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The young man laughed and pushed his glasses back up along his nose. He and his friends sat at one of the long tables. He had pock marks from the acne in his teenage years, his greasy black hair hung limply in a long forgotten bowl cut which almost touched his shoulders. He was thin and wiry, a contrast to the other three men he sat with, who were all at differing stages of obesity. It was amazing how men could sit for hours and do this. I couldn’t blame them; I used to do the same thing. I watched as two of them rolled their dice, one cheered and the other just shrugged. Tabletop gaming had come back into popularity in recent years. The game shop I worked at had a special section upstairs dedicated for those who needed a place to play. Many of the people sitting at the tables were regulars, coming in pretty much every week together to play.

I tidied the display on the counter, looking through the glass box to those sitting at the tables. A great spot to find my next victim, with those in the room thinking that I’m just doing my job. The police had found most of my victims, knowing that they had fallen by the hand of the same person. Yes, a calling card was a stupid move, but it also would cement my notoriety if they ever figured it out. I had thought long and hard about my calling card, most of the time killers would carve a symbol into their victims flesh, or remove parts of their victim, but that didn’t seem like the right kind of calling card for me. I wanted something a bit more unique, something that was more my style. My crime was not sexually motivated like many others are.