Kill Kill Killer

Flickering in currents throughout the shallow pool left over from the night’s rain, my reflection, silhouetted by the familiar neon of the busy street, seemed less opaque than usual, like a superimposed image rather than a concrete reflection. Around me, people continued to walk across the puddles littered about the street, pooling in cracks of concrete, sliding down the edges of the footpath, held in the circular cervices of the streetlights, treading carefully so as not to disturb their surface too much, but taking no care for what was reflected within them. It was a carefulness meant only so that they themselves didn’t show up for work with wet socks. I turned back down at my reflection, the water calmed a little and showcasing a less distorted mess of thick black hair and the warm jade of the parka wrapped tightly around my body. Then, I followed my surroundings as their hazy black forms treaded to the opposite sidewalk alongside mine. At the edges of my vision, people flittered about the street. As I began to flitter as well, I was overcome with a kind of desperation at these surroundings. There weren’t as many people as there used to be, most of them choosing to spend their remaining time doing something more fruitful than commuting to a job that seemingly, with the advent of the new century, had no purpose. I suppose the only people left were those who needed money, those who didn’t believe a word of what the world was yelling at them, and people who had nothing better to do. At a convenience store I passed, my frosty breath trailing alongside me as I turned to face the glossy windows, numerous posters were taped up to the exterior, rendering the glass almost impossible to see through. Careful not to disrupt the flow of pedestrians, I weaved over to where my vision had chosen to fixate, and pressed the tip of my index finger gingerly upon the peeling paper.
FIXER WANTED. SALARY DEBATABLE. GOOD WORK BENEFITS!
Something that tasteless was printed upon the thin paper, with an image of some indecipherable form, a lady with either many hands or many heads, I couldn’t tell, peering out from the paper towards me. Though juvenile and rough, the image touched something underneath my eyeballs that drew them in, like a tiny string was pulling them towards the poster. It looked like the woman was staring directly at me, with her prominent, wide open, coral pink eyes devouring mine. As I tore the poster from the window, I noticed a line of number printed at the bottom, almost hidden beneath the overpowering image that took up most of the page.

Inside the convenience store I perused the shelves half-heartedly, already knowing what I would purchase. It was always the same thing, anyway, but I felt like I would lose myself in the mindless repetition if I didn’t at least pretend to look for something different. There was a single, high-school aged girl standing in the row that I was headed towards, have shifted between every other aisle in the store, but as I moved towards them, the packaging that had obscured the rest of the aisle was no longer an obstruction, and another figure revealed themselves as I began to rotate to the left inconspicuously. It seemed like they were occupying the entire aisle, so I pretended to be immersed in whatever was before me instead. To my luck, it was a magazine rack. My eyes flickered towards the bottom left, immediately attracted by woman posing with a fluorescent pink swimsuit against the bold white lettering that was the title of the magazine. Instinct, I suppose, but aside from the momentary buzz of signals my brain received that sent my eyes whirling towards it, I wasn’t particularly interested, that is, had it been the usual pin-up magazine. For some reason, the woman’s face resembled the face of the strange, many headed, God-like creature, with the wide open coral pink eyes. Of course, it certainly was not that woman, and I pushed my face deeper into the manga I had picked up, somewhat interested in what was contained despite only doing so while I waited for the blockage to pass. Behind me, though I of course had no intention of eavesdropping, the voice of the high-school girl punctuated the otherwise dead silent convenience store. I tried not to focus too much on the words.
“But isn’t it scary? You know, if something like that happened to me, I don’t know what I would do. Seriously.”
“Mhm, but aren’t we all screwed soon anyway?”
“Oho, you’re truly such a voice of reason. Don’t you think most or probably all people would rather die together in some big, apocalypse kind of event, rather than mutilated by some psycho on the street?”
“I see your point…”
“Uh huh. Just get that and let’s go, okay?”
“Jeez. Are you pissed at me now?”
“…all I’m saying is that you’re the one that’s going to fight to protect me if something like that happens.”
“Huh? Who even is this guy anyway? Why is everybody talking about him so much?"
"What a pity that you're not the centre of attention, huh? He's been going around in this weird mask and stabbing people, that's what."
"Mmm, so your regular old serial killer, is that right?"
"Regular old huh... Sure, I suppose. There are more and more nutjobs crawling out of the woodwork these days."
As she reprimanded her apparent boyfriend, the girl was bouncing on her tiptoes, trying her hardest to reach some plush collaboration doll that was wedged in the top shelf. 
Reaching to grab it but being vigorously swatted away, the boyfriend inquired whether there was anything notable about this one. 
"Yeah. The mask, I suppose. It's got some weird design on it, some strange multi-armed woman. Might be a religious, cultist thing. But his nickname is pretty out there too."
"Oh yeah?"
"Kill Kill Killer."
"Bwahahaha!"
"Hehehe... yeah, it's pretty stupid."
As she laughed, the girl was filled with a sudden burst of energy, and her fingers scraped at the very top of the shelf she had been reaching up against, knocking down everything in the vicinity, not just the doll. Luckily, the boyfriend had either foreseen this, or just had impeccable reflexes, as, in a split-second, before any of the myriad of candy packets could drop to the floor, he had grabbed the falling doll just inches from the girl's face. Slightly embarrassed, the girl looked around for a second, surveying whether anybody had been disturbed by the waterfall-sounding cascade of plastic packets, but only being slightly embarrassed, she didn't waste much time on it, luckily providing me the protection of remaining unnoticed.  
"Why does he have a name like that? Sounds like something out of a teen's manga."
"Well, he wrote it with blood near one of the victims."
"Oh..."
"Yeah. He's a real psycho."
Now clutching the doll, the girl eagerly looked over at the boyfriend, a teasing smile on her face, completely the opposite of the expression you would expect to accompany those words. 
"But at least he has a better name than you."
"What are you talking about? I think my name's pretty trite if anyth... Oh. Damn you! Don't bring that up in public!"
"Hahaha, why not? It's not like anyone will hear. It's cute anyway."
"Look, I made that account in middle school, okay? Hey, are you listening? I've told you..."
With that, their voices trailed off, the boy’s voice continuing to sound agitated until they left the store.

