Ice ran through their veins as they walked among the feeling. Dead eyed supermen who were dying, but could never die. There wasn’t any real world for them, as if the only place they belonged were in labs still like everyone else they had to eat, so ventured one such specimen into Tesco to pick up the morning paper and a croissant.
In his hand he played with a piece of string. A remnant of the latest kill. Like an orgasm, feeling only came into focus at the point of fatality. He was known as Johnny “That’s nice” Jones because that was the only phrase he ever seemed to utter. But to him it wasn’t nice at all.
Everywhere people coughed at him, even worse they sometimes tried to meet him for coffee. He wanted to bash their brains in, man, women or child it didn’t matter to him in the slightest. That was the only thing that Johnny found nice.
He saw it as his Moral duty, sometimes even he felt a bit warped but found that nothing was more soothing than a black and white film, full of the dead stars of the past. Even normal people found their mannerisms odd he thought.
He’s once taken out one person by strangling them during Cabinet of Dr Caligari. Merely because they had the audacity to question the acting style of the film. Usually he fucked them a little bit, but he couldn’t even manage to get it up as he was so…
Charlie Trotman 