A Fox In The Bird House [DISCONTINUED]

This was to be his last kill. He'd promised- no, vowed that this would be the last.

It was a disease, this hunger. A woeful, terrible disease. He didn't like it. Didn't like what it did, what it made him do, how it made him so unlike himself.

He sighed, hands itching for the keys on his laptop, words coming back to him even as he stared at the body he'd just nailed to the wall. With how short and stocky it was, the sight made him think of a beetle, pinned by tiny needles inside a glass case. Like the many cases, in fact, that hung within the portly thing's distasteful office. Even his brother had better taste than that. He took a step back, inspecting his work. Not bad. Messy though, but at least the sheer brutality of it would throw the police off just enough. He didn't need interpol trailing him, though he doubted they'd make the connection, and even if they did, he'd be long gone, a sparrow among a too large flock of others.

At least, that had been the plan, had he not been careless and let the loathsome little bugger get away just in time to make that damned phone call. Not to the police, he was sure, even their lot wouldn't bother with the likes of that horrid monstrosity. The pesky thing had no friends- none that would help him or were nearby -and family had denounced the hapless prune long ago, he'd wager.

He stared down at the cracked cellphone in his hand, at the name that bumbling buffoon had so conveniently labeled over the number. He'd heard the voice of its beholder, and the simpering worm had been telling them everything as he'd walked in and shot him with the crossbow. Through the dying static, the smooth baritone of man echoed annoyedly even as he cut the call and bashed the fool's head in. He'd paid no mind to it as he was arranging his ruse, though now….

He closed the screen and pocketed it. That name, whoever it was knew who he was and he couldn't have that, no no, even as the version of his name the harlot had given them was a fake one, he just couldn't have it. He hated loose ends and no doubt this other would come sniffing around, bringing with him a pack of more distasteful fiends to bother him. He had made a name in killing off their folk after all.

He took in the number again. American, he was certain, or at least that was where it had been broadcasted. International nonetheless, the hassle, though he was headed there anyway. The numbers were…charming, something easily remembered. The name though, he knew he'd heard it somewhere, he had to have, he could feel it on the tip of his tongue.

He stripped as he walked down the halls- not the wig though, he'd strip that off at the hotel -and threw the crossbow in the fireplace as he stuffed the bloody clothes into his bag and changed into new ones.

This was to be his last kill. He couldn't leave the situation as is, no sir, it would come back to bite him. His last kill, his very last since the atrocious mucker upstairs stole this one from him. This man, this other, well he could only hope for two things in their regards.

One, that they'd be long gone, preferably dead to save him the hassle.

Or two, that they'll be a good little worm, and go down without a fight.

As he walked into the cold night air, he doubted for both of those.