His odor was that of a dumpster in mid-July. His movements were purposeful and silent, except for the clacking of the human teeth that made up his necklace and bracelet. Scratches in a macabre floral design decorated his wrist and chest where the chipped molars and incisors had left their marks.
Still, no one seemed to notice him standing on the corner. Many other young men that actually attended the high school also wore dirty Vans on their feet, tattered and stained blue jeans, with the raggedy tail of their sleeveless camo shirts hanging out.
It was no accident that he went unnoticed, even with the toothy accessories. Jack had been studying the goings on at the high school for the last six weeks, since he had begun to grow bored with his latest victim. It was her cracked molar that had opened up an old scar on his chest, resulting in a tiny rivulet of blood.
Jack ran his index finger over the crimson thread and tasted it. He enjoyed the flavor of it as much as the artsy, swirling stain left behind.
That's why I'm the leader, he told himself.
Everyone else in his "house" would "milk" their victims, bringing their vile concoction on their night to provide refreshments, then leave them in a deserted area to wake up and try to decide if it really happened. But not Jack.
Jack, well, he was an updated version of the old school method- kill your prey by draining them. His underlings, fellow house members, had developed a kinder, gentler protocol, one that involved a narcotic specifically designed to reduce vivid memories into "did that really happen," vague wisps of mental smoke that could be dismissed as bad pepperoni. The drug was undetectable by even the latest forensics.
But Jack grew tired of that nonsense. While the others found fulfillment in pursuits outside the house, he found he needed more interaction with his mice. This initial desire grew into lust, then into a methodology of choice, surveillance, acquisition, harvest and disposal.
Jack enjoyed every step.
Now, it was time to choose.
A car plastered with blotches of bondo and primer passed by, thumping and spewing both music and smoke in an effort to offend as many as possible. When the smoke cleared his heartbeat quickened.
She shuffled along, trying not to be noticed by any of her classmates. With her head down and her arms trying to force her books into her chest, you would think she was fighting for progress against a full-on hurricane. All she wanted was to slip into the library unnoticed.
Jack noticed.
He sat a few tables down, confident in his confidence, not even a book before him; watching her. The campus security guard came over and told him to leave, that he could not be there unless he was a student. Jack allowed himself to be escorted outside.
It might have ended there, if the man had left his hands off Jack. But, since his endless blathering had not won him a hot date with the attractive young librarian, Gus needed to flex his manliness. This would get him some action, for sure.
He drew his baton and pushed Jack along the sidewalk.
" I KNOW I have dealt with you before," he said, loud enough to draw yet another audience, a largely unimpressed group of student council geeks. He wanted them to be impressed.
This did not fit in his plan, so when the baton struck his shoulder, Jack seized it, holding it in place against his clavicle. To the crowd both inside and out, it appeared as if the baton merely fell from the hand of its owner.
To the general public, the massive coronary that killed Gus later that day was the result of a poor diet and exercise regimen. For Jack, it was an opportunity for an up and coming slayer, a protege, to practice his craft, and was good riddance of bad, annoying rubbish.
With the security guard in a near catatonic state, and his prize making her way from all the excitement, Jack resumed the hunt.
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