HorrorFighter
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Ian leisurely read his Wall Street Journal as the old man polished his shoes.
Ian regarded the bootblack with disdain, unable (or, more likely, unwilling) to mask his disgust. As far as Ian could tell, the old man was hunched over perpetually, his back permanently bent from decades of working at the feet of others. He reeked of cloying drugstore cologne. A few wispy gray hairs clung desperately to his head, as though they had decided to make one last, futile attempt against baldness. Yellowish whiskers shadowed his craggy face, spreading down across a neck that hung loosely with sagging skin which had finally lost its fight with gravity. He wore a stained flannel shirt, fading jeans, and white canvas sneakers that were now closer to black. The cheap clothes were too big and baggy for his stooped, skeletal frame.
Everything about the man said that life, and all the experiences that came along with it, had crushed him down into this squat existence of meaningless labor. Years and years of shining shoes at Grand Central Station, with nothing to show for his efforts, the old man went about his business with mechanical, joyless efficiency, surrounded by commuters who barely noticed him.
Ian was hardly sympathetic. Even this close to Christmas, he felt nothing for the plights of others.
After all, why should December be any different from the other eleven months of the year?
More to the point: Ian had chosen this particular shoeshine stand, and this particular man, at this particular time, for a reason. Ian couldn't afford any distractions. Empathy -- emotions -- would only get in the way of what he needed to do.
Fortunately for Ian, empathy and emotions had never really been an issue.
High above the elderly man, sitting as comfortably as he could at a wooden shoeshine stand, Ian would occasionally peer over his paper to supervise the work. And criticize. And complain.
From the very beginning, Ian made it quite clear that he would not be an easy customer. He started by demanding that the old man show him every can of polish in the shoeshine kit.
"But sir," the old man pleaded. "Your shoes are black. Any can will do. All shades of black are the same."
Ian -- dumbfounded by the statement -- glared at the man.
"No, there are many degrees of darkness," Ian insisted. "Trust me -- I know."
"But sir, I get everything from the same company," the old man continued with a forlorn tone, holding up a can of Kiwi black polish to prove his point.
"That doesn't matter," Ian snapped. "Even the same colors from the same brands are wildly inconsistent. How can you not know this in your line of work? Have you no pride in your profession? You must try them all to get the perfect match."
The old man groaned as Ian settled in. The man popped the lid off the first can, applied a little polish to a small portion of Ian's right shoe, and waited for a reaction.
Ian studied the spot for a moment. He frowned. He shook his head.
And so on and on it went. The old man would open a fresh can, apply a little polish, and wait for Ian to render judgment. The first four cans of Kiwi didn't pass Ian's scrutiny. But the fifth -- and final -- one met with his approval.
"It's not perfect, but I guess it will have to do," Ian declared with a shrug. "Kiwi is poor quality, you know. You really should invest in Saphir products. There's simply no comparison."
The old man nodded without really listening. He had already removed a clean chamois and horsehair brush from his kit, and was continuing work on Ian's right shoe.
"Do be careful," Ian said. "That brush looks positively wretched. The manufacturer may have confused a porcupine for a horse."
"Yes, sir, yes, sir," the old man prattled. "These are very nice shoes. I'll be careful."
Ian grunted. Truthfully, he would be the first to admit that these were far from his best shoes. But he wasn't about to risk a better pair to a subway-quality shoeshine. Plus, some of his favorite shoes had been handcrafted by master cobblers, using rare materials that would likely confound the average shoe-shiner. Ian doubted the old man could handle his prized Stefano Bemer toad-skin shoes or his durable pair of wingtips made of elephant hide (a gift from an especially nasty warlord whom Ian had befriended on an African hunting expedition).
Then there were the shoes from Foma Obraztsov.
The Russian operated many businesses -- some legitimate, some not, all morally questionable. His investments included sealing. In the late '90s, Foma had secretly made arrangements for seal hunts that would yield hides far above Russia's legal quota. He had paid off the proper officials, but a small group of Greenpeace activists, upon learning of his intentions, took steps to block the hunts. They set up protests at the proposed hunting sites.
The Rothcrafts had done business with Obraztsov (by providing capital for the lucrative seal hunts), and the situation could potentially embarrass the family. So, before the media could get involved, Ian -- barely 21 at the time -- flew to the cold wastes to deal with the Greenpeace problem personally. Using his family's funding (and his own penchant for sadistic brutality), Ian ended the protests -- by ending the protestors.
Turns out that a hakapik can crush a human skull as easily as it can crush the skull of a harp seal -- and that vast landscapes of snow and ice are perfect for disposing of evidence permanently.
The hunts happened without incident.
Although Ian had acted in his family's best interests, Foma wanted to give the Rothcraft representative a gift as a show of appreciation. Ian politely and respectfully declined, but the Russian persisted.
"I give you something, anything, Ian," Foma said (pronouncing the name e-HAHN) as he shared a bottle of potent vodka with the young American. "You tell me, I get. Woman? Car? Woman in car?"
