It was a ridiculous thought that passes through little Miss Barnaby’s mind that cool afternoon.
A ridiculous thought indeed.
Who would have thought that becoming a serial murderer to be a life ambition?
No one stopped her, for no one knew about it. That was enough for her to start her learning.
She sought out suspicious people from nasty places; pick pockets, liars, cheats and the occassional stabber in the neighbourhood. But to no avail, did she find one who would make her into a serial murderer.
What does one entail to fulfil this position she wonders. What does one need to equip with to go on, and also she wondered how does one progresses to become one?
Is it enough to wield a weapon? Would it make her a better serial murderer if she specialises in one murder weapon or would it be better to be flexible in that aspect?
She asked around, she poked in and popped out. Until one day, she chanced along an old dingy pub, just behind Crow Street. A rather lonely alley led her to a pasty green door. Pretty unwelcoming entrance really, but her heart began to throb as the prospects of finally meeting a professional to kick start her ambitious career.
She knocked on the door, ‘tap tap’. ‘Hello there, is anybody home?’ The door creaked open, and before she knew it, she felt something solid slide through her person. Fast and sure, and red hot patterns began to swirl at the front of her bossom. She coughed once, gurgled and finally slumped onto the step.
Her eyes glazed over as a voice muttered, “Number 26”.