Spewing from the top of the coffee lid, thick white smoke pricked at my chin with droplets of heat, and I could almost feel the process of condensation happening right there on the underside of my head. After dialing the number that was printed on that poster, I dipped my entire face down into the depths of the billowing smoke to heat myself up. As I leaned against the window that I had torn the paper from, my mind wandered back to the conversation I had overheard inside the store as I waited for someone to pick up. It sounded like they were discussing the recent, sensationalised spree of murders that had been happening, right down this street in fact, something that was astounding if only for the relative safety of this area, not to mention the police station that was in eye-view from where I was standing. I guess, as the date got closer and closer, people would start breaking in that kind of way, but to spend the rest of your time on this earth in jail, forced to live with only the memories of the murders you committed – it wasn’t something that I could understand, and I was generally adept at understanding other people’s situations. I could always put myself in their shoes, sometimes a little too well, but the drawback to my ability seemed to be that for those that opposed my ideals, my sensibilities to that kind of psychopathic extent, I was left groping in the darkness. For someone to even entertain the thought of murdering another human, especially when the world was in this state, I suppose they must already have a mindset too far removed from humanity to understand. Lost in this ocean of thoughts, the water as frigid as the air that poked at my exposed skin, I almost failed to realise that my call had been answered, relaying a hasty ‘Hello’ as my mind regrouped.
“Are you calling for a solution?”
Her words seemed strange. But I suppose I didn’t really understand what a ‘fixer’ was in the first place.
“No. I’m calling for the, uhm, ‘fixer’ position?”
Nothing for a few quite moments but the frigid wind pushing against my parka, sending the smoke from my coffee spiraling haphazardly.
“Yes. The address is 2XXX, to your left.”
“Sorry?”
But the phone had already gone silent. I guess she had hung up. I brought the small device down to my chest, peering at the empty screen like it would miraculously reveal the meaning that her words hadn’t afforded. To my left was another sidewalk, this one much busier, with a whole plethora of stores lining both sides of the street, people sidling in and out of them constantly. It seemed like the number she had given was likely an address on this busy street. Her directions, her method of relaying them were strange, but I was, by now, extremely accustomed to weirdness. It didn’t seem all that out of place, maybe a little archaically mysterious. Sounds of cardboard bags rustling in the wind, bouncing off peoples’ thighs and shoulders, and the chatter of shoppers made for a soothing atmosphere as I strolled down the brightly lit street. On passing a café, it’s interior pleasantly modern yet still retaining the warmth of less commercialised establishments, I regretted buying a cheap coffee from a convenience store, looking down at it clutched between my fingers, nails blue with cold, with a disappointed look.
Though it might be stupid to still cherish stuff like pleasant interiors, to continue to shop for clothes, to continue buying books and renting movies, I think that there’s something human in us continuing as usual. But it could just be human complacency, or our miraculous ability to disregard things that aren’t pleasant to us. Trapped in the grip of the cold morning air, feeling the warmth of the cheap, disappointing coffee permeate across my palm, my attention being pulled in by the flashy shopfronts every time I strolled past, I didn’t think it was such a bad thing to enjoy the final… (I glanced at the numbers displayed in neat little text at the top of my phone)…year of this world.
Oh, I guess I didn’t really mention it at all.
I guess it’s just such a normal part of my life now, that I hadn’t even thought about it directly for a while now.
In exactly one year, 2XXX, this world will reach it’s final chapter.
But I suppose we’re in the midst of it right now, so epilogue might be more apt.