Ian, realizing that Foma would not let the matter drop, said drily, "Well, if you must, Mr. Obraztsov, I've always fancied a pair of baby-seal shoes."
Foma laughed and poured more vodka. "Yes, e-HAHN, very good, very good," he said, roaring approval.
Thinking the joke had closed the conversation, Ian finished his drink and returned home. He had forgotten the comment altogether until the package arrived a month later. When Ian opened the box, he saw a pair of harp seals staring up at him. Foma had sent him a pair of hollowed-out pups, their bodies fashioned into crude shoes. The faces of the baby seals -- somehow, grotesquely, still intact -- were stretched across the tips of the shoes. Their expressions were forever frozen into a mournful look of unblinking helplessness.
Ian never wore those shoes in public.
They didn't fit properly, and he had nothing in his wardrobe to go with them anyway.
Thirteen years later, Ian remembered the lesson learned: "Never joke with Russians. My sense of humor doesn't translate east of Austria."
For his shoeshine trip to Grand Central Station, Ian had chosen a handmade pair of Berluti loafers, reasonably priced at two-thousand Euros. They were an early Christmas gift from his sister, Victoria, whose taste in men's shoes was as bad as her taste in men, period. Ian didn't care for the shoes, so he didn't care whether the old man scuffed them.
Despite his demands for the very best service, Ian really wasn't there for a shoeshine.
Ian turned his left wrist so he could glance at his Patek Philippe watch, from the exclusive Platinum Ellipse 5738P collection. Admiring the obscenely expensive watch, Ian smiled as a cruel realization hit him: The old man would probably need to polish shoes every day for three years, nonstop, to afford such a timepiece.
Ian, on the other hand, had bought the watch on a whim.
It might have been a Wednesday. Wednesdays bored him: too far away from the festivities of the previous weekend, not close enough to the upcoming one.
The flawless timepiece told Ian it was 5:15 p.m. Grand Central Station bustled with holiday shoppers and people on their way home from work.
Just what Ian needed. Just as he had planned.
The old man finished the job by buffing the shoes and adding a conditioner that would keep the leather subtle while protecting the material from the winter elements. He looked up at Ian meekly for approval.
Ian folded his newspaper neatly under his left arm and hopped off the stand. He inspected the work slowly, methodically, making noncommittal noises as the old man squirmed.
Looking down, Ian lifted the sole of his left foot and twisted on his heel back and forth, so he could examine every inch of the shoe. He repeated the process with the right foot. After a few minutes of quiet deliberation, Ian looked back up expressionlessly.
"Good enough," he said flatly.
The old man sighed with relief. He glanced left and right to see if anyone could appreciate the ordeal he had just suffered. But the crowds took no notice of Ian, the old man, and their transaction.
Ian reached into his pocket.
"I apologize for being such a perfectionist," Ian said. "I hope this payment will make all of your trouble worthwhile, as I wish to put you at peace."
He handed the old man a hundred-dollar bill.
The old man spluttered. He stammered thanks. He accepted the payment gingerly, handling the bill with the same care and reverence reserved for a newborn.
The old man turned to tuck the bill into his shoeshine kit. He grinned widely.
He was grinning still when the world went black.
Ian removed the icepick from the base of the man's skull. The small, fatal wound barely bled.
The kill had been painless. The moments before had not. Just as Ian had designed: torture the man with unreasonable demands, make him sweat, put him at ease, end him quickly.
For Ian, nothing felt better than carefully carrying out an execution where he controlled the victim completely -- including emotions and actions. Ian had doled out fear and frustration and joy, only to snatch every shred of feeling away. The old man had danced and died exactly as Ian had decided -- all out in the open, unseen.
The smiling old man stopped, stiffened, slumped. Ian caught the corpse before it could collapse to the ground. He eased the body into a sitting position on the shoeshine stand.
Ian casually dropped the icepick. If NYPD homicide detectives dusted the weapon, they would find fingerprints -- just not from Ian, who wore gloves as a precaution. Investigators would match the prints to a pimp with a long rap sheet and a history of violence. Said pimp had kindly held the handle the previous night, when Ian had pointed a gun at his face and insisted that he grasp the icepick.
Said pimp now resided -- bloated and expertly weighted -- beneath the murky sludge of the Hudson River.
Good luck making an arrest.
The police would focus on a suspect they would never find. Eventually, they would give up and move on. The case would grow cold; victim and suspect would be forgotten.
Ian would get away with murder.
Again.
Ian paused a moment to make sure the old man's body would remain upright. Satisfied, he pried the bill from the dead man's grip, pocketed the money, and slowly moved away.
The crowd of commuters still hadn't detected anything amiss -- why would they suddenly take any notice of the old man whom most of them ignored daily? -- and Ian immediately blended in with them. He was just another indifferent face among the masses.
