Date: Thu, 23 Oct 2008 18:10:56 -0700 (PDT)
From: Tiff C. <eliteecrew@verizon.net>
Subject: Awakening the Devil Within

Disclaimer: This story explores relations between two males. If you are
offended, please do not read further. Warning: This story contains violence
and rape.

Author's Note: Thanks to Frances for editing! And a special thanks to Pete
for all his beta-reading help and encouragement.

******


"Hey, baby."

Michael looked up at the familiar voice, so beautiful and deep, music to
his ears for the last four weeks. Now it sounded dangerous, predatory,
hungry.

His eyes filled with realization; horror crept into his stomach. He
swallowed hard and coughed abruptly, choking due to lack of saliva. He
broke eye contact and looked at who was in front of him, feeling paralyzed.

Michael knew he should run, but he couldn't get himself to move. His legs
felt like lead. His hands felt sweaty and slippery.

"You're the, you're the..." he managed to get out before he started dry
heaving.

Jeremy walked further into the basement apartment, a neutral expression on
his face. "Are you ok, Michael?"

Michael fell onto his ass, scrambling backwards, creating distance between
them.

Jeremy smiled in amusement. "Let me get you something to drink." He strode
out of the room. Seconds later Michael heard the sound of glass clanging
and water running. His heart pounded. This was his chance to run. If only
he could get his body to cooperate.

Then it was too late; Jeremy was in front of him. Michael kept his eyes to
the ground, Jeremy's black dress shoes in his line of vision. "Drink,
Michael." It was an order, a gentle command. A glass cup that was three
quarters full appeared.

Michael was compelled to obey. He didn't want to set Jeremy off. He gulped
down the cool water, his throat hurting at the hurried pace, his stomach
growing queasier.

"What are you doing here?" Jeremy asked.

"The door was unlocked," Michael answered, as if that explained
everything. "I knew you'd be back from your trip soon and I wanted to cook
you dinner. I wanted to surprise you." His eyes darted at the brown grocery
bag sitting on top of the kitchen counter.

Jeremy smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "How sweet." His bright
aqua colored eyes stared into Michael's. "You're so sweet," he murmured to
himself thoughtfully. "It's such a shame though. It doesn't change
anything." There was a note of finality in his voice. "It won't change your
future, your fate."

Somehow, Michael knew to what Jeremy was referring. His eyes inevitably
darted to the crisp piece of paper on the small wooden desk in the
corner. Jeremy followed his line of vision.

"Did you see the list?" Jeremy asked, his eyes gleaming. The question was
pure courtesy. Jeremy was toying with him.

Michael's lips quivered at the six names on that list. Five names were
already crossed off. Only one remained. "Why are you doing this? Who are
you?" His voice was hoarse and shrill at the same time. "Why are you
killing these people? What have we done?" He needed to know.

Jeremy shrugged. "Why does anyone kill?" he asked. "For fun? For sport? Why
do we hunt animals?"

Michael eyes widened. "Are you serious?" he sputtered. "People aren't
animals!"

Jeremy paced the small living room leisurely, casually, nonchalantly. He
was relaxed and calm. "The others were random. It was a game. Just
practice, really. I needed to test my skills, hone them to
perfection. Although I was pretty damn good to begin with," he
grinned. "But you six, you six are special. Don't you remember, Michael?"

"I don't know those people anymore. We were friends in high school, but I
haven't talked to them since..." Michael trailed off.

Jeremy waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. I know your story:
closeted lacrosse jock; smart, good-looking; a total girl magnet. Then with
college came revelation.  You came out and have since had a string of
boyfriends. Everyone loves and accepts you, blah, blah, and vomit! Now you
have a stable job and you're searching for true love," he sneered. "Right?"

"But..."

"Here's something you need to know, Michael. It's a good life lesson for
you to remember, so listen carefully," Jeremy said, staring out the window
with a small smile. "Your past always follows you. It never goes away. Even
if you forget, others will remember. Some people just never forget." His
eyes turned stony; his expression grew hard.

"I don't understand." Michael shook his head. He continued to stare at
Jeremy. There had been something so mysterious and luring about the slender
man before him. Now, Michael regretted ever meeting Jeremy Wexler at that
diner a month ago

"Who am I, Michael?" Jeremy breathed.

