Roger

    Dusk is coming and the sky is dirty gray.  The smell of cabbage and feet the man radiates overpowers the mounds of garbage that surround him.  When I take a seat on the pavement next to him, I can taste him in my mouth.  He mumbles to himself while scratching the stringy growth of beard that patches his face.
    "How's it going, big guy?" I ask, and he finally notices me.
    "Food?" He looks like he's in his late forties; deep, grime filled wrinkles frame his eyes.
    I laugh.  "No.  No food.  I thought we could just talk."
    "Nice suit."
    "Actually, it's a tuxedo.  But thank you."  I adjust the black bowtie.
    "I can see myself in your glasses," he says.
    I take off the mirrored avaitors, hand them to the bum.  He smiles and studies his reflection.
    "How do you look?" I ask.  "Pretty damn handsome, huh?"
    I laugh again and slap his shoulder, then wipe my hand on my knee.
    "I'm dirty."
    "Eh.  Who cares?  Cleanliness is just a stigma for the rich, right?"
    "I don't know.  I'd like a shower."
    He tries to return the glasses but I wave them away, tell him, "They're yours."
    Slipping them on, he asks, "How old are you, mister?"
    "Thirty-two," I lie.
    "You look about sixteen."
    "People always tell me that.  Anyway, I wanted to bring some friends with me to visit you, but no one would come.  Isn't that mean?"
    "You knew you were gun visit me?"
    "Well, not you exactly.  Just someone like you."
    "Huh?" He's picking at a purple scab on the back of his hand.
    "Well, for the last couple years, I've been trying to convince my friends that we should do a bunch of coke then get dressed up and kill a homeless person.  Doesn't that sound like fun?"
    "You don't do drugs, do you?"
    "You better believe it.  I'm so high right now, my fucking heart might just pop out of my chest." I laugh and hammer my ribs with a fist. "I hope it doesn't explode or something, right?"
    "You shouldn't do drugs.  They bad."
    "You're a smart guy...I didn't get your name.  Sorry.  That's very rude of me."
    My hand is in the jacket pocket, fingering the antler handle of the serrated hunting knife.
    "Johnny.  My name is Johnny.  Why you wanna kill somebody?"
    "Good question, Johnny.  That's what my friends asked me, too.  I guess I just want to see what it feels like.  The whole 'Leopold and Loeb' thing, you know?  Or maybe the voice that lives in my thumb is telling me to do it." I chuckle. "Just kidding, Johnny.  I'm not crazy."
    "You're not gun kill me, are you?"
    I draw back.  "Of course not, Johnny!  Don't be silly."
    With a sweep of my arm, I pull out the knife and bury the blade in his throat, just below his adam's apple.  The blood doesn't spray, but pours around the knife in fast, heavy streams.  I expect him to collapse, dead, but instead he falls on his back and begins pushing himself up the alley with his feet.
    "Goddammit, Johnny.  You're not being very cooperative."
    I straddle his chest and pull out the knife.  A wet sucking sound comes from the hole in his neck as his stomach rises and falls beneath me.  Black blood wets my pants.  I drive the knife into his right eye until the handle hits socket.  Blood and thick white eyeball goo bubble around the wet blade.
    I stand, leaving the knife in his head, and brush off my jacket.  There's a giant erection bulging in the leg of my pants.  I check my watch, then begin the walk to the lot where I parked my car.  I'm going to have to hurry to meet the limo in time to pick up my prom date.  After the dance, at the house party near the lake, I'm planning on tying her to the bed and twisting her body into painful, unnatural positions while annaly raping her with a cattle prod.  It should be a good end to the night.