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Excerpt:
“Would you like me to take you straight home, Sir?” my driver asks as I settle into the back of the company car. It's long, sleek, black and classic. Unfortunately it will also stand out too much in the neighbourhood I want to cruise tonight.
I am just looking. Window shopping if you will. I haven’t killed a woman for almost three months now and I can feel the urge building up in the back of my brain. Work was a bust, it’s a good thing I’m the boss or I would have been fired every damn time I start to cycle. I get so distracted I can barely remember my own name.
I can’t help it, I truly can’t. I’ve researched addiction, Googled the fuck out of everything from, “How do I stop killing” to “Frontal lobotomy results sociopathy” when the going gets tough.
It’s not a morals thing. Don’t get me wrong. I believe I am on a mission and the women who choose me are already dying by the time they accept their fate.
It’s more of an inconvenience and timing thing. I’ve been doing it for over a decade. I’ve killed many, many women. I couldn’t tell you how many off the top of my head, I’d have to count my trophies to be sure, but ballpark around twenty five.
Chances are I’m going to get caught eventually. And I don’t want to get caught. Getting caught will be such a bore. Such a drag. Such a stock fiasco. Our company shares will plummet once it’s realized the head is such a fucking nutjob.
I’m usually very good at business, the thing that allows me to slit the throat of a woman and take my knife to her breast is the very thing that allows me to make logical business decisions without flinching.
Every CEO is a sociopath. They have to be. Business is not very pleasant, and only the worst men with the darkest hearts survive up the tangled rivers of boardrooms and back room deals.
So I try to fight my urges, for my family, my business and for the simple fucking fact that I don’t want to end up behind bars.