Tears welled in Michael's eyes. "You're the Phantom Executioner," he choked
out.

Jeremy laughed dryly. "The Phantom Executioner!" he crowed. "I love those
names the media creates: Invisible Hunter; Sniper of Darkness; Death's
Whisper. Very creative, don't you think? How do they come up with that
stuff?" He looked at Michael, who remained silent.

"No, Michael. Who am I?" Jeremy asked again, in a louder voice. He came
closer and crouched before Michael, his face a foot away. "Look at me," he
stated. "Look at me!"

Michael lifted his eyes, taking in Jeremy's strong features. He searched
Jeremy's face.

"You don't remember me, do you?" Jeremy said with a mixture of triumph and
bitterness.

Michael looked harder, but finally gave up. He shook his head.

"Maybe I can refresh your memory," Jeremy said, a tight smile on his
lips. He stood up once again and went into the bathroom. He emerged with a
damp towel. "Look closely, Michael. Pay careful attention."

Slowly, he grabbed a handful of his hair, and pulled. Centimeter by
centimeter, the mop of blond hair came off, revealing dark brown hair,
close cropped, and neat. It was oddly familiar.

Jeremy continued, wiping his face roughly with the wet towel. He kept
scrubbing and scrubbing, the towel becoming beige. His nose and cheeks were
full of freckles. "Jog your memory?"

Michael got a bad feeling in his stomach. He had seen those freckles
before. He haltingly shook his head.

Jeremy reached up, his fingers pulling at his eyelids. Then he picked at
his eyes: first the right, then the left. Throwing something on the floor,
he looked up, his long eyelashes sweeping upwards. Michael was stunned to
see a forest shade staring back at him, rather than the usual brightness of
the sky.

Jeremy continued, tearing off the goatee around his chin. He yanked at his
nose. Michael gasped when the plastic disappeared, and a small, upturned
nose appeared.

"Do you remember me now, Michael?" Jeremy whispered. He had changed a lot
since high school. His chest was more developed, his arms wiry, inches
added to his height.

But the face was timeless. Extra wrinkles here and there, but the same
pattern of freckles. The same long, curling eyelashes. The same silky,
shiny chestnut hair. The same rich, vibrant green eyes, the color of the
jungle. Michael could never forget those eyes. Those eyes had stared up at
him once. Those eyes had begged him once. Those eyes silently pled for help
once.

Michael's face was ashen with realization. He stared wordlessly at the man
before him.

Jeremy cocked his head, his lips curving ever so slightly, his eyes
sparkling. "What's wrong, Michael, baby?" he asked teasingly, with a subtle
mocking edge. His eyes hungrily drank in the sight of Michael shaking
before him.

Jeremy felt his chest puff out. His pants grew tight in excitement. He
always loved power. He always yearned for it, wanting it to consume him. He
loved feeling strong and alive. There was no greater feeling.

Jeremy had always enjoyed the kill, the end result. It was an intoxicating
high, a sweet adrenaline rush. However, he had neglected the hunt. The hunt
was slow, dangerous, but calculating as he had to tread softly, deftly.

"What's wrong, Michael?" he repeated. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Jeremy's voice was a gentle, sensual purr.

Michael's fingers curled on the wooden floor, his nails scraping
it. "Julian? Julian, is that you?" He didn't know why he asked; he already
knew the answer to his own question.

A glint of satisfaction filled Jeremy's eyes. He sighed and closed his
eyes, inhaling deeply. "Ah, so you do remember."

"Julian, what's going on? Why are you doing this? Why did you kill..."

"The Phantom Executioner killed them," Jeremy broke in with a giggle. "God,
I love that name. Although personally I prefer The Ghost," he said meeting
Michael's eyes. "I haunt..." he whispered. "I'm always around, but you
never see me."

"All those people," Michael choked. "All those people..." He broke down
crying, covering his face. He was no longer friends with his high school
classmates, but that didn't mean he wanted them dead. "Why did you do this?
Why?" he screamed. "You're a fucking monster!"

