In the Name of Love

Blood. Blood and the smell of Bvlgari perfume. A gentilhomme in a pinstriped suit and pastor hat, three gold rings adorning each finger as he flipped through a book, a bible. And to the right, on the desk, a pamphlet screaming "How God Made Me Rich"- a pentecostal pastor then, or a 419 man.

He pressed into the shadows and gripped the red stained, bonehead knife- one strike, one strike would do it, clean-through the throat-

"Etienne, mon frere, I know you're there, come out into the light where I can see you. I assume this, c'est your handiwork?"

The man turned to face him and waved at the six bodies lying on the floor. Well, soon, soon there would be seven, seven and she would be his, his. 

The gentilhomme sighed and raised one purple Berluti shoe to step over one body, then another, closing the centimeters between them.

"Etienne, pourquoi? It is folie, madness- seven grown men fighting over that woman, no that thing".

Etienne grit his teeth; what did this noblesse salaud know about love, the true killing love.

"It is love, they fell for her, as did I".

The smell of bitter oranges and Bvlgari grew stronger and now, pastor man was standing only a few centimeters in front of him.

"Non, non Etienne, I can't believe they fell for her- no, I can't believe they fell for it". He put out his hand, "Now come with me, frere. Commit your soul to Dieu, the police are coming, c'est fini".

Etienne closed his ears and lunged. Soon, soon they would be together, forever.

The police found eight bodies. And, in the middle of the carnage, a mannequin held closely by a man with a smile on his face and a bonehead knife sitting in his throat.