Page 8 of Slay All The Way

4

JOHNNY

Santa Wants To Slay - Mbest1x, Mat Best, Postscript

The market is fucking alive—laughter, chatter, the shuffle of feet on packed snow. Lights flicker above, casting a golden glow over the crowd, but none of it matters. None of it fucking touches me.

I’m not here for holiday cheer. I’m here for her.

I walk through the market, my breath turning to fog in the chilly air, the clown mask sitting cold and tight against my skin. I can feel eyes on me, but no one says anything. Not yet. They’re too busy pretending that everything is normal, that a man in a clown mask wandering around a Christmas market is just another quirk of the holiday season.

But the eyes—they always find me eventually. I know because I’ve spent a lifetime seeking them out. It’s human nature, really. We’re all drawn to what unsettles us, and fuck if I don’t get a kick out of being the one to make people squirm.

I drift toward the stall where I saw my little snowflake admiring that delicate silver necklace with the tiny crystal ornament. I remember how her eyes lingered on it, the way herfingers hesitated, like she wanted to reach out and take it but thanks toMark, she didn’t. She deserved it, though. Deserved something just as beautiful as her.

And I’m going to be the one to give it to her.

I spot the stall up ahead, tucked between vendors selling a bunch of those green rings people hang on their doors, and scented candles. The air smells like cinnamon and pine, but there’s a sharpness beneath it, a cold bite that cuts through the warmth.

Personally, I think it fits the moment.

As I approach, the old woman running the stall smiles at me, her tired eyes crinkling at the corners. She’s bundled up in layers, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusts the jewelry laid out on the table. There’s a kindness in her gaze, an innocence. She’s the kind of person people overlook—small, frail, harmless.

She reminds me of Ms. Bishop, my old college professor. Ms. Bishop was soft-spoken, her hands often trembling as she shuffled through her notes, her eyes darting nervously whenever I was near. I used to revel in watching her squirm, noticing how her knuckles turned white as she clutched the edges of her desk when I stood just a little too close. Power takes many forms, and fear is one of them.

She was older than me, but not as old as this lady. Yet somehow, Ms. Bishop always overlooked my antics, and I knew it was because she wanted me. And I wanted her too. No one had ever looked at me the way she did, with a mix of desire and apprehension. So, I took her.

Ironic, isn’t it? How I fucked my first kill while she gasped for her last breath. But hey, now I’m onto bigger and better things. RIP, Ms. Bishop.

“Hello there,” the woman says, her voice gentle, almost grandmotherly. “Here for a little holiday shopping?”

I nod, my gaze locking onto the necklace. There it is, glinting in the dim light. Thin silver chain. Tiny crystal sphere ornament. So fragile, so perfect.

“That one seems to be catching a few eyes tonight” she says, her wrinkled hands carefully lifting the necklace from its display. “It’s a special piece. Simple, but there’s something magical about it, don’t you think?”

Her words are soft, but they’re already lost on me. My mind is elsewhere, imagining Alaska wearing it, the crystal pendant resting perfectly against the swell of her tits. Fucking delicious.

I take the necklace from her hands, feeling its weight—light, delicate, just like her. “How much?” I ask, my voice low and rough.

The woman hesitates for a moment, her eyes flicking to the clown mask. She swallows, and I can see the unease creeping in. It’s subtle, but it’s there. They always sense it, even if they don’t realize it.

“Twenty dollars,” she says, her voice wavering ever so slightly.

I pull out the crumpled bills and hold them out to her. She takes them with trembling fingers, folding them carefully before tucking them into her apron pocket.

“Whoever you’re buying this for,” she says softly, “she’s a lucky girl.”

I smile beneath the mask, though she can’t see it. Lucky? My snowflake doesn’t even know how lucky she is. Not yet.

As she wraps the necklace in a small piece of tissue paper, I glance at the glitter on her table. Silver, shimmering in the dim light. An idea begins to form in my mind, dark and twisted. I reach for a small container of the glitter, adding it to my purchase.

“You have big plans?” she asks, her voice trying to cut through the rising tension I feel in my chest.

“Oh, you could say that,” I reply, eyes gleaming behind the mask.

She smiles, her old eyes soft with a mix of exhaustion and warmth. She hands me the wrapped necklace and glitter, and I linger a moment longer, imagining how easy it would be to snap her neck right there. How simple it would be to watch the light leave those kind eyes forever.

But not tonight. She’s not part of the plan.

---