Ian flowed along with everyone else, keeping pace as he allowed himself to be swept toward the station's exit. He kept his head down and avoided the overhead cameras. Ian knew the New York transit system intimately. Its constant service and winding corridors and tunnels had served him well, providing him with urban camouflage that had hidden him whenever necessary over the years.
Along the way, Ian tossed his newspaper into a trashcan. He then reached into the right pocket of his pants -- part of a charcoal-gray suit tastefully tailored by Anderson & Sheppard of Savile Row -- and pulled out a smartphone: a gift from the only former manager who didn't want to see his innards eaten by cannibals.
Literally.
Ian had butted heads with his previous bosses, and they had butted back very, very hard. For his insubordination, they stripped him and delivered him to a tribe of cannibals in some rainforest hellhole.
Fortunately, one lone executive had believed in him. Saw value in him. Appreciated his skill set. Thought him wasted. Wanted him back.
She came to retrieve Ian from the jungle. In exchange for his rescue, Ian had made a deal with her.
The phone was part of the agreement.
When she presented the smartphone to Ian, she said, "This device contains the names of 250,000 American citizens you are sanctioned to kill, and a GPS program that alerts you whenever any of those names are near your location."
Ian nodded. Finally, an executive understood him and planned to put him to good use.
He could hardly wait.
The device came with a new freelance contract. Ian left the company (once your employer exiles you to a jungle where cannibals can feast endlessly on your immortal flesh, it's time to consider new career options), but he took the phone with him. He agreed to continue carrying out hits for his former employer, just as long as the work didn't interfere with his new position. He had no intention of allowing freelance assignments to jeopardize future career opportunities.
Ian was committed to his new employer.
Then again, Ian was also committed to killing. He couldn't resist the compulsion. Few psychotic serial killers could.
The list provided the perfect outlet: approved murder for profit. A quarter of a million potential targets for variety.
The old shoeshine man was one of them.
A week earlier, the phone's GPS functionality alerted Ian that a target was close to home --in New York City. Ian carefully cased the target -- watching the old man work in Grand Central Station, observing the daily patterns of the people around him, studying the surrounding environment -- and spent days cheerfully planning the hit.
For Ian, the job felt like an early Christmas present.
In addition to location, the phone delivered a photo of the target, as well as background details.
The old man was Albert Jacobs. A Vietnam vet. Never married. No children. No relatives. Barely living above poverty level.
Born in 1944. Died in 2012.
Obviously.
The one piece of information that the phone neglected to share: the reason for the hit.
Ian didn't know how the 250,000 targets were chosen. He had no idea why anyone wanted poor, old Albert dead. Perhaps it was a mercy killing. Or maybe Albert had escaped punishment for a past crime. Or offended the wrong person. Or seen something he shouldn't have.
Or maybe Albert was just unlucky and picked at random to satiate Ian's dark desires.
Frankly, Ian didn't really care. Albert popped up on the list of targets whom Ian had permission to kill. That was all the reason Ian required to murder him.
Ian touched the smartphone's screen. He browsed the hit list alphabetically. He chose J for Jacobs. He tapped Albert's entry. He selected options.
Ian pressed delete.
Albert disappeared.
Ian put the phone back in his pocket and exited the station.
Outside, a black man in a Santa Claus suit rang a bell on behalf of the Salvation Army's Christmas charity drive. He stood beside a large red kettle. Some passersby tossed change into the kettle and wished Santa happy holidays.
Ian stopped to study the man. The long gray beard and hair appeared fake, but Santa's big belly seemed genuine enough.
Ian wondered how hard he would need to punch the man in the stomach to drop him.
The thought passed and another occurred to Ian: Albert had touched the one-hundred-dollar bill in his pocket. That made the money evidence that Ian couldn't afford to carry.
He had an idea.
Ian held up the bill horizontally before Santa, gripping each end between forefinger and thumb. He snapped the bill to catch Santa's attention. Once Claus saw the denomination, Ian deposited the bill in the kettle with a flourish.
Santa's eyes widened upon catching sight of the generous donation. "Merry Christmas, sir!" he cried.
In response, Ian shook his head. "'I don't make merry myself at Christmas,'" he quoted.
The reference was lost on the Salvation Army Santa Claus, who responded: "You need some Christmas spirit, son."
Ian exhaled melodramatically, the bitter December temperatures turning his breath immediately to fog. He answered jokingly: "When it comes to Christmas spirit, I don't have a ghost of a chance -- past, present, or yet to come."
Again, Ian's audience wasn't seeing the humor. Santa said, quite seriously: "Lots of reason to be merry. The Lord gives us lots of reasons."
Ian stared at Santa incredulously. Then the killer brought his face in close to Claus.
"The Lord…" Ian scoffed. "Let me tell you about the Lord…
"The thing you need to understand is this: I see Him when He's sleeping. I know when He's awake. And I hate to break the news to you, St. Nick, but the Lord is lying down on the job."
Ian watched with amusement as Santa's kind face sunk under the weight of the harsh words. Santa broke eye contact and returned to ringing his bell. Ian smiled. He knew that the once-jolly old elf had just dismissed him.