Jeremy moved so fast, he was a blur, until he pinned Michael down. "I'm a
monster?" he asked in a scratchy voice. "I'm a monster?" he growled. "Only
because you people made me one! I'm a monster? Then I'm your creation!"
Spit fell from his mouth and hit Michael's face. "Do you like what you've
created?" he asked seriously. "Do you?"

"You made me this way," Jeremy hissed, his eyes darkening, flashing against
the dim lamp in the corner. "Don't you remember what you and your friends
did to me? All I wanted to do was go home that day, but your friend stopped
me. Pushed me into that room. Changed my life forever. Made me what I am
today." Jeremy lifted his chin defiantly.

"You all made me this way! All of you! It's entirely your fault!" he
shouted. He pushed his face close to Michael's. "But I guess I can't be too
mad. Guess what, Michael? I like myself. I like myself now. I never did
before, but I love what I've become."

He threw his head back and laughed. "I hear people talking when I
travel. They whisper about the sniper that kills. They talk of him on the
train, on the bus, in coffee shops, over lunch or dinner. They admire him,
they fear him. He's random; he's quick; he's skillful, and most
importantly--he never gets caught."

"You're sick!" Michael spat out. "Julian..."

Jeremy slapped Michael. "Julian is dead. Julian no longer exists. Julian
was weak and pathetic. He let himself get tormented by you, by those
people, by his parents, by the oppression that was his life!" he screamed
in outrage.

"I'm Jeremy now. I'm Aaron. I'm Kevin. I'm David. I can be whoever I
choose. Do you know why?" Jeremy asked. His eyes lit up. "Because I'm
God. I decide who lives and dies."

Michael's eyes widened in horror.

"I pick. I choose. No one can stop me," Jeremy went on in a sing-song
voice. "No one sees me because I vanish in the breeze. I'm a mirage you
thought you saw. I'm a distant thought from your past."

"But you remember me now, huh?" Jeremy asked. He laughed. "I bet you're the
first one out of your little group to remember me. I give you kudos,
Michael. Imagine my surprise when I found out you were gay all
along. Ironic, right? I normally never deviate from my plan; but I had to,
just for you. When you asked me out at the diner, I knew that I could allow
myself to have a little fun. One guilty pleasure in a lifetime; what's the
harm in that? After all, even God deserves to take a break from his
duties."

"I always wondered what you would be like in bed," Jeremy said his eyes
narrowing. "You're very good, Michael. Very good. The things you do with
your muscles, with your tongue." He caressed Michael's jaw, brushing the
light stubble. "Delicious," he cooed.

Michael's skin crawled and he shuddered, nudging Jeremy's wrist away.

Before Michael even realized it, Jeremy grabbed Michael's face tightly, and
pulled him close, as if they were going to kiss. Michael gasped and tried
to pull back, but he didn't have enough leverage. Jeremy was smaller than
Michael, but deceptively strong. Michael felt the man's weight bearing down
on him.

"Come with me, Michael. Come with me down memory lane," Jeremy breathed
into Michael's mouth, their lips practically touching. "Take a walk with
me."

"Let me show you the moment I stopped being Julian Larson and became
someone great, someone powerful, someone memorable. Come with me,
Michael. Let me show you."

******

Michael knew power. Michael knew tradition. Michael knew wealth and
privilege. He had grown up with it. Being on top of the food chain, he
rarely thought of those beneath him.

Until one day. Until the day he and his friends, the leaders of the all
boys school, went one step too far in their ritual.

Upperclassmen always played pranks on the underclassmen. Becoming seniors
was a rite of passage and they had to show it outwardly. It happened every
year. When Michael and his friends had been freshman, sophomores, and
juniors, they too were subjected to bullying and jokes. It was
tradition. Everyone accepted tradition at his school. It was no big deal.

The year was almost over. Summer was upon them. Excitement was in the
air. Michael and the rest of the senior class were preparing to head off to
college, probably Ivy League with their parent's money and connections.

Michael and his friends wanted to do something fun, one last time. So they
picked a random kid after school, on a lazy Friday afternoon. The halls
were practically empty by the time the final bell had rung.

"What do you want?" the smaller boy had asked. Michael could see even
through the school uniform that the younger guy was skinny and couldn't
have been more than sixteen.

