One in a Million

The piercing blue light slithered through all the people, not quite making it through his worn black hood. He slowly slipped through the crowd towards his destination, ignoring all obstacles in his way. The lights shone brightly over the crowd as they burst repeatedly into the dark, outlining the bodies. He quietly slipped through a door at the back of the wide dance floor, following the narrow hallway. As he slowly gripped the handle of the door he stopped to stare at his hands, rough like leather and tough hairs like wire, scars galore. He pushed the handle down and pushed the door open to see a man at the panels controlling the music and lights, his back towards him. He held the knife at his waist projecting the curved and scratched blade towards the unsuspecting man. As the knife rose above the man’s shoulders at the neck, his lips pulled back to reveal the sickly grin of crooked and jagged yellow teeth. Like pure instinct the knife was brought down on the mans back right between the shoulder blades, as the victim let out a scream of agony the knife tore further down his back, blood pouring down into a pool below him. As the knife was pulled out the man stumbled around to face his killer just in time to see the knife darting at him, the knife cut deep and right across the man’s throat, trailing a large spatter of blood across the window pane. As the crowd realized what was happening and panicked for the door the knife was plunged into the man’s waist and pulled across. The Scarred hands dove deep into the man’s warm innards and began pulling anything they could, as the man watched helplessly at his guts being pulled from his body the sick grin was almost foaming at the mouth as his guts were pulled out and thrown across the room. Upon hearing the sounds of sirens closing in the man angrily bolted out of the door looking desperately for a way out, he took one last look at his work, grinning from ear to ear before running out the back door. He sprinted down the alley into the darkness, he had evaporated like mist. It was the eighth victim in a month of the man, he was known as the piranha. He hated the nickname given to him, acquired from eating the flesh of his victims at the scene. He was top priority, and yet he could not be caught, nobody had even seen his face before, always hidden behind something. Some thought he was a ghost. His talent at fleeing so easily was acquired during his traumatic childhood. He would watch his victims for months, learning how they behaved and moved. Then when he had a steady list of victims to pick from, he would feast for months. As he climbed the roofs of buildings towards his den he thought, how warm the intestines had been, how soft and comforting. He could barely control the urge to just grab another victim right then. His name was uric Wandemeir. He had the death penalty in five countries for his crimes. The world thought he was a genius for how easily he was able to escape every scene. In truth he was simply mentally unstable, an extremely dangerous man.