Ian thrust his hands into the pockets of his Ralph Lauren Purple Label cashmere overcoat and fell in with the crowds of office workers and holiday tourists teeming on 42nd street. He walked through Times Square, past the bland chain restaurants and brand stores that had cropped up like weeds and choked out the city's once-seedier character. He watched cars crawl along as shoppers with stacks of gifts carefully weaved through traffic.
Pressed so close to humanity, Ian wished a plague upon pedestrians and drivers alike -- preferably a painful one with symptoms that included partial paralysis and pore seepage. Even the attractive businesswomen, who glanced and smiled coyly when they locked eyes with Ian, irritated him.
As soon as the opportunity presented itself, Ian peeled away from the throngs and wandered down an empty street. No lampposts shone here. All the businesses were shuttered and closed.
Normally, New York City's majestic glare blotted out the night sky, but on this particular evening, on this secluded street, Ian could see stars twinkling faintly overhead.
Gazing upward, he thought of the only holiday song he could stomach. The only one that somehow rang true.
Softly, he said more than sang: "Hallelujah, Noel, be it Heaven or Hell, the Christmas you get you deserve."
Ian wondered whether that was actually true.
Had the old shoeshine man gotten what he deserved?
"Have I?" Ian wondered.
Ian remembered his third day in the cannibal jungle, when he screamed out to the wilderness, "I don't deserve this!"
At the time, Ian thought himself completely justified. Ian's troubles with management stemmed partially from a relationship with a co-worker -- now his fiancée. The executives feared Ian's influence over her; he feared they would steal her away.
The confrontation was inevitable -- the confrontation that Ian ultimately lost. A day after he proposed and she accepted, his employer drugged him and dumped him at the feet of the ravenous cannibals.
The next eight weeks had been hell.
Ian and she had been reunited, of course. Happily at first. But then she went off to Eastern Europe to search for her father's killer. Ian stayed behind in New York.
Her trip postponed their nuptials. Or so Ian assumed. Lately, however, he wondered if she had simply left him at the proverbial altar. He had not heard from her in weeks. Now it was Christmas, and she was nowhere to be found.
After everything that had happened, after fighting so hard to keep her, had Ian truly lost her? And if he had lost her, was he even capable of caring?
Did he really love her?
Could he love anything or anyone at all?
The puzzling questions made him seethe, and this seething gave rise to bestial, homicidal urges.
Miraculously, as if reacting to Ian's darkening mood, the smartphone chimed. Practically snarling, Ian snatched the device from his pocket and called up the map. The GPS app was showing a flashing light in Rockefeller Center.
Another sanctioned hit -- so, so close.
Additional details about the target were available. All Ian had to do was tap the screen.
Ian knew he needed to kill someone else tonight, to quiet his rage, to take his mind off of the thoughts that confused and tortured him.
And yet…
Ian turned off the phone. He would claim another victim tonight, but he would not rely on a satellite to guide him. Instead, he would depend on his instincts. He would trust in the universe that had so masterfully molded him into the perfect killing machine -- a machine that, like its maker, didn't always give, or get, what was deserved.
Ian found himself remembering the film Unforgiven and the final exchange between Clint Eastwood's Will Munny character and Gene Hackman's Bill Daggett. Lying on the ground, looking up at Munny's gun, Daggett said, "I don't deserve to die like this."
To which Munny replied, "Deserve's got nothing to do with it."
A moment later, he pulled the trigger.
No, in the end, deserve's got nothing to do with it. Santa wasn't keeping a list and checking it twice. He didn't reward the nice boys and girls with toys, nor did he give stockings full of coal to the naughty children. The universe didn't operate so cleanly. Spoiled brats got whatever they wanted; kind children starved.
Bad things happened to good people all the time. And good things happened to bad people.
Ian knew this fact better than anyone. He was living proof of both truths -- inflicting the bad things while mostly enjoying the good. It wasn't fair, but it was the way things were. And would remain. Ian would see to that. Nothing could change him or stop him from taking what he wanted.
Not even a forgotten fiancée.
At the Horned God recently, he had let his predatory proclivities slip in front of a new colleague: Alice Glenisle. Recognizing Ian for what he was, she said: "I had rather wished you wouldn't have turned out to be a monster."
His fiancée had once called him a monster too.
They were both right. He took no shame in it. Not anymore.
Tonight, someone else would die. Tonight, someone would lie at Ian's feet and look up with the innocent, wet eyes of a harp seal pup. Tonight, someone would cry and beg and scream, "Please, I don't deserve this!"
And it wouldn't matter. Because no matter what the person said, Ian would continue, on his own terms, without a feeling or a care in the world.
Because that's the way it was. Because that's the way Ian liked it.
He put the smartphone away. A mild wind brushed over him as softly as a single, whispered word.
Monster.
Ian shivered and moved on quickly, his eyes up to the heavens as the cold light of long-dead suns led him on his way through the darkened streets toward his destiny.
