Fishermans Wharf

  The deserted fishermans wharf of Carver City sat silently under the basking glow of the full moon, the rigging from the long-obsolete fishing boats snapping together in the light breeze, and old metal clasps connecting with the rusty masts with a dull clunk. The tide ebbed against the wooden posts of the jetty, its solemn murmur deafening in the silence.
      The tortured predator stalks the silent midnight streets parallel to the harbour, stealthy and dangerous. The moonlight casts the being in an ethereal glow, highlighting his macabre mask, and blood spattered clothes with its stark luminescence. He reminisces of the cruel past that he has suffered, and the fact that it had led him to the barbaric existence he now endures. One day he believed he would need to atone for his vicious homicidal crimes, but tonight was not the night; that he was certain of.
      He spots a lone silhouette ahead of him, hurrying quietly through the dark shadows of the blackness. His muscles tense, his blood begins to bubble with excitement at the prospect of the chase, and the adrenaline rushes through his veins. His feet fall feather light against the pavement as he breaks into a run to give chase.
      The young man ahead pauses, hesitating as he feels he is not alone on this street, a rustling of footsteps and clothing whispering on the wind. He had heard stories of the types of beings that lurked in the cold streets of Carver City,  tales of people being butchered alive, gutted and disfigured beyond any hope of recognition. He did not intend to become another statistic, so he casts a wary glance behind him. A wary glance that was stolen in vain, it is too late for heroics now.
      The Butcher pounces onto the young man, the moonlight glinting off the tape on his grim disguise and wicked machete. The lethal machete falls; striking once, twice, thrice and the man cries out meekly in agony, taking breaths in gasping gulps as the air departs his body faster than he can take it in.
      The slick sharp machete blade glides through the young man's flesh with ease, gutting him mercilessly as he continues to gulp for air, and gargle for help.
      As the Butcher finalises his macabre carving, he gets up and steps back to admire his grisly handiwork – a morbid statue of the lack of faith in the modern world. He pauses and replaces the machete into its sheath home as he hears a whisper of banter dancing on the midnight breeze with his supernatural hearing.
      Voices are approaching.
      The Butcher collects his quarry hastily and heads over to the jetty of the wharf on lightning fast feet. Without a single respect or hint of remorse, the carcass is cast into the dark, black abyss of the ocean; seemingly lost forever beneath the swirling rip tides of gloom.
      Without another hesitation, he tenses his powerful thighs and springs away from the scene like a gazelle from the very pits of Hell. His glorious reign of bloodshed was completed for one more night.