Marston Ellis looked down at the corpse of the truck driver as energy surged and crackled along his nerve endings, making him feel invincible.

Considering how tough and threatening the guy had been in the bar when Marston had “accidentally” dumped his beer on him, Marston had been shocked when he had caved into the fear within mere hours of Marston’s “games”.

Marston had lain in wait, nursing a bruised rib from where the truck driver had driven his fist into his side, outside the bar.

He had had a feeling the guy wasn’t going to let it go after he had put on that show of being so cowed when he had “run” out of the bar after the guy used him for a punching bag.

Man, the brawny ones could be so stupid sometimes…all bulk and no brains. The fool had been just drunk enough he had followed Marston, wanting to continue the fight…

Marston was waiting for the guy as he had rounded the corner leading to the pitch black back parking area.

Marston had shot out the two pitiful bulbs hanging from wires strung across the parking area with a pellet gun he had stashed at the corner of the building before going into the bar.

He always targeted bars that were more or less isolated and poorly lit and he always cased them out during the hours when they weren’t open, studying possible escape routes and places to hide the pellet gun and the billy club he had taken off of a cop he had killed about three years earlier.

He heard the drunken lunk coming and nailed him with the billy club as he came around the corner. The truck driver went down with no sound save the soft thud as his lard ass hit the ground.

Marston raised up his shirt and begun unwinding the length of slender nylon clothes line he had wrapped around his waist. He had gone into the bar prepared, hunting.

This wasn’t the first time he had hit a bar for a hunt…you could always count on some hothead following you if you pissed them off.

He tied the guy up and gagged him with a rag he took out of his back pocket, then pulled him the few feet to the car he had stolen several states…and multiple murders…back, and locked him in the trunk.

Nearly fifty miles of winding back roads later he pulled into a heavily wooded area.

Dragging the guy from the trunk, he tied him to a tree and then began his games.

The guy had lasted through several hours of taunts, tiny carefully calculated cutting and gradual loss of certain body parts before he finally kicked the bucket.

His muffled screams had filled the wooded area despite the gag and he had soiled himself not once but several times.

And then had come the part that Marston liked best…his signature…the brand showing an outline of a diamond and heart overlapping, with the diamond being the upper emblem.

Marston branded all of his kills…after all, an artist always signs his work.




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