Ian regarded the bootblack with disdain, unable (or, more likely, unwilling) to mask his disgust. As far as Ian could tell, the old man was hunched over perpetually, his back permanently bent from decades of working at the feet of others. He reeked of cloying drugstore cologne. A few wispy gray hairs clung desperately to his head, as though they had decided to make one last, futile attempt against baldness. Yellowish whiskers shadowed his craggy face, spreading down across a neck that hung loosely with sagging skin which had finally lost its fight with gravity. He wore a stained flannel shirt, fading jeans, and white canvas sneakers that were now closer to black. The cheap clothes were too big and baggy for his stooped, skeletal frame.
Everything about the man said that life, and all the experiences that came along with it, had crushed him down into this squat existence of meaningless labor. Years and years of shining shoes at Grand Central Station, with nothing to show for his efforts, the old man went about his business with mechanical, joyless efficiency, surrounded by commuters who barely noticed him.
Ian was hardly sympathetic. Even this close to Christmas, he felt nothing for the plights of others.
After all, why should December be any different from the other eleven months of the year?
More to the point: Ian had chosen this particular shoeshine stand, and this particular man, at this particular time, for a reason. Ian couldn't afford any distractions. Empathy -- emotions -- would only get in the way of what he needed to do.
Fortunately for Ian, empathy and emotions had never really been an issue.
High above the elderly man, sitting as comfortably as he could at a wooden shoeshine stand, Ian would occasionally peer over his paper to supervise the work. And criticize. And complain.
From the very beginning, Ian made it quite clear that he would not be an easy customer. He started by demanding that the old man show him every can of polish in the shoeshine kit.
"But sir," the old man pleaded. "Your shoes are black. Any can will do. All shades of black are the same."
Ian -- dumbfounded by the statement -- glared at the man.
"No, there are many degrees of darkness," Ian insisted. "Trust me -- I know."
"But sir, I get everything from the same company," the old man continued with a forlorn tone, holding up a can of Kiwi black polish to prove his point.
"That doesn't matter," Ian snapped. "Even the same colors from the same brands are wildly inconsistent. How can you not know this in your line of work? Have you no pride in your profession? You must try them all to get the perfect match."
The old man groaned as Ian settled in. The man popped the lid off the first can, applied a little polish to a small portion of Ian's right shoe, and waited for a reaction.
Ian studied the spot for a moment. He frowned. He shook his head.
And so on and on it went. The old man would open a fresh can, apply a little polish, and wait for Ian to render judgment. The first four cans of Kiwi didn't pass Ian's scrutiny. But the fifth -- and final -- one met with his approval.
"It's not perfect, but I guess it will have to do," Ian declared with a shrug. "Kiwi is poor quality, you know. You really should invest in Saphir products. There's simply no comparison."
The old man nodded without really listening. He had already removed a clean chamois and horsehair brush from his kit, and was continuing work on Ian's right shoe.
"Do be careful," Ian said. "That brush looks positively wretched. The manufacturer may have confused a porcupine for a horse."
"Yes, sir, yes, sir," the old man prattled. "These are very nice shoes. I'll be careful."
Ian grunted. Truthfully, he would be the first to admit that these were far from his best shoes. But he wasn't about to risk a better pair to a subway-quality shoeshine. Plus, some of his favorite shoes had been handcrafted by master cobblers, using rare materials that would likely confound the average shoe-shiner. Ian doubted the old man could handle his prized Stefano Bemer toad-skin shoes or his durable pair of wingtips made of elephant hide (a gift from an especially nasty warlord whom Ian had befriended on an African hunting expedition).
Then there were the shoes from Foma Obraztsov.
The Russian operated many businesses -- some legitimate, some not, all morally questionable. His investments included sealing. In the late '90s, Foma had secretly made arrangements for seal hunts that would yield hides far above Russia's legal quota. He had paid off the proper officials, but a small group of Greenpeace activists, upon learning of his intentions, took steps to block the hunts. They set up protests at the proposed hunting sites.
The Rothcrafts had done business with Obraztsov (by providing capital for the lucrative seal hunts), and the situation could potentially embarrass the family. So, before the media could get involved, Ian -- barely 21 at the time -- flew to the cold wastes to deal with the Greenpeace problem personally. Using his family's funding (and his own penchant for sadistic brutality), Ian ended the protests -- by ending the protestors.
Turns out that a hakapik can crush a human skull as easily as it can crush the skull of a harp seal -- and that vast landscapes of snow and ice are perfect for disposing of evidence permanently.
The hunts happened without incident.
Although Ian had acted in his family's best interests, Foma wanted to give the Rothcraft representative a gift as a show of appreciation. Ian politely and respectfully declined, but the Russian persisted.
"I give you something, anything, Ian," Foma said (pronouncing the name e-HAHN) as he shared a bottle of potent vodka with the young American. "You tell me, I get. Woman? Car? Woman in car?"
