By Brandon Layng

Part I: Serial Killer vs Frankenstein’s Monster

I can smell him. I’ve been tracking this stinkin’ brute for weeks now. Figured I’d start on him first, seeing as how he’s so big and slow. Hands like car-crushers, I didn’t forget that.

My axe is sharpened, hanging from the strap at my belt. Straight-razor in my boot, buck knife strapped to my other hip, .45 caliber pistol in a holster under my left arm and in case those beauties fail, I always have my most dangerous weapons – my bare hands. Right now my hands are dry and shaking with excitement as I open the door leading into the old factory.

It was a smart idea following the little girl here. This guy has a real thing for little girls, like a Beauty and the Beast complex. I’ve been starving for this kill for months, so when her picture showed up in the paper beside one of a crowd of angry villagers, I knew I’d found my lead.

People used to feed my hunger, but now the voices demand a challenge. The dog said so himself.

The space in front of me is wide, dust floating in the moonlight poking through rusted holes in the ceiling. My damn shoes are soaked. Rain water everywhere.

Humans are little better than livestock to me. And this guy reeks of them.

The girl’s white dress nearly glows in the half-light. She’s kneeled down in a dry corner of the building ahead, stretching a hand out to a hulking mass in front of her. I can hear the sound of her sniffling; I used to love it when they cried.


There’s the sound I want to hear now.

I’m behind the girl, she’s blocking my view of my newest victim. Shoving her aside I move in closer. What a disappointment. Frankenstein’s Monster isn’t even fit to fight. His patchwork flesh is singed, stitches burned away by torch fire and a few of his limbs are detaching themselves. What a pity. I thought he would be a challenge.

With steady hands, I reach forward and pinch the nodes at the side of his neck. The little girl is bawling her ass off and begging me not to. I’d shut her up with the straight-razor but I don’t do kids anymore. She grabs my arm, trying to yank it away. I have to backhand her to get her to let go before gripping the nodes again. Good ol’ Frankie has some borrowed life left in him, his bone crushing hands wrapping around my wrists. I smile, happy to have a bit of excitement to tell the dog when I get home. It’s too late for the big lug to do me damage. Throwing my body backwards, I tear the electrodes from his neck and rip his throat out in the process. The light goes out of the brute’s eyes.

Pocketing the pieces of metal, I spare a glance at the little girl, considering making up for my disappointment by skinning her alive.

No, I have other monsters on my list. Let the little piggie go back and play with the cows.

Part II: Serial Killer vs Sea Monsters


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