Autumn 1970, Manhattan, New York
“♫ Life gives you surprises but Surprises give you life, oh Lord ... ♪”
A single night can carry both contempt and horror.
The notorious Peter Blade is on the hunt … just like many nights before. Adhering to his father’s words, “You've got to get deep into the gut, that's how you'll be able to bleed the animal. It's the only way to get him clean ...” Peter ensures that every hooker he kills is bled to pristine flawlessness.
Dancing with the phantasms of a murky past and the reality of an ominous present, Peter Blade trades places with his victims for the foreboding remembrances which cometh after dark. This night is entrenched in the unexpected and Peter finds himself contending with life and death.
From dusk to dawn, Peter Blade is inescapably haunted but to what end? Which could be worse, living the terror or dying by its hands?
A brisk wind blew by and with it he caught the whiff of perfume. Cheap perfume—the kind of which he was familiar. Dropping the lit cigarette to the floor and crushing it with the tip of his shoes Peter focused his attention.
Opposite his location the hooker’s scent hit Peter like a brick cloud before she'd even come around the corner. Mmmm, Peter’s eyes succinctly rolled to the back of his head the anticipation too much to harness.
At that juncture everything seemed to slow down.
This was precisely what he wanted- no! What he needed!
With enough patience any hunter can catch his prey. And patience was something that Peter had in spades. It was almost as if the prey came right to the hunter’s feet. Too simple. But so satisfying.
Nothing about his demeanor changed. Not his walk, not a single thing. This was key. Blend in—be ethereal, ghostly—hide in plain sight.
Especially now that he’d caught sight of his kill for the night. He couldn't give her the slightest inkling as to what he was about to do to her perfect little body.
The plenary of this setting was like a ballet—a symphony. Two boats passing in the night. Romantic carnage.
He walked towards her; Sheila walked towards him. Sheila fiddled with her purse, spoke to herself, cursed this never-ending fruitless night.
Just a few feet away now. Peter tightened his grip on the blade—pulled it out slightly.
Peter was so agile, so temperate in his movement that Sheila barely had time to react.
Just like that Sheila felt something pierce her abdomen, she gasped.
Peter steadied her body against his as he dug the blade in deeper. He inhaled her scent; a mixture of sweat, cheap perfume and now, blood.
Salty sweetness. A saccharine nectar. A delicacy of the gods. His gods.
Peter savored her demise; the palate tickled his taste buds. It satiated the innermost depths of his being. Peter licked his lips involuntarily as though he were feasting on the most delectable meal. Peter exhaled in satisfaction, his body shivering with ecstasy in the process.