunting the midnight streets.
The young woman entered an all night bodega. He stopped, pretending to wait for a bus. She exited, carrying a small, brown, paper bag. He pressed close against the dark side of the rain shelter and disappeared. She scanned the street, as she always did, before dashing down the narrow lane (little more than an alley). Then she made her move and hurried toward her door. Twenty five yards isn't so far. The key was out. And it could even be a weapon. They told her that at self-defense class. She had the pepper spray. She always had the pepper spray. It was her key chain. It was her life line. Besides, the street light was right there. Two dozen steps and she'd be home. But then it happened. The forty six year old wiring leading up the pole to the bulb gave up the ghost and the scene went blank. Lights out. Utter darkness. Nothing.
She froze, waiting for her eyes to adjust. God damn that cheap old bastard. It wasn't 1:00am yet. The step light should have been on. It was always on. That was part of the lease. What the hell was wrong with that disgusting son-of-a-bitch?
But she would never know. For with one, swift, expert motion, the midnight wraith sliced deep into her soft, frail neck, liberating the venous blood within. Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips shaped a final, silent protest and then it was over. She never felt her kneecaps hit the ground.
The monk-not-quite-a-monk walked on, barely touched by all the gore. He muttered prayers, as he drifted through the darkness, thanking God for his success. Misguided souls needed correcting. Yes, they did. They needed it very much.....
And tonight he had not even used the dogs.......
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please click on the SHARE BUTTON. leave a COMMENT. never walk alone.
And he saw it all. The almost-monk watched from the shadows. Odd how his clothes mirrored the traditional habit, though altered to fit the current pattern --- black flip-flops, a black hoodie and black jeans. He left the dim recess of a commercial arcade and silently drifted along the pavement. His footfalls practiced and measured, an unseen cipher haunting the midnight streets.
The young woman entered an all night bodega. He stopped, pretending to wait for a bus. She exited, carrying a small, brown, paper bag. He pressed close against the dark side of the rain shelter and disappeared. She scanned the street, as she always did, before dashing down the narrow lane (little more than an alley). Then she made her move and hurried toward her door. Twenty five yards isn't so far. The key was out. And it could even be a weapon. They told her that at self-defense class. She had the pepper spray. She always had the pepper spray. It was her key chain. It was her life line. Besides, the street light was right there. Two dozen steps and she'd be home. But then it happened. The forty six year old wiring leading up the pole to the bulb gave up the ghost and the scene went blank. Lights out. Utter darkness. Nothing.
She froze, waiting for her eyes to adjust. God damn that cheap old bastard. It wasn't 1:00am yet. The step light should have been on. It was always on. That was part of the lease. What the hell was wrong with that disgusting son-of-a-bitch?
But she would never know. For with one, swift, expert motion, the midnight wraith sliced deep into her soft, frail neck, liberating the venous blood within. Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips shaped a final, silent protest and then it was over. She never felt her kneecaps hit the ground.
The monk-not-quite-a-monk walked on, barely touched by all the gore. He muttered prayers, as he drifted through the darkness, thanking God for his success. Misguided souls needed correcting. Yes, they did. They needed it very much.....
And tonight he had not even used the dogs.......
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
please click on the SHARE BUTTON. leave a COMMENT. never walk alone.
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