I didn’t set out to be a serial killer… it just sort of happened.

It’s not what you think. I don’t stalk young, blonde, nubile delicacies and make them scream for the fun of it. I don’t have a sick obsession with my mother or a need to prove something to my father. What I have is an urge to kill, a need to make things right, for justice to be served. Some might call me a vigilante, but let’s not romanticise it. I kill people, it’s a compulsion. Just because those people happen to be criminals; thieves, murderers, rapists, doesn’t make it any more lawful than if I was stalking young, blonde women. It might make it more palatable for the general population, but it’s still ugly and… I enjoy it.

Does that scare you? Does it make you cringe? Or are you one of those bleeding hearts that says, “No, Hyde, you don’t enjoy it, you just tell yourself you do.” Bullshit. I do enjoy it. I take great pleasure in seeing the life drain out of the cocksuckers that I end. I look forward to it, even. I plan it, meticulously, down to the last detail. I stalk my prey, letting the anticipation of the kill build within me until I can almost taste it. I am a hunter, the top of the food chain and I enjoy the chase as much as the kill. I sleep like a baby afterwards, that is until the urge to kill strikes again.

See, the difference between me and a vigilante is, well apart from the enjoying it bit, I don’t see an injustice and set out to right it. I don’t read about a crime in the newspaper and think, that guy needs to go down. No. The urge to kill, the compulsion, comes first. It rises in me until I can think of nothing else and when it has filled me completely, then I go looking for my prey. I roam the streets looking for the perfect candidate to satisfy the hunger in me, I search the news sites on the internet until I find something that strikes my fancy. And when I find one, I settle in to wait.

I watch them, stalk them, mess with their minds a little bit. I know how to break into any door, open just about any lock with a skill I’ve practised time and again and a handy set of lock picks. I spend time in their homes, I get to know them and then I play with them a bit. I might move something in their house or leave something behind so they know I’ve been there. It takes them a while to catch on but seeing that moment when they realise I’m coming for them, that’s almost, almost, as good as the kill.

You see what I abhor is the imbalance of power. These people that I kill, they always pick on someone smaller, weaker, powerless and that just isn’t right. They’re like bullies in the playground and instead of engaging someone their own size in a fair fight, they prey on the weakness of their victims. That imbalance is what drives me to kill, to balance the scales. And I’m good at what I do.

Do what you love, love what you do.

Find a job you love and you will never work a day in your life.

Pleasure in the job, puts perfection in the work.

I am the fucking poster boy for loving my job and it shows. The police don’t know what to do with me, not that they’ve even come close to catching me. The press love me and I have my own fucking fan club on Facebook. I don’t interact with them because that would be amateur hour, but I know it’s there. I look at it sometimes and shake my head in disgust. Those people are psychos, some of them should be committed.

You may think I’m trying to justify my actions to you, I’m not. I’m giving you context. I know what I do is wrong, and yet I do it anyway. I know you’re going to want to put a label on me, Psychopath, Sociopath, but they don’t really fit me. While some of the symptoms of both may apply, I just don’t fit the mould. The umbrella Antisocial Personality Disorder might make you feel more comfortable, but even that feels like an ill-fitting suit when applied to me. I kill, I enjoy it, I don’t feel remorse, I know it’s wrong and I just don’t care. You see, the difference for me is that this is only one part of my life. Killing for fun is a hobby, not a career.

Okay, you got me. I’m Batman to His Bruce Wayne. I’m not really Batman, but… well, you’ve never seen the two of us in the same room together, have you? I’m kidding. I’m not Batman, but I am His darker side, not Batman’s darker side His darker side. He doesn’t know about me. Okay, He does know about me, He reads the papers and watches the news after all, but He just doesn’t know that I’m Him or… He’s me. I’d like to say that I’m the Alpha, that I’m the dominant personality, but I’m a realist. I may be an arrogant son of a bitch, but I also know that I’m the manifestation, not the host. It doesn’t really matter because when I’m in the driver’s seat, it’s all about me baby.

Don’t worry, I have no grand delusions that I’m some avenging angel or dark superhero, this isn’t some gothic fantasy where the misunderstood hero saves the city from the marauding hordes. I am a criminal, I’m the one you should be afraid of. I’m the one terrorising the city, I just have discerning tastes and choose my victims accordingly. But don’t mistake what I am just because the people I kill are the dregs of society. I don’t step in to stop a crime from being committed, that’s not my bag. I observe, I watch the target in their natural environment, I find their weaknesses. Does that mean I’ve stood by while some guy rapes some girl? Does it mean I’ve witnessed murders and bashings and all sorts of miscreant behaviours without intervening? You’re damn straight it does.

I’m nobody’s saviour.

I am a serial killer and I have no plans to change that anytime soon.

“London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady.” His quiet singing stopped. “There,” he said as he stepped away to look at his handy work.

Donny had woken that morning not knowing that it would be his last. He’d gotten out of bed, chugged some flat soda that had been left in the frat house after the party the night before, showered and brushed his teeth, jerking off a quickie in the shower, toothbrush in his mouth. Then he’d dressed for the day in his uniform, a baggy pair of athletic shorts and a university tank. Ready to face the day, and his screaming fans, Donny hopped into his piece of shit junker and drove to the stadium to prepare for today’s game. The first game of the season.

