He was up to his wrists in it, that hot, sticky, wonderful mess. The man had screamed, but just barely, and now, ten minutes later, the street was quiet and still. No one had heard them. If someone had, this was the type of city where no one lifts their blinds or mutes the TV. A siren wailed blocks away. He tensed… and relaxed when it faded away.

Somehow, it was wearing off; the excitement, the thrill. It had been three months since the accident and his heart didn’t slam against his chest the way it did that first time. His hands didn’t shake now when he reached into his backpack to pull out the towel. Slowly, he wiped his hands with it and then poured chlorine on them, rubbing away the blood.

He didn’t want to think about it, but it was painfully inevitable. This Friday night ritual wasn’t working any longer. He needed something new, fresh, bold. Coming up with it would require deep thought and concentration. He glanced at his watch. A quarter to eleven. He knew exactly where to go.