Page 7 of Stalking Christmas

She finishes handing off the drinks, and winds her way back through the various tables to the bar area, her sexy, full ass swaying in the tiny shorts, and her legs looking impossibly long with those transparent, sky-high stripper heels. My cock swells in my pants, and my mouth waters with the need to take a bite out of the ripe, round globes of her asscheeks. She’s delectable, a wet fucking dream that my mind has conjured up. The only thing possibly missing from her perfection, is her crimson blood pouring from her various orifices, and the sound of her screams for my mercy.

My eyes catch a few men staring at her, one of them going as far as to palm his cock as he sits there, and his eyes drill holes into my girl’s ass. I grind my teeth and fist my hands, to prevent myself from marching over there and slamming his head into the sticky table in front of him. He gets up after a few moments of zeroing in on Chrissy’s movements, and heads towards the men’s washrooms, and I follow, keeping to the shadows. I enter the empty room and don’t find him at the urinals. One of the stalls is closed, and I can hear soft panting and the sound of a hand whacking off.

Motherfucker is in there, jerking off to images of my prize right now.That just won’t do. No one gets to picture her naked but me.I quickly lock the door to the washroom beforebacking up and shoving my foot against the stall door, forcing it to slam open and reveal the shocked fucker, sitting on the toilet with his pants around his ankles, and his hard cock enclosed in his fist.

He doesn’t get a word out before my fist is flying at his face, and making contact with his nose. His head slams back against the dirty tiled wall with a cry and a thud. He tries to rise off of the toilet, but I slam my heavy booted foot down on his lower abdomen, getting his deflating cock in the process, and a high-pitched screech leaves his mouth. My hand thrusts out, and I grab a fistful of his greasy hair, holding it taut before punching him again and again in the face, until my knuckles are split and his blood coats most of my hand, and the walls of the stall. I have to force myself to take deep breaths and try to calm myself down, before I kill this asshole here without any way of getting him out of the club and disposing of his body.Risks, I’m exposing myself to too many risks. What the fuck is the matter with me?

I reach into his pants and grab his wallet, opening it, pulling out his driver’s license, and waving it in front of his disoriented eyes. “Joey Bastion, if you report what happened here to anyone, I’ll be paying you a visit at your home, and I’ll just bet you have a wife that would like my attention. Do we understand each other,Joey?“ His terrified glance meets mine as he nods his head over and over like a broken doll. “Oh, and Joey, don’t look at any of the waitstaff, or the next time, I might not be so kind, and instead slit your throat.”

I wash my hands in the sink, refusing to look at my reflection in the mirror. I don’t want to analyze why I just completely lost my shit, over a guy daydreaming about a woman I plan to murder. I slip back into the strip club and notice the asshole that touched Chrissy earlier, staggering drunkenly for the front door. The need to maim and destroy fills me, the beating I gave Joey not pacifying me in the slightest. One more couldn’t hurt; I’ll just teach him a lesson about keeping his hands to himself by cutting them off.

Chapter 9

Santa

Okay, the first step is to admit you have a problem, and I can do that. I can admit I have a fucking problem, I think, as I wipe off my bloody hands, after disposing of the body of the man who touched Chrissy at the strip club. My problem is I seem to have lost my damn mind. While I’ve never suffered from something as silly as remorse before, and thoroughly enjoyed cutting off his hands before slitting his throat, I know I shouldn’t have. I’m allowing my irrational part to take over more and more, and I blameher. She’s the cause of my reckless actions in the last couple of days. I’m usually so careful and methodicalabout my stalking and my kills. I never just murder anyone randomly, and without a prior plan in place to dispose of them.

I watch as the lifeless body of‘Jerry’,who swore up and down that he was really sorry he touched my Chrissy, disappears under all the dirt I shoveled on top of him, in the wooded area I dragged him to, after pretending to be his scheduled pickup driver. Humans really have no self-preservation, taking others at their word, without even checking. A quick glance at his phone would have prevented him from getting in my car and ending up where he did, but the loser couldn’t even be bothered. My intentions were just to cut off his hands, and teach him a lesson about not touching what doesn’t belong to him, but then my mind kept supplying the image of him laughing up at Chrissy’s furious face. Before I knew it, I had not only cut off his hands, but slit his throat from ear to ear and then ripped open his abdomen, allowing all of his guts to spill out. He died calling for my mercy, something I have always lacked.