No, he wasn’t the quarter back, or the running back, or a linebacker or even a tight end. He was the mascot. It wasn’t even a cool mascot, not like a bulldog, or a viking or a tiger. He was a Harlequin, a joker, a fool. But he loved it anyway, it meant he was part of the team. It meant that when he walked out on the field, people cheered for him. When they saw him in the cafeteria or around campus, they spoke to him, they slapped him on the back and treated him like ‘one of the guys’. He felt included and accepted and that was all he’d ever wanted.

So he’d gone to the game, played up to the crowd, made out with a cheerleader, smearing his faceprint all over her face, neck and chest, marking her, and then he’d gone to the afterparty and drunk himself stupid. Like he did after every game. It was a typical game day for him, complete with passing out on the frat house couch still in his makeup, still in his harlequin getup. He was the life of the party, the comic relief, the fool.

Now he was lying along the top of the giant cube he used in his act. He was on his side, one knee bent up, the other straight, his head resting on a bent elbow and his other hand strung up in the air like he was presenting a prize. This was made easier by the apparatus that was attached to the top of the box and made him look a little like a marionette. His makeup was smeared and looked especially grotesque, his slit throat a gaping maw dripping blood that ran in rivulets down his neck and across the chest of his costume. His green sprayed hair stood on end, giving him a decidedly DC Comics Joker-esque appearance.

In the darkness, with just the full moon and a lone outdoor lamp to light the field, there was a macabre beauty to it. The misty air, the cold light, the bright, garish colours of his harlequin uniform, it stood in stark contrast to the events this afternoon. There was no crowd now, no sunlight, no kisses from half naked cheerleaders. People wouldn’t scream with delight when they saw him, instead they would scream with terror. He was exposed for the fool that he was, but in his death he would serve a higher purpose.

The Watchman adjusted The Fool’s suit and tucked the card into his belt. He stood back and pulled off his gloves and then took his phone from his pocket and took a photograph. Humming to himself, he turned and walked away, his mind clear, the gnawing in his gut soothed and the voices in his head calmed. He could hear his father’s voice as he walked sedately away from his sacrifice telling him he was choosing the right path, assuring him that the sacrifice of a few was for the good of the many.

His father’s words that had once grated upon him like sandpaper, now soothed and ministered to him. The truths that his father had spoken of time and again that he had brushed off as the ravings of a crazy old man, had become reality. The revelation of which had awoken him in the middle of the night, screaming in terror at the destruction that was to come. If only he had listened sooner, if only he had put away childish things to listen to the words of truth uttered by a man who had had a vision of the evil that he was now tasked to stop.

The bridge was coming down, falling down, breaking down. The fabric of society was deteriorating and it was his job to prevent it. It was the beginning of the end and the first sacrifice was only the beginning. If the ritual was not completed in time, then he wouldn’t be able to hold back the apocalypse. But he was confident, he knew the path. It was narrow and treacherous, but he knew the way now and he would hold the course. He would not look to the left or to the right, he would not let the world sway him from his calling.

He hummed a few more bars of the nursery rhyme, passed down through the ages as a key for the Watchmen in each era.

Build it up with wood and clay,

Wood and clay, wood and clay,

Build it up with wood and clay,

My fair Lady.

Wood and clay will wash away,

Wash away, wash away,

Wood and clay will wash away,

My fair Lady.

By the time he reached his room, even his father’s voice had been silenced and all that remained was peace. A peace he hadn’t known in a long time, a peace that he knew was fragile, but that he would enjoy while he could. The voices would come again, he knew that they would, but now he understood, he understood that he was called. Being a Watchman was his destiny, one that he had run from for so long, but now he knew, now he understood. The fate of the world rested on his shoulders and he had to finally step into it, accept that which had been prophesied over him his entire life.

It was the only way.

So, I’m gonna stop you there. You think that’s me. You think that that was me killing someone, but, well, if you do, then you actually haven’t been paying attention. This guy, this guy right here, well, he’s full of shit. The fact is, he wants to kill, but he needs a justifiable reason to do so. He’s deluding himself, on purpose, so that he can gets his rocks off. At least I know why I do what I do. I don’t need to tell myself some bullshit story to indulge my addiction. I kill people, I like doing it, I choose to kill people who have it coming.

Besides, this guy is far too dramatic, too showy, no class whatsoever. And the calling card? Pfft. What a douchebag. Way to link all the kills to himself, thereby multiplying the chances of being caught. He’s really a disgrace to the entire community of serial killers. Oh, I know this is his first, but you know there’s going to be more, he practically told you there were going to be more.

The disappointing thing is that it’s actually quite hard to solve a murder. We live in an instant society when mysteries and the like are solved in under an hour, for the most part. Real life isn’t like that. Already you have more information about this killer than the police do. You were able to see inside his head. The police can’t do that, the FBI can’t do that, even the fucking CIA can’t do that, although they’d like to think they can.

I’m gonna let you get back to the live action, but I just wanted you to know, absolutely, that that wasn’t me and I’m offended that you even thought it was.