Death by Noodles

It was the kind of cold where you feel like you just jumped into some icy water and you can breathe submerged. It was the kind of cold morning where your eyes are snapped open, but you breathe through your nose like you're in bed and walk automatically. It was the kind of cold morning that just teetered on being too cold. And it was the kind of cold morning that Noodles loved.
This was because Noodles had chronic insomnia, and consequently hadn't slept in four days. The bags under his bloodshot eyes hung like robes, and his torso ached. Well, all of his body ached; his torso just ached noticeablely more. Noodles wondered if he was having an out of body experience.
"Nah," he thought.
Apart from his tired eyes and crooked nose, Noodles was quite average looking. His name did not originate from his hair; he had boring hair. His name has yet to be explained.
Noodles wore a creased shirt and an ugly clashing tie.
He walked with a purpose.

The morning was grey and clear, and the road was dry. Traffic was rare on these suburban roads, and when it did come it crawled over the speed bumps at a speed not even likely to knock someone over. There was no robbery, no fights, no graffiti and no drugs in this neighbourhood; all of the crime was domestic, saved for the bedrooms. Thus Ben Saunders shouldn't have had anything to fear as he went for his morning cycle, because on top of living in this Western suburban paradise he was wearing reflective fluorescent yellow gear and a helmet. Ben moved into the cycle path, lying between the road and the pavement. Today would be a good day. It was one of his weekdays off work, and he knew exactly how he was going to spend it, and the young person he was going to spend it with.

Noodles burst out from a hedge and intercepted Ben. He swung the metal baseball bat into the front wheel of the man's bike, which folded into a bundle of spokes in a second, sending him over the handlebars. There was a distinct snap as Ben landed on his arm, and as he looked round in pale-faced terror, he saw Noodles, lit up by the sunrise, standing over him with the weapon held high. Ben made a begging sound, which Noodles cut short with a hefty swing.

Noodles didn't kill Ben; he left him on the cycle path next to his broken bicycle. The blood looked like red jam as it dripped in lines down the gutter. Ben gargled, a few of his important body parts lay on someone's lawn on the other side of the fence. Noodles had thrown them there. The parts included his jaw. Noodles had made a particular point of disabling Ben from ever interacting with another person, explaining his reasons casually whilst he had. He would not be able to tell the authorities what Noodles looked like, even though his face loomed behind every thought, grinning as he sawed and cut away. Ben would never ever be able to touch another person.

He preferred public transport, but was too messy, and therein conspicuous, to use it today. Besides, the safe house was in the next city. He slid the bat under the backseat, bolted his seatbelt, started the engine, checked the mirrors, wiped a squirt of blood from his brow and drove away. Noodles hated paedophiles.