[ WP ] The story of a serial killer who preys only on the strongest

There he was, two-hundred and fifty pounds of sweat-slick steroid-ridden muscle. The need came in strong and quick pulses. I could almost taste the experience, the feeling of being alive. 
 
 It was dark out tonight. Moonless and cloudless, the sky was littered with pinprick stars. Everything had to happen quick and hard and fast, or it'd be no fun. 
 
 My reflection in his shiny pick-up told me everything I knew. It did n't matter that I looked shady, acted shady, dressed in black, dressed like a ninja, or even if I carried a fucking hammer because guys like him did n't fear guys like me. Guys like me, wiry and nimble and lithe and blond, walked with languorous strides that said pretty boy, handsome devil, and heartbreaker, but never serial killer. 
 
 I did n't even carry a hammer tonight, so of course he did n't run. 
 
 Surprise was key in fights like these; I got my blond hair matted bloody my first attempt because I was n't quick enough. So the second time I did better, and the third time I learned that even if you packed a shit ton of muscle, you'll always have soft spots. 
 
 But I do n't like going for the crotch first; that took out half the fun. Half the fun was my fist connecting with the back of their neck, and my shoes hitting the back of their knees, sending them down to the ground. The other half tasted like copper in my mouth after their first punch connects to my nose and I stomp between their legs. 
 
 He howled in pain, but that was the best part of guys like him. When they howled in pain, they did n't sound like they were crying for help - the primal cry was always the same curse, never a cry for help. 
 
 Then we started, or rather, I started. I always opened this way, aiming for the eyes, ears, nose, and throat. Always went for those bits, always. He got a few blows in, and I found myself laughing, crying, snot and blood dripping from my nose. Sweat and tears and blood was everywhere, and there was something so carnal, so pure about a fight like this. I bit down on his fingers when he shoved them into my mouth, bit them so hard I thought I heard something crack. He nearly clawed my cheek to bits, but I was faster. 
 
 Being smaller has its advantages - I'm easier to miss. But that might be because I half-gouged his eyes out when the fight started. 
 
 Then he sucked air in, and I realized it was time. Fucking hell, it always had to end. He was about to call for help. I picked big guys like him, guys who did n't look like the kind who'd cry for help, strong guys who looked like they could hold their own in a fight, but the little shits always turned out to be whiners. 
 
 I stomped on his crotch to stop him from crying for help, and he only let out a high-pitched whimper this time. I disentangled myself from him, panting, wheezing, no longer laughing. 
 
 He was crying. Little shit. Crying. Him, a grown man, heavier than two of me put together, was crying. It pissed me off. 
 
 `` What's wrong with a little fight?'' I spat. `` I just want a fight!'' I yelled. 
 
 Oh God, was that a tooth mixed with the spit? I laughed again, but it came out as half a gurgle. His keys lay a little way from where he lay rocking, and I picked them up smoothly. 
 
 `` What the fuck man, what the fuck -Take it, take what you want.'' He said it in a nasal, high-pitched whine. I kicked him in the crotch again for good measure, as hard as I could, then in the solar plexus, the throat, then the head. 
 
 `` What I want,'' I said, accentuating each word with another kick, `` is a goddamn fight. You fuckers always look like you could give a good fight, but you never do. You always end up like this, fucking like this.'' 
 
 Climbed in the truck and revved it. I could still hear him moaning. I wiped the blood from my nose with the black of my sleeve, shifted to reverse, and as fast as I could, bam. 
 
 `` OH GOD-'' 
 
 Splat. Crack. Silence. My pulse beat through it all, rushing, pounding - alive.
