Prey

The Stranger

"It's time," the Stranger said with a reptilian hiss. His chalky, bandaged face leered at me in the rear-view mirror. I could smell the sickly, sweet stench of rotting fruit drifting from his mummified body. "It's time for another one."

"So soon?" I asked with a casual glance. I didn't like looking at him for too long; I always found myself looking away, like a pack dog submitting to the alpha. I usually focused on him with my peripheral vision, which suited me just fine. "We almost got caught last time."

"AND WHOSE FAULT WAS THAT!" He shouted while leaning forward, his ruined face dominated the rear-view mirror. I could feel his breath on my neck, shooting out in quick, icy gusts. I couldn't help but look at him this time. The white bandages that engulfed his entire head were stained with yellowed ichor. There was an opening near the mouth, where the bandages had broken, revealing his worm-holed, cadaverous teeth. The only other opening was over his right eye, which was nothing but a pit of blackness. He wore black, horn-rimmed glasses over the bandages (the right eye piece was shattered), a tailored suit, a leather trench coat, and leather gloves. His breath was sour; it stank of the ground.

"It was my fault," I said softly, watching the rain patter on the windshield. My admission of guilt seemed to calm him. He leaned back once again and crossed his right leg over the left. I felt relief wash over me, baptizing me in its comforting waters. I didn't like it when he got so close to me. "I didn't listen..."

"You never listen," the Stranger chuckled. It was like the sound of gravel mashing together. I shivered at the tone; it was like nails on the chalkboard of my soul. "If you would just listen to me, things would be different. You're always obsessing over the trophy girl. All you need is prey, it doesn't matter if it's a trophy or not! If a lion wasted its days searching for a trophy, it would starve! Seek out the weak, the old, the feeble-minded, the crippled, and the young. They're so easy Cameron. They practically give themselves to you. There are people in this world just standing around, waiting to die—it's up to you to take them!"

"There's no thrill in hunting the weak."

"There's no thrill in getting caught either. There's no thrill in spending the rest of your life in prison. There's no prey in prison—you would be the prey. How many times must I tell you Cameron? The trophy isn't important. You need to feed the beast inside. The beast is hungry. The beast does not discriminate amongst its prey. Any will do—as long as you slice them open and harvest the meat. It's the meat, Cameron. The meat is why we do this. Not the game."

The Stranger made a good point. I had risked my freedom many times in pursuit of the dangerous prey. There were women out there who would have given themselves to me; women who grew up in broken homes to lead broken lives with broken kids in a broken existence. Easy prey. Easy pickings. Low-hanging fruit. Drugged out prostitutes. Depressed strippers. Feeble-minded call girls. Lonely women on the Internet. There was no challenge in baiting this type of prey, in pursuing them, in conquering them, in dressing them—there was only pleasure in hunting the highly sought after, the arm candy, the 10s, the hard-to-get kind of girls—the girls who had everything to live for and no intention of dying.

The Stranger was right though. I didn't need a trophy. I needed to nourish the beast—any prey would do.

"You're right," I replied. The rain started coming down harder creating a waterfall down the windshield which twisted and blurred the colors of the street into a jumbled Picasso painting—Rainy Street, I imagined he'd call it.

"Of course I'm right," the Stranger said. "I'm always right. Keep it simple. Find the most pathetic little twat available and take advantage. "

"What hunting ground do you suggest? 8 Mile? McNichols?"

"No ... no Pros. We're not that desperate ... yet."