Randy, the class president and the supreme athlete of the school, pushed
the boy into an empty classroom. The rest of them filed in
dutifully. Michael had been the one to shut the door. It closed with a soft
click.

The boy stared at him with fear in his eyes. They were wide and green. A
rich shade of green. Michael was fascinated by the color. He had never met
anyone with such eyes.  Michael wondered if the boy was staring at him for
help, or simply because Michael was closest to the door.

"I have to go home," the boy whispered. "I have a dentist appointment and
my mom..." He was cut off when Chester, Randy's right hand man, shoved the
boy backwards. "What are you going to do?" he asked in a small voice,
clutching his sides, as if that would protect him.

Randy slowly looked him up and down. He turned to his friends. "Guys, let's
try something different."

"Different?" Chester asked blinking.

"Like what?" Michael chimed in.

Randy smiled, baring his teeth. "I've been seeing Heather for most of the
year. But she's going to Asia for the summer. We usually hang out all
weekend, but she's packing and spending time with her family this
weekend. Next weekend, right after graduation, she leaves. So, I need to
get off. Now."

"Off?" Warner asked dumbly. "What do you mean?"

Michael frowned. "What does that have to do with..." he trailed off, his
mind working. Randy met his eyes and grinned at the recognition.

"You want to fuck around with him?" Emmett asked Randy, his eyes darting
toward the frightened underclassmen. "Seriously?"

"It's just us at the school now," Randy pointed out. "We could all use a
little release, right?"

"Isn't this going a little too far?" Sebastian asked hesitantly. The tall
basketball player looked at Michael and they shared an understanding
glance. "We're not gay, Randy."

Randy rolled his eyes mockingly. "No one said you were, Sebastian. But a
hole's a hole. It will feel good."

Emmett looked around. "Isn't that, um, rape?" he asked.

Michael was about to agree, when Randy spoke up, commanding as ever. They
all looked up to Randy. The entire school did. He was class president after
all.

"Who is going to call it rape? You?" he asked, staring down his
friends. "Are you?" Randy asked, looking menacingly at the shaking boy with
the green eyes.

The kid looked nervous with all of the older, bigger boys staring at
him. He said nothing, but the answer to Randy's question was clearly
evident in his eyes, in his body language. He didn't want what was to
come. Who would?

"Okay, boys. I'll get things started," Randy said confidently, stepping
forward, undoing his belt. Randy Wilkins was always the leader. He was a
natural.

The boy backed away instinctively, until his butt hit a desk. His lips
trembled, his hands shook. "No," he whispered. "Please, no."

Randy didn't listen. He did as he pleased; he grabbed the slim boy and
pushed him face down onto the desk.

"No!"

Randy's pants dropped to the ground, along with his underwear. Chester,
Emmett, Sebastian, Warner, and Michael stared in fascination, in horror,
and reluctant desire as Randy's ass stared back at them.

There was some fumbling, some movement, some scuffling as the smaller boy
struggled futilely. In milliseconds he was restrained by Randy's superior
bulk and strength.

"Shh," Randy murmured soothingly. "It will be easier if you don't
fight. This is tradition. Everyone goes through it. Just take it."

From where Michael was standing, he saw Randy's erection, thick and
eager. Then Michael frowned at Randy's words once he had processed
them. `Everyone goes through it?' Nothing of the sort had ever happened to
Michael. He wondered what Randy meant.

A cry of agony, of indescribable pain pierced the silent classroom. That
shrill, gut-wrenching sound sliced through their haze, but still they
remained motionless. No one stepped forward to help. No one said
anything. They looked at one another, in shameful cowardice, before they
once again stared at Randy's ass, now thrusting in and out.

Quiet sobs filled the room, but still they did nothing.

The sounds were sickening. Flesh slapping together. Sweat smacking between
two bodies, one robust and vigorous, the other limp. The disgusting sound
of blood and bodily fluids being forced along torn flesh and crevices.

But still they did nothing.

"Oh, fuck. He feels so good," Randy groaned, his head dropping, as his
actions became faster, blurred, frenzied.

Michael looked down, ashamed of the tension in his crotch. Glancing at his
friends, he knew that they were in the same predicament. Torn between right
and wrong. Torn between lust and sanity. Torn between succumbing to peer
pressure and salvaging the innocence of a stranger. Or what was left of the
boy's innocence.

