murder and mayhem.
She'd been satisfying if a weak fight, loose skin wrinkled brown from too many synthetic suntans, bleached blond, voice of a smoker, so skinny he'd managed to snap a couple of bones without trying hard.
Alone and miserable, of course. As they tended to come.
He hears the first sickening crunch while thumbing through polaroids in the foyer of the house, scraping off flecks of dried blood where they've stuck with the edge of his fingernails. It feels good to have the mask off, wiping a cold line of sweat off his brow. Jeremiah shoves the thick sheaf of pictures into his back pocket when the wet sounds of Bobby's hammer stops, comes back into the room to survey the damage.
"Oh, fuck," he says, rather ineloquently, no real hint of inflection in the boy's flat voice, "you butchered her fuckin' legs? I thought you liked the head most."