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The third, they hid her. They kept her from me. I waited, for weeks, I scanned the newspapers and online media excited to see my handy work forever immortalized. There was nothing! How could I celebrate? How could I relish in the glow, the joy of what I had accomplished if they kept it away from me?

I knew they had found her. The listing was removed four days later. She was different, a fighter yes, but on an entirely different level. She challenged me. I think it was the idea that she actually had a chance. She was a fighter by profession. I didn’t intend to choose her; she simply fell into my lap.

I was hunting, marking my next target. As I sipped the last of my drink, Gin neat, I watched the spicy redhead peel off from the crowd of howling women. They exited the bar, she sat back down. It took a few moments for me to figure her out. She was restless, tired of trying to keep up with her friends.

She reached down to rub her aching feet and nearly toppled over. I was ready to use this as my excuse to approach. She needed, she wanted, a savior. I could be that for her, or at least pretend to be. I stood up, straightened out my jacket and as I moved to approach her, another woman entered.

She walked over to my redhead and scolded her for being so sloppy. I watched her, this short woman, the strength she displayed as she tossed the redhead over her shoulder and hauled her out of the bar. I followed. I do not know why, but I followed them. I had to know more about the short one.

She pitched her friend into a small boxy car, took a five minute drive and deposited her into the arms of an elderly man. Afterwards she drove to an apartment building. I left her there. I went home and thought of the pleasure I would take in ending her life. The strength she would exude, the pleasure I would get as I felt her pulse quickening just a bit before it slowed to a complete stop.

The next few days, I returned to the building, hoping to run into her, hoping to catch her as she left home and find out more about her. It took four days, and then I got lucky. She lumbered from her building with a large duffle bag thrown over her shoulder. She dumped the bag in her trunk and drove off.

I followed her, 20 minute drive. Jackpot! She was a self-defense instructor, a true fighter. I watched from the bench across from her gym as she tossed men like ragdolls. I felt a mixture of appreciation and repugnance for her vigor. She stood over the men triumphant as she instructed her students.

I must admit, I watched her more than I should have, longer than I would normally watch. But I was intoxicated by her. A memory of childhood. A large girl standing over me, pounding her fist into my face, the stirring it caused between my legs, I would provoke this same beating for weeks until the teacher stepped in.

Now, as I watched my target pummel the men who paid for her classes, the same rousing happened. As I sat on my bench, I fought the urge to move my hand, to feel the pulsing, to bring it to a release. Each day I sat there until I could no longer restrain myself. I crossed the street and headed for the parking lot behind her gym where I would find her car that she foolishly left unlocked. Perhaps she had begun to believe too much in her own aptitude for self-defense.

I sat in the back seat, and breathed in the scent of sweat and aggression that lingered from a used towel she left hanging over the passenger seat. It reeked of the sweat she wiped from herself after an intense session. I unzipped my pants and with a glove, similar to the one I plan to use when I ended her life, I brought myself to completion.

After a week of this, I needed to find satisfaction. I returned to the bar where I would find her. She is there, the spicy redhead, once again lingering behind while her friends danced away to the next location. Yes, she would be the next to go. I do not call her the third, why? Because, the third is my fighter, my bull waiting to charge. The redhead, she is simply a tool I use to get my third revved up, my Matador’s cape.

I move quickly before my fighter can retrieve her. As she slouches against the bar, I swoop in and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. It takes little pressuring to get her to accompany me. She is drunk, her feet hurt, and she is barely conscious. At this point she will say yes to anything that will get her off of her feet.

I drive slowly, studying her but finding little that sticks with me besides the fro of fire red hair and a small tattoo high on her neck, just below her left ear. It was a blue sea shell. After a few minutes’ drive, she is sleeping, I hear her snoring, the sound was something a man would make, I am repulsed. I pull into the garage, this one is different, and it only leads into the kitchen of the home. I am a predator, predators adapt.

I offer her coffee to help sober her, she accepts, and with me supporting the majority of her weight, we enter the house. She barely notices anything is wrong. She doesn’t question the lack of furnishing or the fact that there is no coffee machine.

I grow bored of her quickly and decide to finish the job. I will get little pleasure from her; she barely struggles as I wrap my hands around her neck. I almost hear her say something but I block it out, with thoughts of my fighter, of the rage she will feel. The aggression, the passion, the violence, it turns me on and brings me to the point I need to finish. I imagine it is her neck being crushed in my grasp, it is her heart slowing, it is her final breath that skitters across my face.

I finish her, drive to my fighter’s home where her car is parked, unlocked. I climb in, close my eyes, and imagine the thrill once more and bring myself to completion. 

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⏰ Last updated: Oct 24, 2012 ⏰

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