Ian, realizing that Foma would not let the matter drop, said drily, "Well, if you must, Mr. Obraztsov, I've always fancied a pair of baby-seal shoes."
Foma laughed and poured more vodka. "Yes, e-HAHN, very good, very good," he said, roaring approval.
Thinking the joke had closed the conversation, Ian finished his drink and returned home. He had forgotten the comment altogether until the package arrived a month later. When Ian opened the box, he saw a pair of harp seals staring up at him. Foma had sent him a pair of hollowed-out pups, their bodies fashioned into crude shoes. The faces of the baby seals -- somehow, grotesquely, still intact -- were stretched across the tips of the shoes. Their expressions were forever frozen into a mournful look of unblinking helplessness.
Ian never wore those shoes in public.
They didn't fit properly, and he had nothing in his wardrobe to go with them anyway.
Thirteen years later, Ian remembered the lesson learned: "Never joke with Russians. My sense of humor doesn't translate east of Austria."
For his shoeshine trip to Grand Central Station, Ian had chosen a handmade pair of Berluti loafers, reasonably priced at two-thousand Euros. They were an early Christmas gift from his sister, Victoria, whose taste in men's shoes was as bad as her taste in men, period. Ian didn't care for the shoes, so he didn't care whether the old man scuffed them.
Despite his demands for the very best service, Ian really wasn't there for a shoeshine.
Ian turned his left wrist so he could glance at his Patek Philippe watch, from the exclusive Platinum Ellipse 5738P collection. Admiring the obscenely expensive watch, Ian smiled as a cruel realization hit him: The old man would probably need to polish shoes every day for three years, nonstop, to afford such a timepiece.
Ian, on the other hand, had bought the watch on a whim.
It might have been a Wednesday. Wednesdays bored him: too far away from the festivities of the previous weekend, not close enough to the upcoming one.
The flawless timepiece told Ian it was 5:15 p.m. Grand Central Station bustled with holiday shoppers and people on their way home from work.
Just what Ian needed. Just as he had planned.
The old man finished the job by buffing the shoes and adding a conditioner that would keep the leather subtle while protecting the material from the winter elements. He looked up at Ian meekly for approval.
Ian folded his newspaper neatly under his left arm and hopped off the stand. He inspected the work slowly, methodically, making noncommittal noises as the old man squirmed.
Looking down, Ian lifted the sole of his left foot and twisted on his heel back and forth, so he could examine every inch of the shoe. He repeated the process with the right foot. After a few minutes of quiet deliberation, Ian looked back up expressionlessly.
"Good enough," he said flatly.
The old man sighed with relief. He glanced left and right to see if anyone could appreciate the ordeal he had just suffered. But the crowds took no notice of Ian, the old man, and their transaction.
Ian reached into his pocket.
"I apologize for being such a perfectionist," Ian said. "I hope this payment will make all of your trouble worthwhile, as I wish to put you at peace."
He handed the old man a hundred-dollar bill.
The old man spluttered. He stammered thanks. He accepted the payment gingerly, handling the bill with the same care and reverence reserved for a newborn.
The old man turned to tuck the bill into his shoeshine kit. He grinned widely.
He was grinning still when the world went black.
Ian removed the icepick from the base of the man's skull. The small, fatal wound barely bled.
The kill had been painless. The moments before had not. Just as Ian had designed: torture the man with unreasonable demands, make him sweat, put him at ease, end him quickly.
For Ian, nothing felt better than carefully carrying out an execution where he controlled the victim completely -- including emotions and actions. Ian had doled out fear and frustration and joy, only to snatch every shred of feeling away. The old man had danced and died exactly as Ian had decided -- all out in the open, unseen.
The smiling old man stopped, stiffened, slumped. Ian caught the corpse before it could collapse to the ground. He eased the body into a sitting position on the shoeshine stand.
Ian casually dropped the icepick. If NYPD homicide detectives dusted the weapon, they would find fingerprints -- just not from Ian, who wore gloves as a precaution. Investigators would match the prints to a pimp with a long rap sheet and a history of violence. Said pimp had kindly held the handle the previous night, when Ian had pointed a gun at his face and insisted that he grasp the icepick.
Said pimp now resided -- bloated and expertly weighted -- beneath the murky sludge of the Hudson River.
Good luck making an arrest.
The police would focus on a suspect they would never find. Eventually, they would give up and move on. The case would grow cold; victim and suspect would be forgotten.
Ian would get away with murder.
Again.
Ian paused a moment to make sure the old man's body would remain upright. Satisfied, he pried the bill from the dead man's grip, pocketed the money, and slowly moved away.
The crowd of commuters still hadn't detected anything amiss -- why would they suddenly take any notice of the old man whom most of them ignored daily? -- and Ian immediately blended in with them. He was just another indifferent face among the masses.
Ian flowed along with everyone else, keeping pace as he allowed himself to be swept toward the station's exit. He kept his head down and avoided the overhead cameras. Ian knew the New York transit system intimately. Its constant service and winding corridors and tunnels had served him well, providing him with urban camouflage that had hidden him whenever necessary over the years.
