She kills for thrills

Carpe Diem

Him:
“Well hellooo lady in red - waiting for someone or all alone?"

Me:
(Sardonically) “Just killing time…before meeting friends.”

[He offering a hand to shake]
Him:
“Giles… but Guffer to friends.”

Me:
(coolly), “ Well hi there err… ‘Guffer’.

At this point he flashed an, ‘I’m in here!’ look over to his cronies, which made me smirk inwardly with a self-congratulatory…little does he know smugness. Lacking the complexities of the female psyche, men were easy to read. Centuries of education and civilization can’t wipe out that inane hunting instinct. They’re borne to it. You can see it in their body language, the way they stand square on, the inflection in their voice, that glint in the eye. It bigs up their ego and I was happy to play prey to slowly, slowly catchy monkey.

He had old Etonian written all over his port-reddened face and he wore arrogance like a starchy Gieves and Hawkes shirt. He came from a world of priviledge and excess, as removed from my world as Hampstead and Hackney. He knew nothing of hustling and sleeping rough, stealing to eat. It was a past that shaped my present and made me the perfect glacial, lust for blood killing machine.

I felt his pudgy, smooth white hand touch my bare forearm – it was decidedly clammy and unpleasant and his breath was wino thick with alcohol. He exuded that stale formaldehyde half cut smell that tramps on the tube give off. But it meant the Roho (Flunitrazepam) would work a treat! I’d gotten the old version from a friend in the know; the sort that was tasteless, odourless and left no blue residue. He’d done a long lunch session and was a touch unsteady on his feet, so he’d be none the wiser. But before I spiked, I wanted to make sure his friends were oiled enough not to be bothered about him.

I needn’t have worried, they were ordering an inordinately expensive bottle of Cristal – and had already zoned in on some other women to share it with.


[Motioning to the drink]
Him:
“Another…?”

Me:
“Don’t mind if I do…”

Him:
“Are you…married?”

Me:
“Single. You…?”

Him:
“I didn’t catch your name?”

Me:
“Lynn…Lynn Bracken…

I already knew the answer to this because I’d seen him discretely slip off his wedding band into his pocket before he came over. But I wanted to hear the lie – it justified his end.