The Killer

He watches them, sipping on his stale beer.    
Watches the four of them while they talk and laugh and enjoy themselves at his expense, he watches them intently. One of them jumps up making her way across the room.    
Leaving his beer he follows with expectant need forming in his jeans.    
He follows her into the darkness, into the night, within the shadows he follows.    
He watches her stop to look around; he stops too, knowing they are alone.  
 It’s now or never, he decides rushing her. He strikes her swiftly with a mighty blow once, she falls to the ground.  Twice and her insides pop out, the third time and she’s gone.  
 Her thick rich life spills out onto the hot ground as he stands watching giddily at the sight of her.    
Suddenly he hears a noise and turns to see her friends  
standing there watching, shocked.    
    
He strikes quickly the first one before she could scream, the second one as she coward for his blow and the third he watches her runaway.  
He followed, finding her behind a box, scared.  
Her cries and pleas meant nothing; he finished her with his steel toe shoes.    
 Four in one night, he felt like Ted Bundy or the Green River Killer, Gary Ridgway.  
 He giggled to himself as he walked back inside.  
The next morning the news had no report of his escapade,    
so he went to the kitchen to look at the carcass littering his floor.  
 “Fucking Flies!”