The Anti-Christ Killer

He coolly draws on his cigarette, the woman lays asleep beside him, the air is filled with smoke and the sweet musky smell of passion on a hot summers night. He leans forward as he inhales; the burn etches itself on the bottom of his lungs.
‘Christ, why does it have to be so damn hot?' He thinks.
In frustration he rakes a hand across his body and slings the sweat across the room, across the wall and across the beautiful face of the dame lying dead at his side. He reaches out in the dark, fumbles, knocking a glass from the bedside table to the floor, his hand drops into the draw and to the butt of his .45. Moving it aside he reaches further back to the half empty nagan of vodka, finding the lid he drags it to his lips. The cap falls to the ground and the cold fire races down his throat to quench the fire burning in his stomach. It's 3am, He'll have about 5 hours to make tracks, and then the lease is up on the room and another hooker gets found dead in another crummy cheap roach motel. He sighs, ‘Such a waste.'
Standing, he finds his way through the blackness to the only other room, which thankfully, has a window. To his left he can see the opaque silhouette of the commode hovering by his knee like some kindred apparition of vacant rooms and hollow lives. The music of the city floats in through the box sized slice of reality.
He has to get out of here. But first, there's one job to do.
Hastening with more confidence through the dismal gloom he makes his way back to the beauty in her eternal slumber. His lips tremble as he focuses his mind, fingers curling into fists and back out flat. His job is easy; he's done it a thousand times before. It's just the initial step. The first cut. That single solitary mark. That's the critical one. That's when He knows He's right.
His face contorts from impenetrable to pained to sublime to insane. The colour, the noise and the smell, these are his world now. His eyes are focused only on the ending, the time when they'll believe. Across the walls he spreads his message.
From the bed the girl watches him, lying in a pool of her own blood, she sees him pacing back and forth across the room, mumbling incoherence and gibberish into his palms, they drip with the sombre grace of a tear from an angels eye. He swings violently out at a patch of the wall, his fist missing an inch at the full extent of his arm. He spreads his palm out and confesses to every crime that he's ever committed. His art form naked, as evidence to mans thirst for need, but only the full moon bares witness.
Breathless, he collapses to the floor, fatigue beginning to tear into his muscles. He steadies his mind, driving the epileptic screening of carnal dreams back into the recesses of his mind to wallow away from all grasp of reality. He turns his head to face to the accusing stare of tonight's act of love. Her eyes are bloodshot, her make-up runs as if she's been crying, but her face betrays no pain. He need not feel guilt, his task is one of noble standings, his sins will be redeemed...

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**Excerpt from local newspaper**
Anti-Christ killer killed by purse snatcher

Today the man responsible for the brutal killing, torture and mutilation of some 27 prostitutes was gunned down while travelling across town on a busy subway. An unknown man apparently attempted to rob the mass-serial killer, firing 3 bullets into his chest.
The man, 51, was taken to hospital where it was later discovered that he was in fact the infamous Anti-Christ killer. Moments before his death, the Anti-Christ asked for the company of a priest who heard his confession and later performed the last rites.
Police have yet to confirm this claim made by a patient residing next to the victim however it is known that a diary the man had been carrying has been handed over to police wherein it is claimed, in gruesome detail, to be the actual manifesto of the Anti-Christ killer.
No name or photo has yet been released by police but it is understood a party of unknown men collected his body early this morning from the city morgue....