“I don't speak English.” she said, earbuds in her hands, having just removed them, to spray out the words with an intense disgust.

The words arrived at his ears. A European accent, perhaps German?

“Oh you don't.” he smiled and laughed.

He had asked her if they got WiFi up on the rooftop. A ruse. It was a weaker signal maybe, but he knew the rooftop and the WiFi worked just fine.

It was only the two of them up on the hot concrete roof. Most of it was exposed directly to the sun with a section covered over with what looked like bamboo and some straw. There wasn't much of a view of the city. A few scattered blocks, plenty of large palm trees. There was a handful of party rooftops. Clubs, cafes, restaurants.

Stupid Latin music carried on the calm wind.

She was there to sunbathe. In her little colourful bikini. She must have been new to South America. Her body was still milk white. It shone like the aluminium on a spaceship set for some distant star. This little machine was lost and vulnerable.

And in the presence of unrelenting brutality.

He wasn't there to sunbathe.

His hair was brown, made lighter by the sun. He still looked youthful for his age, but the signs he wasn't 21 anymore were there, a balding crown and fine wrinkles on his forehead and spreading out below his eyes.

His blue eyes kept a check on her body.

He sat on the wire chair, each strand a different colour. She lay on a cushioned bench. The white wall of the roof jutted out and concealed most of him from her and most of her from him. He could see the underside of her legs, she had her knees in the air, her legs open, revealing her bikini bottoms tightly wrapping her in. Measley protection.

He was still considering the camera in the corner by the entrance to the roof. It looked old and broken. How seriously did this hostel take security anyway?

There weren't any security guards by the door downstairs. And he hadn't seen any screens playing the cameras. Was there really some backroom of white knights to come to the rescue of a sunbathing German girl in distress.

She had her earphones back in now and was laying face up, burning her fragile young body in the hope of a hot tan.

Ripping her chest open with the knife in his pocket, her heart punctured by steel. The blood. That final look on their pretty, stupid faces when they realise they're fucking dead. He felt the familiar rush of NEED. The need for that relief.

He hit his phone with his fingers and thumbs, all for show, his mind was now fixated on that camera in the corner. The one problem.

Sick of not knowing he stood up and walked towards it. He gave the camera a long look as he approached the stairs. Likely dead. Likely no problem. But he had to know for certain.

•

“Hola amigo.”

“Hola.”

He stopped for a moment and scanned above the receptionist’s head.

“I need a new towel, gracias.”

“Okay, I will ask.”

The receptionist left the desk and walked into the courtyard. Calling the cleaner.

He went behind the desk and checked each monitor, just the check-in system. He pushed open the door behind him to reveal nothing but a dusty bug-filled break room.

There were no cameras. None that worked anyway. Those little white and black guardians were a fraud. Nobody was coming to save this girl. Nobody would know who or how it all happened. Not for a long while anyway. It was time.

The receptionist handed him the towel with a nod and smile. He smelt something like suspicion on the receptionist. Possible.

“It's too hot, mucho caliente.”

“Sí, sí.”

“Gracias.”

He walked back up the old winding staircase to the top floor. Slowly. Thinking of her perfect round tits held by that bikini top. Her tight stomach, the firm mounds of meat behind her bikini bottoms and the squishy joy between her legs and arse.

He gripped the black wood bannister and squeezed it hard. Well, he hadn't been caught yet. Was it coming? Maybe. But you get to have a whole lot of fun before it does.

•

When he got back to the rooftop, the girl had moved from the padded bench to a chair in the corner. She was on the phone. Sounded like excited female gossip with some slag back home. She was loud, the German was spraying from her mouth and landing on the nearby rooftops.

‘Better hurry here’

He snuck along the wall, feeling his way through the leaves of the potted tropical plants before deciding there was no point.

He ran at her. He attacked her. He grabbed her phone. He smashed her phone. He grabbed her head and wrapped the towel over her mouth and nose. He dragged her body behind the black curtain covering electrical equipment and spare chairs. He held her on the ground and raped her struggling body. He smothered her harder when she made her attempts to break free. He finished on her tits. She was in shock, in devastation. He stabbed her five times in the heart. She was dead.

He picked the body up and walked her back through the black curtain. There were a lot of people around, little dancing widgets. A happy city in the sun. He walked to the ledge, by the entrance, by the dead camera, and dropped her corpse into the abandoned construction site next door.

He did a quick clean, then went back to his dorm to rest and rehydrate. After 20 minutes he went back up for the deeper clean. It was all done in about an hour and 40 minutes. Maybe if she was nicer he wouldn't have killed her. Maybe she'd have talked of her dog and cat and her siblings. Her dreams of becoming this or that.

Her sun-baked rat eaten body would be found three days later. No eyes, half a face. Tits gone. Chewed out.

She was world famous very quickly.

He left the hostel the day after he killed her, and holed up in a cheap hotel nearby. He masterbated over the photos and videos, and felt a great peace. Divine.

One morning he caught the sight of his face in the mirror. Eyes sunken and grizzled beard growing. He looked hard for a soul. He spent minutes searching something human behind his eyes.

Was it becoming more obvious what he was?

The time between victims was decreasing. After the first if was over a year before the next. Now he needed a fresh kill within months. Maybe that's why he hadn't been as cautious. He didn't usually act impulsively, he didn't usually improvise.

This had been impulsive.

This was improv.

Usually, he would have stalked her. Spent weeks, months, perfecting the elements. Not a rage. A furious rape, stabbing and throw.

He sat at the desk in his room thinking all this through before vowing it would be an aberration. A freak killing.

That's how he'd remember it: The Freak Kill.

Poor little German bitch.

Later.

Earthquakes, Japans, Prophecies, Omens, November 24th

The Demonic

The Divine