With a deep growl, from the depths of his stomach, Randy grunted, throwing
his head back. His hair was sweaty and matted to his forehead. His eyes
were closed, but his eyelids fluttered slightly. He thrust a few times, his
muscles clenching as he reveled in the pleasure, in the pleasure of his
power.

Randy let out a satisfied sigh, pulling out with a sharp pop. An audible
gasp escaped the broken boy on the desk. Randy wiped his brow and turned to
his followers. "Who's next?"

No one stepped forward. Randy frowned in annoyance, not used to
waiting. "Who's next?" he demanded. When no one said anything or moved,
Randy snapped his fingers at Warner, who was closest. "Come on, man. You're
up."

Warner peeked at the rest of them, but found no help. They were just as
useless as Warner. And just as hard.

So he did as he was told. He stepped forward, dropped his pants and
underwear, grabbed onto those poor, helpless hips, and plunged ahead. An
involuntary moan escaped his lips. He gripped the boy's hips harder as he
began sliding in and out.

Randy grinned as he dressed, looking sated, relaxed, and high.

Each guy took his turn. None lasted very long. The boy was so still, it was
almost as if they were fucking an inflatable doll. Finally, Michael was
up. They had all done it. Michael couldn't be the odd man out. His heart
raced. His hands were clammy. He felt cold. He shivered.

"Michael, come on. We don't have all day. Let's go," Randy prompted,
snapping his fingers.

Michael felt a flash of contempt. Who had made Randy the boss? But as he
stared at his circle of friends, he realized that they had made Randy the
boss. Now it was their duty to listen, as they always had.

With heavy feet, Michael stepped forward, his actions seeming slow to
him. He heard the click of his belt. The pull of his zipper scraped his
eardrum. The sweep of his pants and boxers falling down his legs made his
stomach drop.

Then he was buried inside the warm, wet hole. He saw blood and cum, but
ignored it, biting his lip, closing his eyes. The feelings were amazing. He
had never felt anything so tight. The pleasure, lust, and desire
overwhelmed his reason, overwhelmed his shame. His motions became faster
and faster until he could no longer think. Before he knew it, he was done.

The six of them grouped together and filed out the way they had come
in. Michael glanced back. The boy still hadn't moved. He was completely
still except for the rise and fall of his back, indicating that he was at
least alive.

Michael winced at the blood and semen dripping down the pale thighs,
mingling, swirling, reminding him of a candy cane. His legs almost gave
out. He clamped his hand over his mouth, forcing down the rising vomit.

What had he done? What had they done?

That weekend the six of them hung out as usual. No one mentioned the
incident. There was an occasional glance, a look of guilt, but no one spoke
the words. They were all too afraid. They followed Randy's lead and acted
as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

The school year finished. The summer came and went. The six of them drifted
apart during the summer. Their group broke apart completely after their
first year of college, even though they always came home during holiday
breaks. No one admitted why they had grown apart, but Michael always
suspected it was because of their shared secret, of their shared sin.

By being together, it was a constant reminder of what they had done. It was
better to be apart. Then they could forget. Then they could bury the
past. They could move on with their lives, with their promising
futures. Michael was sure that none of them took into account that their
past would not be buried forever. That their actions would come to haunt
them. Literally.

As for the unfortunate boy with the beautiful green eyes, Michael never saw
him again. The boy didn't return to school Monday morning. Or the day
after. Michael eventually found out the boy's name, but as far as he knew,
Julian Larson never returned to that school. He vanished into thin air.

Over time, Julian vanished from Michael's memory as well.

Michael had never expected Julian to reappear. Especially not in the flesh.

******

"Wow! Where did you learn to shoot like that?" The stranger stared at
Julian wide-eyed, mouth hanging open with awe, eyes filled with amazement.

Julian shrugged and looked down at the deer in front of him. There were
some guys in his class interested in hunting. For some odd reason he had
been invited. For some reason he had decided to go.

It was there that he found his calling, his skill, his artistry.

"I went to military school for two years," Julian simply replied, as if
that answered everything.

