Clenching my jaw, I curse under my breath, resigned to go pick her up and drop her on her own fucking porch, but then I see her moving.
By that, I mean she’s dragging herself onto all fours and there isn’t a single mental image of puppies or wrinkled grandmas that take away my instant hard on at her new position. Fucking hell, the things I want to do to that ass are probably illegal in forty nine of the fifty states. Nevada knows better.
Somehow, she pulls herself up, closing her eyes and grimacing. I’m guessing she’s just tasted her own vomit. Yeah, sucks to be her.
Slow and steady, she walks—stumbles—back to her front porch and I wince at the way she nearly falls on her face when reaching the second step. Those fucking heels are weapons of mass destruction and she’s about two seconds away from destroying her ankles.
I swear to fuck, if I have to go out there and save her from herself, I’ll make her pay for it. I’ve already fixed those steps once, I don’t want to have to do it again.
Once she disappears from sight, I move to the other window, the one facing our street, and keep watch for a while.
There were blinding headlights along the curb a few houses down, which is odd in this neighborhood. The average age of our neighbors is in the ball park of seventy and they haven’t seen two in the morning since Reagan was president.
For the next fifteen minutes, I keep guard just in case the guy followed her home, but it’s all quiet as usual. Berkleigh’s lights have been out long enough that if he wanted to make a move, he would have already tried.
With a gut feeling reminiscent of my wartime situations, I decide to stay up and prep for tomorrow’s mission. That way, I can keep watch for a while longer…just in case.
I remind myself that it’s not about her, it’s about keeping the whole neighborhood safe. Clearly, the sleazeballs are out and they’ve got their sights on Berkleigh. Our little corner of Blue Hills Grove doesn’t need to be the focal point of the media because crime hit the quiet parts of town.
I don’t need that kind of spotlight on my life. It’s inconvenient, at best, and…yeah. No need for that shit.
With my attention divided between any odd noises coming from outside and the research I’m doing on the hours of video footage I set up this past month, I get all the details down for my mission.
I’m going alone, as usual when it comes to my work for the DOGs. I’m in sniper mode with orders to kill a dangerous target guilty of kidnapping, torturing, and raping two young girls. He then laid them out in the woods in some ritualistic pose with slashes across two arteries.
The videos are interesting, to say the least. Obviously, any normal person would find them shocking and vomit inducing, but I’m not normal.
I don’t get off on this shit. Not the raping nor the killing of innocent people, but the rituals of serial killers tell a whole fuckload about the men.
I say men because, statistically, less than ten percent of serial killers in the United States are female. Studies show that the leading explanation has something to do with paraphilias—atypical “turn ons”—that are largely attributed to the male population.
People don’t wake up one day and decide they’re going to act out the worst side of human nature. That shit starts from the get go, at birth.
This guy I’m chasing tomorrow shows all the signs of schizophrenia, like the voices in his head were very loud and persuasive. It’s written in the way he positions his victims with the praying hands and halos made from branches.
But that alone doesn’t make a serial killer, that’s ridiculous. It’s the accumulation of unbalanced neuro-chemicals in the brain, and with a high addiction to dopamine combined with some traumatizing event during childhood, that could—still most often not—create what society deems a monster.
I know because I’m one of them. My only saving grace is that the military saw me for who I am and used my special skill set for their benefit for the better part of ten years.
Officially, I’ve been jobless for the last two years. Every record of me shows I’m just a normal guy who joined the Marines anddid his ten years then retired. Sure, I was Force RECON, which explains some of my missions during that time, but mostly, I rid the world of the worst filth imaginable and I’m not even sorry about it.
Being a part of the DOGs isn't all that different from my time in the military, except now there’s no official mission. We are in no way tied to the government. We are an illegal machine that kills off the perps that law enforcement can’t arrest without breaking a few laws themselves.
Yeah, yeah. We need to trust the justice system, sure, but sometimes, scum just needs a good dose of bleach. Call us Mr. ReallyFuckingClean.
Scrub, scrub, motherfucker.
Athumpon the side of the house gets my immediate attention, and when I get up to check out the surroundings, I find the perpetrator. With a mask around his eyes and weapons at the tips of his fingers, he’s trying really fucking hard to open up my trashcan.
I grin, big and wide, at his frustrated grunts when he realizes that he can’t get access. I notice he’s cleaned up my bins, leaving hardly any trace of Berkleigh’s vomit fest. There’s no denying that raccoons are equal opportunity scavengers and will eat any-fucking-thing. It’s practically all they’re good for.
I walk away from the shitshow, confident that he’ll get bored and move on to another bin—probably Berkleigh’s—and that thought makes me grin yet again.
Snapping my computer shut, I decide it’s safe to go to bed, but keep the alarms on my cameras active and ready to cause havoc if anyone gets too close.
Tomorrow there will be one less evil piece of shit in the world and that thought helps me sleep on the nights I’m not plagued by nightmares.
Does that mean I have a conscience? That I do have empathy on some level? Sure. But it doesn’t change the fact that killing brings me the same amount of pleasure as fucking and coming inside a hot, tight pussy.
