The Gentleman Killer

This is a story about a man without any real identity, he is defined by what he does; murder. The man travels around stealing and killing women usually, but he is unique in the way he does it. By making the victim kill themselves. This story will be interchangeable between his POV and a third person look at what is happening. Enjoi!

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5. An Night of Grandeur (Pt. 1)

The elegant occasion was the treat of a lovely young woman whom lived in eastern France, she had a large estate with enough room for such a fabulous party that he could take so much advantage of. His desires were clear; kill off as many as he could. Tonight would be a glorious one; it would be a night that all would remember for ages.

He drove down the private dirt road in a black Ferrari with the top down, the sun was just setting and the sky was a miraculous amalgam of deeply romantic colours. Off in the distance as he drove he observed the hills and the vibrant greens of the landscape even under the darkening sky. Turning his head back so that he was looking straight ahead he noticed that he was approaching the location where the party was being held. Today he was travelling under the alias of Josef Keliov; a modest Russian arms dealer whose fortune was enormous. His hair was greyed out a little; but somehow managed to be an attractive dull silver, it was swept back and slicked. His eyes; as amber as ever were determined and cruel, almost soulless. His face was more jagged than usual, it had many more scars as a representation of his line of work’s dangers; but even as harsh as it was, beyond the eyes, it held a firm generous nature with kindness hidden underneath the beaten exterior. As Mr. Keliov pulled up to the gate he produced a single smoking pipe from the inside pocket of his jacket, with his other hand he went into the glove compartment and produced a small bag of pipe weed which he pressed into the pipe. Putting the tobacco away he grabbed a box of matches; lit a single one and began to smoke his pipe. The wonderful aromas of cloves and cinnamon rose into the impending darkness.

After a complex series of checking him for any weapons and guiding him to a parking space Mr. Keliov had arrived and if his reputation preceded him then the people aware of the actual Keliov’s works he would be addressed as “the butcher”. Mr. Keliov was guided to the ballroom where the main event was slowly flooding with people. The room was exquisite; chandeliers hung from the ceiling that was painted ornately in a Renaissance style displaying angels fighting the powers of Hell in disturbing detail.  The lighting was golden in the room and the floors were a black and grey tile in a pattern of expanding circles. Although nothing in the room surpassed the women, each of them unique in appearance and personality, their outfits and choice of makeup. With his approach onto the floor some turned their heads, men included obviously knowing who he was impersonating or sexually interested in him; either way, he was glad that he struck an entrance perfectly. Without even opening his mouth a young woman approached him rather determinedly and swiftly with a furrowed brow and angry eyes. If the Gentleman was correct in his presumptions this was the actual Keliov’s second ex-wife, and she was gorgeous, but if she fit the profile she was a strong and outspoken Spanish woman with a fiery spirit and a headstrong attitude. Keliov immediately wheeled around in the other direction as to make a hasty get away from the obviously pissed woman, but as he did so he stumbled on his new dress shoes since they weren’t made for such hasty movements and in an attempt to recover from it coolly the Spaniard caught up to him. As he began to turn back to stand he saw the woman, her anger, her unfiltered hatred and will to kill him more than his will to force others to do so and for a moment Keliov’s eyes widened with fear and his heart sank to his stomach. In that brief moment two major things happened, for one he felt himself pushed up against a wall as a stiletto was pushed into his lower torso, specifically the groin area; for two his entire body shuddered with nausea even more so when he was kissed on the cheek by the same woman and the only thought running through his head was ‘Who is this woman? THE BLOODY DEVIL?!’. As Keliov struggled to regain his coherence with the world around him, the ability to stomach anything at all and any respectability that he’d had when he’d entered the room.

It was about fifteen minutes of leaning against a wall in total agony before he began to snap back into the moment, in his mind he ran through this; “I am Keliov, The Butcher, The Madman, A cold ruthless killer, and she’s just a simple obstacle.” (To be Continued)

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