He stared at the deer, with a single bullet wound to the head, right
between its lifeless eyes. Julian had no idea how he had managed to shoot
so accurately, with such precision. He had never possessed such talents
before. Maybe without a sergeant yelling in his ear all the time, he could
finally concentrate.

"Military school?" the guy echoed.

"Military school," Julian affirmed, gripping his rifle, feeling tension in
his hand. His fingers tingled and twitched around the trigger. There was a
funny sensation in his stomach, a sense of craving.

"How long were you in military school?" the guy asked, oddly interested in
Julian's life.

A smile crept onto Julian's lips. "Long enough," he murmured with a faraway
look in his eyes. "Just long enough."

Julian had told no one about the incident. He never again spoke of that
fateful afternoon. It would be his secret forever, his companion in the
grave.

That day when he got home, his ass was bleeding, torn, and raw. Tears caked
his cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to shower and go to bed. However,
his mother had kept pressuring him, pestering him until he caved. Julian
had to tell them something.

"It was bullies," Julian had whispered. "They cornered me and beat me..."
His face burned with shame. His body overwhelmed by filth. He needed to
clean himself. He couldn't stand the stench that clung to his skin--the
smell of sex, his tears, his blood, and other boy's semen and cologne. The
combined smell made him nauseous.

Julian had received no support from his father and only mild sympathy from
his mother. She always did as her husband said. She was pathetic. Julian
hated that sense of inferiority. It was disgusting. He vowed that one day,
in the future, he would be strong.

Julian was small for his age and not particularly interested in sports. His
father already suspected he was gay although Julian had never said anything
of the sort. Seeing Julian cry, hearing him talk about bullies, only
weakened Julian further in his father's eyes. It was no wonder that
Julian's parents didn't report the incident.

Once the words had spilled from his mouth, there was no going back. The
seal had been broken. It could never be taped back together. He resented
his mother. He hated his father. They were supposed to be there for him,
protect him, and love him in spite of anything. Instead they left him in
the cold, turned their backs on him, and shipped him off to military school
where things were worse.

His hatred and resentment grew. Any joy, happiness, love, or innocence in
him quickly died, until Julian morphed into an empty shell of a being,
practically devoid of emotions.

Somehow Julian survived the two years in military school, with rare visits
home, when he had no choice. His physical appearance grew masculine and
strong due to the daily workouts. He finally hit his growth spurt. He was
considered handsome. His father was proud, finally. But that pride came too
late. His mother's pampering no longer had any affect on his heart. His
heart beat inside his chest, yet it felt nothing.

In college his real life began. He had random hook-ups and plenty of sex,
but never relationships. Julian had always been a loner, and now continued
to be one by choice. He relied on himself. It was the only way to live, to
thrive, to survive.

After that first hunting trip senior year, he never looked back. Soon, he
was hunting with his new "friends" every weekend. Julian was always invited
because he always got his target, right in the head. They began calling him
"Bulls-eye Julian."

Then a thought crept into Julian's mind. Could he be "Bulls-eye Julian"
with people? Or would he get scared? Would he cower? Would his hands shake?

Julian decided to test his theory with a trip back home. He told no one of
his intentions. He didn't have to. He had no friends to tell. Not even his
parents knew he was coming home.

It would be a surprise to remember for eternity.

******

"You killed your parents?" Michael managed to get out, his voice strangled
from the shock of Julian's tale, his tale, irrevocably intertwined.

"Actually three people in total, that first time," Julian said with a sense
of pride. "My father was having an affair, so I decided to off the both of
them as they were leaving the motel. Since it was so random, the cops were
stupefied," he snickered. "Stupid cops."

"They thought it was the husband of my father's mistress. I was also a
suspect, but there wasn't enough evidence to hold me. I went hunting and
had good sharp-shooting skills, but that didn't mean I killed my
parents. No one ever heard of any complaints about our relationship, so I
was free."

Julian chuckled. "After all, what kind of psychopath would kill his own
parents?" Julian's gleeful laughter filled Michael's ears.

"What happened after?" Michael asked, intrigued, but desperate to keep
Julian talking.

"I continued. It's addicting. The whisper of death from my silenced
weapon. The subtle snap of the trigger. The faint pop of the shot. Then the
target drops," Julian stated. "It's a sport. A game. A vocation. A skill."
He looked Michael directly in the eyes.

