Sociopath by Victor Methos Page A

coffees with thick cream and lattes and steamers and copious amounts of pastries.
    One of the waitresses was attractive, more so than you would expect to find someplace like this. I noticed that everyone who worked there was attractive, including the men. A cheap tactic by management to create a better experience, but one that, at least on men, typically worked.
    The waitress was serving a table of men in biking gear and she bent over to retrieve a menu and all of them looked down her shirt.
    I saw Tiffany here in my mind. Saw her bent over the same table and him staring at her. He lusted after her but the thought of having her permission disgusted him. There was no fun in that.
    He sat here and watched as she helped other customers and gave them her beautiful smile. A smile he pretended was just his. She would do something when she thought nobody else was watching, maybe just biting her nails, and he thought to himself that that would be their secret. No one else needed to know about it.
    He would sit here for long periods, sometimes her entire shift, but never say a word to her. He wanted to remain unnoticed. He would watch as her boyfriend would come pick her up and they would kiss outside and it would revolt him. Those were his lips. That was his kiss.
    When he had her in the woods on her back, her organs cascading out of her slowly like melting ice, he tried to kiss her like that. But it wasn’t the same. Her lips were pursed and crinkled and there was no affection though he told himself there was—she loved him and he loved her and he would make her a part of him forever.
    He took up her hand and bit off one of her fingers. He tried to eat it there but couldn’t so he cut it off to not leave bite-marks. He placed it in his pocket instead and would take it with him. He took his knife and cut off a few more but the thumb wouldn’t come off. So he … he went to the car. Her filthy little boyfriend was a landscaper. He had tools.
    He took gardening shears out and went back to Tiffany who he’d tied to a tree. She screamed even more when she saw the shears. No one was out here and she was screaming to trees. He leaned his head back and screamed too, to show her it was pointless. Terror gripped her then and she quietly sobbed as he bent down and put her thumb into the shears and began to cut … but stopped. But stopped. What stopped him? What would stop him?
    This was his moment. His and hers. He wanted this for themselves. The only thing that would break the magic was … if someone else was there.
    I glanced up at a man in a black pin-stripe suit who was standing in line. He turned away. I jumped up and headed out the door, my cell phone to my ear.
    “This is Melissa ,” she answered.
    “Have someone pull the financial records for Dale Christensen. You’re going to see a large cash deposit in his checking or savings account the day after Tiffany was killed. Text me and tell me how much it was for.”
    “How do you— ”
    “Heading to the jail now to see him. Can you text it to me?”
    “Sure. Gimme an hour.”

THOMAS FISCHER
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Heading into work, I felt like throwing up. I was agitated and thought I would smash in the face of anyone who looked at me funny. I masturbated in the car on the freeway but it didn’t help. The emotions felt like a combination of someone really pissing me off and receiving terrible news at the same time. I was being pulled apart, and at one point I thought about running my car off the road and into a reservoir of dark blue water.
    I stormed into work. Karen was at the front desk and smiled at me.
    “Morning,” she said.
    “Why are you wearing pants?”
    “What?”
    “You look like a d yke. Wear a fucking skirt like a woman sometimes.”
    I walked past her and didn’t say hello to anyone as I went to my office and shut the door. I closed the blinds on the windows and lay down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Outside I could hear the hum of car engines