Along the way, Ian tossed his newspaper into a trashcan. He then reached into the right pocket of his pants -- part of a charcoal-gray suit tastefully tailored by Anderson & Sheppard of Savile Row -- and pulled out a smartphone: a gift from the only former manager who didn't want to see his innards eaten by cannibals.
Literally.
Ian had butted heads with his previous bosses, and they had butted back very, very hard. For his insubordination, they stripped him and delivered him to a tribe of cannibals in some rainforest hellhole.
Fortunately, one lone executive had believed in him. Saw value in him. Appreciated his skill set. Thought him wasted. Wanted him back.
She came to retrieve Ian from the jungle. In exchange for his rescue, Ian had made a deal with her.
The phone was part of the agreement.
When she presented the smartphone to Ian, she said, "This device contains the names of 250,000 American citizens you are sanctioned to kill, and a GPS program that alerts you whenever any of those names are near your location."
Ian nodded. Finally, an executive understood him and planned to put him to good use.
He could hardly wait.
The device came with a new freelance contract. Ian left the company (once your employer exiles you to a jungle where cannibals can feast endlessly on your immortal flesh, it's time to consider new career options), but he took the phone with him. He agreed to continue carrying out hits for his former employer, just as long as the work didn't interfere with his new position. He had no intention of allowing freelance assignments to jeopardize future career opportunities.
Ian was committed to his new employer.
Then again, Ian was also committed to killing. He couldn't resist the compulsion. Few psychotic serial killers could.
The list provided the perfect outlet: approved murder for profit. A quarter of a million potential targets for variety.
The old shoeshine man was one of them.
A week earlier, the phone's GPS functionality alerted Ian that a target was close to home --in New York City. Ian carefully cased the target -- watching the old man work in Grand Central Station, observing the daily patterns of the people around him, studying the surrounding environment -- and spent days cheerfully planning the hit.
For Ian, the job felt like an early Christmas present.
In addition to location, the phone delivered a photo of the target, as well as background details.
The old man was Albert Jacobs. A Vietnam vet. Never married. No children. No relatives. Barely living above poverty level.
Born in 1944. Died in 2012.
Obviously.
The one piece of information that the phone neglected to share: the reason for the hit.
Ian didn't know how the 250,000 targets were chosen. He had no idea why anyone wanted poor, old Albert dead. Perhaps it was a mercy killing. Or maybe Albert had escaped punishment for a past crime. Or offended the wrong person. Or seen something he shouldn't have.
Or maybe Albert was just unlucky and picked at random to satiate Ian's dark desires.
Frankly, Ian didn't really care. Albert popped up on the list of targets whom Ian had permission to kill. That was all the reason Ian required to murder him.
Ian touched the smartphone's screen. He browsed the hit list alphabetically. He chose J for Jacobs. He tapped Albert's entry. He selected options.
Ian pressed delete.
Albert disappeared.
Ian put the phone back in his pocket and exited the station.
Outside, a black man in a Santa Claus suit rang a bell on behalf of the Salvation Army's Christmas charity drive. He stood beside a large red kettle. Some passersby tossed change into the kettle and wished Santa happy holidays.
Ian stopped to study the man. The long gray beard and hair appeared fake, but Santa's big belly seemed genuine enough.
Ian wondered how hard he would need to punch the man in the stomach to drop him.
The thought passed and another occurred to Ian: Albert had touched the one-hundred-dollar bill in his pocket. That made the money evidence that Ian couldn't afford to carry.
He had an idea.
Ian held up the bill horizontally before Santa, gripping each end between forefinger and thumb. He snapped the bill to catch Santa's attention. Once Claus saw the denomination, Ian deposited the bill in the kettle with a flourish.
Santa's eyes widened upon catching sight of the generous donation. "Merry Christmas, sir!" he cried.
In response, Ian shook his head. "'I don't make merry myself at Christmas,'" he quoted.
The reference was lost on the Salvation Army Santa Claus, who responded: "You need some Christmas spirit, son."
Ian exhaled melodramatically, the bitter December temperatures turning his breath immediately to fog. He answered jokingly: "When it comes to Christmas spirit, I don't have a ghost of a chance -- past, present, or yet to come."
Again, Ian's audience wasn't seeing the humor. Santa said, quite seriously: "Lots of reason to be merry. The Lord gives us lots of reasons."
Ian stared at Santa incredulously. Then the killer brought his face in close to Claus.
"The Lord…" Ian scoffed. "Let me tell you about the Lord…
"The thing you need to understand is this: I see Him when He's sleeping. I know when He's awake. And I hate to break the news to you, St. Nick, but the Lord is lying down on the job."
Ian watched with amusement as Santa's kind face sunk under the weight of the harsh words. Santa broke eye contact and returned to ringing his bell. Ian smiled. He knew that the once-jolly old elf had just dismissed him.