"Each state, each city, each town is my very own personal shooting
gallery. The supply is endless. Day and night, through light and darkness,
the moving targets mill around, helpless, just waiting for me, the presence
of God."

"I'm a master. I've honed my craft. I've dedicated myself to my art,"
Julian whispered with a dreamy look in his eyes. "I'm completely clean in
the eyes of the law: no police record, no arrests, no prints. With my
parents' money, I spent years perfecting my skills: weaponry, car theft,
physical combat, police procedures, disguises, memorizing city grids,
creating a mental map of my chosen destination, learning to swiftly
navigate, and most importantly, planning my escape route."

"How did you get away with it?" Michael asked, unable to believe his ears.

"Disguises," Julian answered. "Platform shoes. Body pillows. Various
glasses. Wigs. A bunch of colored contacts. Facial hair. Eye
patches. Canes. Props. You name it. After each hit, I make sure to record
everything in detail, down to the date, time, weather, city, state, street,
what I wore that day, what weapon or car I utilized. I make sure to note
the victim and their race, sex, age, physical description. I comment if I
had any trouble escaping, you know, for future reference."

"I never have trouble though," Julian stated. "One shot. Right to the
head. Precise. Clean."

"You're fucking sick," Michael murmured before he could stop himself.

Julian smiled. "Sicker than six guys raping me in an empty classroom?"

Michael flinched. Jeremy's smile widened.

"I'm happy, Michael," Julian's voice was almost soft. "I have myself, my
skills, my beautiful weapons, my fun disguises, and my targets. I don't
drink, smoke, or do drugs. I have never had an interest in them. I don't
like to be weak. I don't let any substance render me weak or powerless. I
am strong. I run every morning and night. I pack weights with me wherever I
go."

Julian sighed in amusement. "And there is a lot of excitement involved in
this business, Michael. Did you know that I once leapt between buildings
when a cat pushed away the wooden wedge I had left to keep the roof door
open? Or that a stolen car randomly stalled and I had to rely on my mental
map to get away by foot? Shit happens. You always need to be prepared for
the unexpected." He cocked his head condescendingly. "Right, Michael?"

Michael was amazed and terrified at the casual way Julian was talking.

"I'll tell you one thing, Michael. I broke some rules with you and your
little friends," Julian said. "My parents were a trial period, to prove
that I could do it, that I wouldn't chicken out, that my hands wouldn't
shake, that I wouldn't clam up. But once I proved myself, all further
targets were random, regardless of age, sex, social status, race, you name
it."

"I also enjoy the spontaneity of it all. I would wonder to myself, who
would I kill today? Would it be a pretty girl with her boyfriend? Would it
be an old man buying breakfast? Would it be a bum begging for change? A
child playing outside their house? A teen running to catch the bus? A
person sitting in a car, waiting for the light to turn green?" His voice
hitched in excitement.

"But then I thought, there's nothing wrong with choosing a particular
target. If I was so good at picking targets randomly, imagine how good I
would be if I planned the target? Research had always been my strength, and
it was fun. A little reading and web browsing, some questions here and
there," he snapped his fingers. "I found all six of you. Voila. Piece of
cake."

Julian pointed at Michael. "You really made me switch up my routine. You're
gorgeous. So tall. Those shoulders. Those pretty eyes. You haven't changed
much over the years. I had a little crush on you back in the day, before
the incident, that is."

"I couldn't resist having you. I rented this place, settled in, only
shooting on occasion. A random trip here and there." Julian sighed and
shook his head in mock regret. "Oh well. It's been fun while it lasted,
huh?" He stared at Michael, his lips slowly curving upwards.

Michael searched for any hint of emotion in Julian's eyes. He found
none. "Are you going to kill me now?" he asked, his lips trembling.

Julian smiled and patted Michael's head. "No."

"No?" Michael was surprised. "Then why..."

"It's almost liberating that someone else knows about me and what I do. You
know, and there's nothing you can do about it," Julian smirked. "I bet
you'll call the cops, but no one will ever find me. No one will ever trace
me. I have no home, no destination, no family, no friends, no roots. I
don't even exist," he said confidently. "Having you know that I'm out
there, watching, lurking, playing—it's enough for me."