Now, I’m standing in the woods, covered in sweat, blood, and dirt, thoroughly annoyed with myself, and realizing that the chances of me kidnapping Chrissy tonight are slim.Fuck, I’m a mess.I reach down and grab the hands I cut off of Jerry, that are wrapped in his shirt, and trudge through the thick crop of Evergreen trees, back toward where I left my vehicle. I’m going to have to do a deep clean inside of it to ensure that none of that asshole’s DNA is left behind. I look down at the bloody bundle in my hands.Why the fuck did I even keep these?I don’t usually do mementos of my kills, I’m not deranged.

Maybe I should gift them to Chrissy as a peace offering between us? I, of course, couldn’t let her know they were from me, but maybe they would bring her some satisfaction, that there was one less grabby asshole wandering around that she would have to deal with. Would she look at them with admiration for my hard work, or with disgust? The logical partof me is yelling inside of my thick skull that no one gifts women bloody hands, but the psychotic part of me is telling that one to shut the fuck up.

Ugh, I’ll figure out what to do with them later. Firstly I need to head home and clean all this shit off me, and make sure I have my alibi of where I was nicely wrapped up tight. My dad is going to have to play along, unless he wants another one of his sons to end up on the news. Tonight has been a bit too messy, and I’m less than satisfied with the outcome. I place the bundled hands down on the passenger floorboard with an aggravated sigh, and look at the time on the dashboard as I start up my Mustang. Chrissy’s long gone from the club now, and probably back behind the walls of her home where the beast is protecting her. There’s no way for me to grab her from there tonight. Jesus, between the morgue, Joey from the toilet stall, and now this Jerry cunt, I’ve wasted my whole night, and I’m no closer to getting to her.

I need a plan, and in order to do that, I need more information on her. I know where she works and her financial situation, but I need eyes on her at all times. The diner she works at should be closed for the next few hours. If I can get home, get cleaned up, and over there, I can install some cameras, so I can watch her while she’s there. Then maybe, while she and her roommate are out, I can dose the hellhound and slip into her house, and install cameras there, too. Yeah, that will work; that’s more than reasonable, and will be productive.

I head home with a plan firmly in place on what to do about my pretty prize, even though the shouting in my brain is getting louder that I’m losing myself to this unstable need for this woman. It’s a good thing I’m able to ignore anything that doesn’t suit my needs.

Chapter 10

Santa

Done.The last microscopic camera is in place inside the diner. It was far too easy to gain access to the space, after I disabled their pathetic alarm. I wander into the back room where the employee lockers are kept, and my hand trails over the one marked ‘Chrissy’. I pry it open and pull out her dark blue apron, and the notepad she uses to write orders down, allowing my fingers to skim over the indentations of her loopy writing on the blank page. Like the creeper I’m becoming, I lift the apron to my nose to see if I can get a hint of her smell, but it instantly disappoints me. I throw it back into the locker, pull out an extrashirt she keeps inside, lift it to my nose, and am rewarded with the faint hint of laundry detergent, and a distinct floral scent. I slip the shirt into my backpack for later, so I can wrap it around my cock and dream of the breasts it belongs on.

I place everything else gently inside the locker, ensuring nothing looks out of place, before leaving the diner the same way I got inside. The sun is starting to crest over the fading night sky, and with it comes the crisp, clean smell of another day. My tired body protests that we’re not heading home and to my opulent bed, but instead creeping back towards the direction of Chrissy’s house. I left the Mustang back at my home, ready for a deep clean, and instead took a nondescript beige sedan, that I occasionally use when I’m stalking my prey, so I don’t garner unwanted attention. It fits in better with her neighborhood, and won’t be immediately questioned if it’s found closer to her house.

I wonder if she’s an early riser like I am? Does she like to have hot coffee while staring out the window at the sky of a new day? My brain is filled with jumbled thoughts and curiosities about her, and it’s starting to stress me out. Why do I care if she likes coffee in the morning? Soon enough, she’ll have her throat slit and her blood coating my hands and cock, and what she likes to drink and do won’t matter. I drag my hands down my tired face, and attempt to shake off this unknown, and unwelcome, feeling that is inhabiting me.She doesn’t matter. She’s fucking prey. She’s a means to satisfy an itch, that’s all.

