HorrorFighter
Member
Ian Thomas Rothcraft wiped condensed fog from the mirror above the sink. Freshly showered, he had stepped, dripping, across the bathroom tiles and through a cloud of steamy mist. He left messy puddles in his wake, but he didn't mind.
It wasn't his house.
Admiring his reflection, Ian scratched at the growth of whiskers on his face. At first, he had ceased shaving as a silent protest against his newly imposed dress code -- one of the conditions for his return to work at the Toolbox (along with the "don't kill your son" clause). If his superiors wanted business casual, he would give them business casual. The beard was just part of the package.
At first.
Truth was, he now liked it.
As he had told a colleague, "It's grown on me."
He had paused.
"No pun intended," he had lied.
Ian gently patted his body with a towel far below his expectations. He helped himself to the hair dryer on the sink and began the ritual of styling. He wore his hair a little longer now, and so he spent more time coiffing these days. Not that he minded the effort -- especially when the end result pleased him so much.
Ian turned off the dryer, rummaged through the medicine cabinet, and found a tube of styling gel. He squeezed a blob into his hand, and expertly ran it through his hair. The gel reeked of watermelon, but it would have to do.
"Beggars can't be choosers," he said to no one in particular.
"But they make excellent prey on a boring Wednesday night," he added.
Again, to no one in particular.
Hair complete, Ian exited the bathroom and entered the adjacent bedroom. It was a moderately sized room, but it had a full-length mirror. And that's all Ian really cared about.
Ian began to dress in front of the mirror. His hard, hazel eyes never blinked at the hard, hazel eyes that stared back at him.
Ian had folded his clothes neatly before showering, and what nice clothes they were. A dress shirt perfectly tailored to his svelte frame. A custom suit made from the finest materials to his exact specifications. Designer glass frames that he didn't really need to wear. Shoes that cost as much as some automobiles. A watch that cost considerably more.
"Dress policy be damned," he thought. "If they expect me to be casual, they'll have to settle for the beard."
The last piece of the puzzle: a silk tie, knotted into a full Windsor, the dimple perfectly placed in center.
The piece of art was complete, although Ian would have to admit that the gel sullied the effect a bit.
Still, Ian smiled with whitened, straight teeth.
It was time to get back to work. Real work. The work he excelled at. The work he would never stop doing unless someone stopped him.
As if.
"Go get 'em, killer," he said to his reflection.
The person on the bed might have agreed with the sentiment.
If only the person on the bed could speak.
It wasn't his house.
Admiring his reflection, Ian scratched at the growth of whiskers on his face. At first, he had ceased shaving as a silent protest against his newly imposed dress code -- one of the conditions for his return to work at the Toolbox (along with the "don't kill your son" clause). If his superiors wanted business casual, he would give them business casual. The beard was just part of the package.
At first.
Truth was, he now liked it.
As he had told a colleague, "It's grown on me."
He had paused.
"No pun intended," he had lied.
Ian gently patted his body with a towel far below his expectations. He helped himself to the hair dryer on the sink and began the ritual of styling. He wore his hair a little longer now, and so he spent more time coiffing these days. Not that he minded the effort -- especially when the end result pleased him so much.
Ian turned off the dryer, rummaged through the medicine cabinet, and found a tube of styling gel. He squeezed a blob into his hand, and expertly ran it through his hair. The gel reeked of watermelon, but it would have to do.
"Beggars can't be choosers," he said to no one in particular.
"But they make excellent prey on a boring Wednesday night," he added.
Again, to no one in particular.
Hair complete, Ian exited the bathroom and entered the adjacent bedroom. It was a moderately sized room, but it had a full-length mirror. And that's all Ian really cared about.
Ian began to dress in front of the mirror. His hard, hazel eyes never blinked at the hard, hazel eyes that stared back at him.
Ian had folded his clothes neatly before showering, and what nice clothes they were. A dress shirt perfectly tailored to his svelte frame. A custom suit made from the finest materials to his exact specifications. Designer glass frames that he didn't really need to wear. Shoes that cost as much as some automobiles. A watch that cost considerably more.
"Dress policy be damned," he thought. "If they expect me to be casual, they'll have to settle for the beard."
The last piece of the puzzle: a silk tie, knotted into a full Windsor, the dimple perfectly placed in center.
The piece of art was complete, although Ian would have to admit that the gel sullied the effect a bit.
Still, Ian smiled with whitened, straight teeth.
It was time to get back to work. Real work. The work he excelled at. The work he would never stop doing unless someone stopped him.
As if.
"Go get 'em, killer," he said to his reflection.
The person on the bed might have agreed with the sentiment.
If only the person on the bed could speak.