Without another word, Julian started packing up his stuff. Michael could
only watch dumbfounded. "You're leaving. You're just going to leave."
Michael was stunned and couldn't say more.

"Let me say this, Michael." Julian turned. "You forgot about me, didn't
you?"

Michael didn't get a chance to answer before Julian continued. "You won't
forget about me now." It wasn't a question. Julian knew that Michael would
never forget him. Michael could never forget now.

Nothing more was said. Michael watched as Julian packed his weapons, his
disguises, and his clothing in a few duffel bags. Michael was frozen, his
limbs ice cold. To think he had been so attracted to this monster, had
cared for this devil in human form, and would actually miss Julian. Prior
to this horrifying revelation, Michael had actually enjoyed spending time
with Julian.

"I know what you're thinking," Julian broke in quietly.

Michael looked up.

"You still think I'm a monster for doing what I do." Julian's eyes were
blazing. "But it takes a monster to spot another of its kind."

Julian smiled, his lips curling sweetly. "Don't ever forget, Michael, that
it was you and your friends who have created me. Every person who drops
like a dead fly, it is because of you."

Then he was gone. The apartment was silent. All that lingered after Julian
Larson's departure was the subtle scent of his cologne.

Julian had vanished once again.

******

Breathe in, breathe out. Calm heartbeat. Steady pulse. Adrenaline
rush. Pleasurable anticipation.

Range: four hundred yards.

Adjust the focus. A little more, until it is just right.

Maneuver finger inside the guard, curling the tip around the trigger.

Eye lined up with the scope piece. Zone in on the target.

Breath in, breathe out. Calm heartbeat. Steady pulse. Adrenaline
rush. Pleasurable anticipation.

Tighten finger against the trigger, slowly.

One, two, fire.

A tall man with broad shoulders dropped forward onto the sidewalk. Dead
before he hit the concrete. Lifeless in an instant.

"Bulls-eye Julian," he whispered, a smile creeping onto his lips.

Familiar sounds made their way to Julian's ears. Terrified wails. Shocked
screams. Babies crying. A man with broken English shouted for the
police. People ran.

Beautiful sounds. Fulfilling sounds. Arousing sounds.

Smoothly and calmly, Julian took apart his weapon, casing it delicately as
if it was his baby. He dusted off his jeans, preparing to leave.

Disappearing and reappearing at whim was what he did best. He easily
navigated through the city, having memorized the layout weeks ago.

No one even noticed him.

Julian got onto the train, heading to the airport. When he arrived, he
booked a flight to the West Coast.

"Mr. Carson White, enjoy your flight," the woman said smiling, handing him
his ticket.

Julian checked in his multiple bags after they were weighed. He
nodded. "Thank you."

Once on the plane, he stared out the window as they took off. "Good-bye
Michael," Julian whispered, recalling the man that had fallen on the
pavement hours before, blood pooling beautifully around his head, like a
halo. "I won't be haunting you anymore." He chuckled under his breath.

"What?" the girl beside him asked curiously.

He turned to her and grinned charmingly. "Ever wonder what it's like to be
a ghost?" he asked.

The girl blinked and looked at him funny. "A ghost?"

"Yeah. You vanish without a trace. No one knows your name or what you look
like. You're free and anonymous. You can do what you want, when you
want. No one can stop you," Julian said. "Isn't that wonderful?"

The girl stared at him. "Umm, sure..."

Julian laughed. "Ever heard of a human ghost?" he continued.

"Mister, I'm going to the bathroom," the girl said getting up.

He nodded at her and resumed looking out the window. Not a cloud in the
sky.

"What a perfect day." He settled into the seat and closed his eyes, slowly
drifting to sleep in the steady motions of the plane. Julian made a mental
note to cross off the sixth name on his list. As soon as he landed, that
would be the first thing he'd do. For now, Julian just wanted to enjoy the
flight.

He dreamt of sheep jumping over a fence. Every time a sheep jumped over the
fence, it would be shot. He would be waiting for it, trigger cocked in
anticipation, in excitement. Julian visualized their stupid faces, mouths
hanging open in shock.

There were six sheep in his dream. They had all been shot dead.