I slide into my vehicle down the street from Chrissy’s house, where I can monitor her movements. The radio plays Christmas music in the background, as I check through my phone for any mention of my brother’s hit-and-run. I pull up an article, with my father and brother featured in the accompanying photograph, and roll my eyes at the title.

“Governor Brantford and his youngest son, Micah, giving back to the community.”

If I thought the title was a cheesy joke, the article itself is even worse. Someone actually gets paid to write this crap?

The Governor, and his youngest son, took part in a Christmas toy drive for underprivileged youth at the Burnside Center. The event raised over four hundred toys for local youth, and featured a real-life Santa they could take pictures with, and tell their Christmas wish lists to, while sitting on his lap, as well as offering a complimentary buffet dinner. The Governor has always championed the more impoverished neighborhoods in Boston, and has stated that we should all be extending hands of assistance to our neighbors with less. He truly is a man for the people.

Yeah, right, he’s a real man for the people, like he didn’t have one of his staff suck his cock on the way to the event, that he showed up to in a stretch limo, while his sons watched.Real fucking hero, that guy.I shouldn’t even be surprised that I didn’t get any credit, as the unfortunate soul who was forced to play‘Santa’.I did all the fucking work, while he and my brother smiled for the cameras. Nothing new there, I guess.

I search for a few more minutes, but don’t find any mention of the accident, or the condition I left the morgue in last night. Hmm, I wonder if they haven’t discovered what I did yet. I pull my laptop from the back seat and break into the morgue cameras, without them having any idea I’m in their system, taxpayer’s dollars at their best. A chuckle leaves my lips at the shocked faces of the morgue technician, and the two police officers, overseeing the state of the corpse’s remains. The metal drawer is pulled out, and thick goo is sliding off the edge of the surface, and pooling on the floor below. The sheet has been pulled back, and melted flesh greets my eyes. There’s no sound available, but based on how the two officers are looking green,and one has his mouth and nose covered with his arm, I’m guessing they’re not enjoying the holiday gift I left them. Pity. If I had more time, I would have made it even better. You can’t rush a work of art.

Movement on the street catches my eye, and I slam my laptop closed and scrunch down in my seat. Coming out of the house a few doors up from my precarious position, is none other than the object of my current insanity. She has her rich, auburn hair thrown up into a messy bun, and her face is clear of makeup. The thick jacket hides the rest of her from the cold temperatures, and I only get a glimpse of her legging-covered legs, and redConverseshoes, as she walks with purpose down the street in the direction of the diner.

One down, one to go. Now to check my work on the hellhound. I had already left him a little peanut butter-covered gift in their backyard. If he ate it a little while ago, there’s a good chance that he’s having a much-needed nap time. I leave my car, after confirming no one on the street has eyes on me, and make my way to the side of their house. The window I had pried open last time is my best way inside. I slip a small metal crowbar out of my side pocket, and use it to force the window open. I halt, waiting to see if the demon canine will hear the noise, and come running to accost me. After a minute or two, and no sign of it and its ferocious mouth, I force the window higher, and pull my body up and through the opening, landing in a crouched position, and once again waiting to see if my presence has been noticed.

My eyes adjust to the darkened interior of the messy bedroom. Clothes are haphazardly thrown everywhere, and surfaces are littered with makeup, gizmos, and half-drunk water cups. A feeling of revulsion rises up my body at the state of her room, and my OCD demands that we immediately leave this space or, better yet, set fire to it. How does she live like this? I don’t know how you would ever be able to find anything in this state. Asnoring noise coming from the direction of the double-sized bed has me stalking toward it, the crowbar still clutched in my hand and ready to strike out. Fuck, I never thought I would be the type to hurt an animal. People, yes, animals, no, but unease spirals through me. This thing will rip me to pieces if given the chance.

I pull back a holey, deflated-looking comforter, and underneath lies a massive monstrous furball, outstretched against the surface of the mattress, his large paws spread out, half under a lumpy pillow, and his face is turned to the side with his long tongue slobbering outside of his mouth, and his sharp teeth on display. Jesus fuck, this thing looks like a mythical creature of death. I use the end of the crowbar to lightly poke one of its muscled hind legs and hold my breath, knowing my life will flash before my eyes if this thing is awake. Other than one of his paws and ears twitching, he remains snoring away. Fuck, I guess the tranquilizer worked. Thank fuck.

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