He looked out of the window that faced the street. He was bored, and wished someone, anyone would come by. He found what he was looking for when he saw Jonah cycling in his direction.
“He’ll do. He’ll do nicely.”, he thought as Jonah stopped to drink a little water under the harsh sun. It was a ridiculously hot day, and almost everyone was indoors either asleep or vegetating in front of the television. Nobody would notice, or even suspect a thing. He was the nice old man that bothered nobody.
He opened the front door and called out to the perspiring, tired boy called Jonah. Inviting the boy from a few doors down in with the promise of cold lemonade and his celebrated apple pie, he gestured to the comfort of his living room.
Unable to take much more of the heat, Jonah nodded happily and walked through the little white gate, parking his bike against the hedge. He ushered Jonah in and closed the door, quietly locking it behind him.
He gave Jonah the goodies he’d promised and excused himself for a moment. The basement was, as always, ready. Jonah would be comfortable here, yes. He returned to the living room, where Jonah was smiling, happy with the lemonade and apple pie. So innocent, he thought.
He asked Jonah if he’d like to see the game room, and got resounding ‘Yes!’ with a furious nod of the head. He led the twelve year old boy down to the basement and bade him enter, drawing a syringe from his back pocket with the stealth of a ninja. The boy had barely turned to enter the room when he struck. A second later, the boy was on the floor with a dull thud, face first.
The poison had paralyzed Jonah, but left him awake. He could feel the pain from the fall, but couldn’t cry out. Jonah was helpless. He looked at the boy with a small, sadistic smile as he cocked his head with the look of a bully about to introduce himself to the new kid at school.
He strung up the boy with a practiced ease and adjusted the halogen lamp so that it shone directly into Jonah’s face, burning into his eyes. Stripped and exposed, Jonah could do nothing by cry silently, his body unable to move, his voice long gone.
Selecting a particularly sharp scalpel, and still smiling, he approached the boy.
“Morning Mr. Smith!”, said the garbage man, “Busy weekend?”, as he hauled the heavy bags into the truck as he always did.
“Very!” said Mr. Smith, the retired war veteran and well known artist, as he walked back into the house.