Ergh! It was frustrating!
There had been a TV special on famous—or was it infamous?—serial killers, her brain helpfully supplied. Right!
Ew. He was disgusting! How was it possible for anything to have beady eyes if it wasn’t a bug? And apparently his mother never taught him good hygiene. Unless . . . oh, right! Dead ladies. The mom was probably the first. Poor thing. May her soul rest in peace and her body in . . . pieces? Uh, nevermind. Still, the greasy hair—not even pulled off well, like those greasers in that one book turned movie—and ugh cakey skin, needed to be washed. Multiple times. And thoroughly.
Aw man! She was supposed to be getting ready for tonight’s fundraiser gala. She was gonna be so pretty, too! Her mom was even nice enough to pay for—
Okay, just because he was some twisted sicko didn’t mean he had to neglect his mouth, either. Rotting teeth and sewer breath: turn off! But he probably wasn’t trying to impress or he wouldn’t have to kidnap at the dead of night and drug his victims. If he was better looking.
Jack! Not Titanic Jack, but mmm! Leo was a delicious man. Why did he have to fall for Rose though? Stupid girl was too fat and killed him. There was enough room on that plank for the both of them!
Right. Jack. Like the fairytale Jacks. The beanstalk boy and the candle jumper. Along with the kid who went tumbling down.
No! Wrong Jacks. All of them.
Think! Think! Think!
TV special, serial killer, Jack, victims were all ladies . . .
Well crap! That meant she was gonna die! There was still so much she wanted to do and she hadn’t even written her will! Granted, she had nothing to her name, but it was the principle of the thing.
Holy cow! That was a knife. A very sharp and big and—A butcher knife. Huh. Wasn’t that a tad cliché? Kind of like that parody movie filled to the brim of old clichés. Man was she thirsty. A nice cold glass of milk filled to the brim would be nice. And can’t forget about milk’s favorite cookie: OREO!!!
“Prepare to join your sisters in hell.”
Sisters? She was an only child, thank you very much. Having siblings wouldn’t be too awful, though, would it? They’d all have red hair like her as well, right? Even though her parents were both of the black haired gene. It seemed as if the carrot tops were becoming extinct. What a tragedy. The world didn’t even know. It didn’t help that this beast killed four of her fellow reds.
Oh. Oh! OH! Five, well four—she wasn’t dead . . . yet—murders. Brutal murders. Mary, Kate, Elizabeth, Liza, and her, Emma.
She couldn’t see a connection, though. Other than the red hair, but that couldn’t be— Aw crap. Was it because she was a ginger?
“You are no gift from God.”
Ah, a religious killer. Right! Gingers. No soul. Blasphemy. Not cool, man. Not cool. She really liked her freckles too. The fact that she couldn’t get a tan and got burnt like a lobster was the only downside. Food would really be good right now. A last meal. Oh! And another thing was that so many colors washed her out, so her wardrobe was limited. Luckily, her dress for the Gala was just so perfect. Too bad she’d never get to wear it out.
He—he drugged . . . her! So fuzzy. Is this what . . . what cotton head . . . no, a head . . . full of cotton . . . feels like . . . ? Muffled sounds. Knife . . . right. Throat . . . two cuts . . . dead . . . then . . . mutilation. Not like . . . kids, no . . . wanted, didn’t. Silence.
It was warm, but so cold. Her head pounded. Did she have a migraine? Did she forget to turn the air off last night? Or was the window open? Right. Neither. So was this heaven? If so, then it sucked. It should not feel like getting hit by a car after a soccer ball hits the head while hungover. Not pleasant. She’d have to talk to the people in charge.
“Some modern-day wannabe killer trying to make a name for himself, but he followed the work to a ‘T’ and left evidence a mile high. Only thing was, these girls weren’t prostitutes. You ain’t in Britain anymore, brother.”
England? Prostitutes? Jack the Ripper! Was it too late to go to the Gala? Gosh that policeman sounded nice.