Silk. He mulled over the possibilities, and smiled. Hiding in a darkened doorway off the crooked, crippled alley, no one stood as witness to the tortured, tormented workings of John’s mind. Alley creatures kept their distance from his malevolent being as a matter of course.
For throttling he had never considered the devilish irony of silk – so smooth to the touch – as a garrote. He held the remnant of the outer garment captured from his latest victim, still warm no doubt, although well away near a mile through the tangled twisting byways he knew as the hairs on his forearm. The soft smoothness of the swatch and the deceptive strength of it, so well made; possibly high-end. For a moment he regretted not lifting her purse.
“Not for mammon,” he muttered.
“No, by God!” cried he, glancing skyward as though he feared retribution at the mention of that name.
“Not for bleeding, damned mammon!”
He wrapped the strip of black silk about his left hand, threading it between thumb and forefinger. Again he wrapped it around his left. He repeated the process with his right. Pleased with the feel he snapped it tight, loosed it, and snapped it again. To try it! The thought filled him, revived him as liquor.
A sound. A scuff. A step.
Poised, he stood waiting.
A woman’s sigh – perfection!
Stepping out to meet her in the dark, silk at the ready. He was met with a plaited cord cast like lighting about his neck. A knot that met his Adam’s apple. Deviously marvelous innovation that! As she jerked the cord tight he looked into her eyes. Familiar. Red mark about her lovely neck. Her black frock missing an expanse about the hem.
He began to descend into darkness. How devilishly smooth it was about his neck.
(304 words – not counting the title.)