His murders didn't look like murders, so he was never pursued, and thus never caught. Nobody but him counted them; two hundred bodies by the night of his fortieth birthday.
He thought about retiring while he was the best, but a thought knotted his gut. He couldn't be sure.
He had no choice but to keep going, hope he was winning, ignore the nightmares about a faceless man recording names on a book thicker than his.
.finis.
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