Ian thrust his hands into the pockets of his Ralph Lauren Purple Label cashmere overcoat and fell in with the crowds of office workers and holiday tourists teeming on 42nd street. He walked through Times Square, past the bland chain restaurants and brand stores that had cropped up like weeds and choked out the city's once-seedier character. He watched cars crawl along as shoppers with stacks of gifts carefully weaved through traffic.
Pressed so close to humanity, Ian wished a plague upon pedestrians and drivers alike -- preferably a painful one with symptoms that included partial paralysis and pore seepage. Even the attractive businesswomen, who glanced and smiled coyly when they locked eyes with Ian, irritated him.
As soon as the opportunity presented itself, Ian peeled away from the throngs and wandered down an empty street. No lampposts shone here. All the businesses were shuttered and closed.
Normally, New York City's majestic glare blotted out the night sky, but on this particular evening, on this secluded street, Ian could see stars twinkling faintly overhead.
Gazing upward, he thought of the only holiday song he could stomach. The only one that somehow rang true.
Softly, he said more than sang: "Hallelujah, Noel, be it Heaven or Hell, the Christmas you get you deserve."
Ian wondered whether that was actually true.
Had the old shoeshine man gotten what he deserved?
"Have I?" Ian wondered.
Ian remembered his third day in the cannibal jungle, when he screamed out to the wilderness, "I don't deserve this!"
At the time, Ian thought himself completely justified. Ian's troubles with management stemmed partially from a relationship with a co-worker -- now his fiancée. The executives feared Ian's influence over her; he feared they would steal her away.
The confrontation was inevitable -- the confrontation that Ian ultimately lost. A day after he proposed and she accepted, his employer drugged him and dumped him at the feet of the ravenous cannibals.
The next eight weeks had been hell.
Ian and she had been reunited, of course. Happily at first. But then she went off to Eastern Europe to search for her father's killer. Ian stayed behind in New York.
Her trip postponed their nuptials. Or so Ian assumed. Lately, however, he wondered if she had simply left him at the proverbial altar. He had not heard from her in weeks. Now it was Christmas, and she was nowhere to be found.
After everything that had happened, after fighting so hard to keep her, had Ian truly lost her? And if he had lost her, was he even capable of caring?
Did he really love her?
Could he love anything or anyone at all?
The puzzling questions made him seethe, and this seething gave rise to bestial, homicidal urges.
Miraculously, as if reacting to Ian's darkening mood, the smartphone chimed. Practically snarling, Ian snatched the device from his pocket and called up the map. The GPS app was showing a flashing light in Rockefeller Center.
Another sanctioned hit -- so, so close.
Additional details about the target were available. All Ian had to do was tap the screen.
Ian knew he needed to kill someone else tonight, to quiet his rage, to take his mind off of the thoughts that confused and tortured him.
And yet…
Ian turned off the phone. He would claim another victim tonight, but he would not rely on a satellite to guide him. Instead, he would depend on his instincts. He would trust in the universe that had so masterfully molded him into the perfect killing machine -- a machine that, like its maker, didn't always give, or get, what was deserved.
Ian found himself remembering the film Unforgiven and the final exchange between Clint Eastwood's Will Munny character and Gene Hackman's Bill Daggett. Lying on the ground, looking up at Munny's gun, Daggett said, "I don't deserve to die like this."
To which Munny replied, "Deserve's got nothing to do with it."
A moment later, he pulled the trigger.
No, in the end, deserve's got nothing to do with it. Santa wasn't keeping a list and checking it twice. He didn't reward the nice boys and girls with toys, nor did he give stockings full of coal to the naughty children. The universe didn't operate so cleanly. Spoiled brats got whatever they wanted; kind children starved.
Bad things happened to good people all the time. And good things happened to bad people.
Ian knew this fact better than anyone. He was living proof of both truths -- inflicting the bad things while mostly enjoying the good. It wasn't fair, but it was the way things were. And would remain. Ian would see to that. Nothing could change him or stop him from taking what he wanted.
Not even a forgotten fiancée.
At the Horned God recently, he had let his predatory proclivities slip in front of a new colleague: Alice Glenisle. Recognizing Ian for what he was, she said: "I had rather wished you wouldn't have turned out to be a monster."
His fiancée had once called him a monster too.
They were both right. He took no shame in it. Not anymore.
Tonight, someone else would die. Tonight, someone would lie at Ian's feet and look up with the innocent, wet eyes of a harp seal pup. Tonight, someone would cry and beg and scream, "Please, I don't deserve this!"
And it wouldn't matter. Because no matter what the person said, Ian would continue, on his own terms, without a feeling or a care in the world.
Because that's the way it was. Because that's the way Ian liked it.
He put the smartphone away. A mild wind brushed over him as softly as a single, whispered word.
Monster.
Ian shivered and moved on quickly, his eyes up to the heavens as the cold light of long-dead suns led him on his way through the darkened streets toward his destiny.