He thumbed through the pages swiftly. He knew that this time he had to be careful; purposeless on whom he would choose. Last time he almost got caught. His carelessness and disregard for detail practically gave him away. He knew that by choosing from the phonebook they couldn't identify a pattern that would link his sufferers together. His finger came to an abrupt halt. He had found her, the one who would ultimately be subsequent.

She had a good, wholesome name he thought. The kind of name that sounds like it came straight from the movies. To make sure no haphazard mistakes were made, he followed her. He learned everything about her, mannerisms and all, and learned about others associated with her. She was the kind of girl, he found out, that had enough friends that his work could earn enough TV coverage, but not enough for her story to be remembered.

She was pretty too. She was one of those girls who would not give him the time of day, let alone converse with him. This was going to be fun, he thought.

He decided to be meticulous with her. He was going to plan her death to the finest detail.

She lived by herself in a close knit neighborhood. That factor made it especially difficult, for recent victims lived relatively far from others, so they were easy. He always loved a challenge though; at least that is what his mother said.

The night had come. All day his nerves were jumbled and his stomach was in knots. This always happened; he would get anxious before a slaying. He packed his gloves and only his gloves. That was all he used. He didn't want trivial things like cable and chain to get in the way of his pleasure. He left his home around 11:32 that night. As he drove over to her home, sweat began to gather on his upper lip and his hands slipped on the steering wheel as if it were coated with grease. He parked down the block, in a driveway of a home for sale. As he walked up the road, putting on his gloves, he thought about how fine this was going to be and how it was such a marvelous scheme to choose his up and coming casualty from the phonebook.

By the time he reached her front door his nerves had settled. He was ready for this...he was born ready. He first tried to turn the door knob and to his surprise it opened without omission. Maybe this is a sign of what is to come he thought. As he made his way through her home slowly he began to get excited. He wanted to do this so bad. It was like a horrid addiction he couldn't drop. He had finally made his way to her bedroom door. As he cracked open the door, his heart began to race and his adrenaline began to pump.
He made his way to her bed and watched over her, hovered even. He admired her beauty. He wringed his hands together and began his work. He slowly put his hands around and strangled her. She quickly woke up, startled for she couldn't breathe. He stopped for a second so he could show her what she was missing. He let her inhale a huge gasp of air then he began his handicraft again. He did this continuously. He loved it, it was an internal euphoria.

He had done it. She was finally inert. He took his time and tucked her in. He made his way back to the front door and down to the driveway holding his car. Whilst driving home he contemplated what he had done. He was pleased of himself. There was no way he could get caught. He was safe from prosecution. Once he arrived home he took off his gloves and went to bed, satified and fullfilled.
A week or two went by without a word. He was disappointed. No TV coverage, no talk of how "a genius could only pull this off". He wanted to be known. He began to think of what he would do now, well, rather whom he would do now. But there was no need for that. That afternoon, they talked about her, that hollywood girl. Surprisingly, the police said they had a few leads.

He began to worry. He thought he had planned this correctly, safely. There was no way they knew it was him, no way. That night he couldn't sleep. He kept thinking that this was it for him, no more butcherings, no more rhapsodic nights. That morning he recieved a knock on his door. He didn't want to answer but they knew he was home. He opened the door with some degree of hesitation. It was them, they had a search warrent. He tried not to act suspicious or shaken but he was sure it showed. He knew though, that they wouldn't find anything. He was wrong. He never threw away his gloves. He was so busy being joyous, he forgot to get rid of them.

They took him in for questioning. He had nothing, no alibi, no witnesses to cover for him. He was ill prepared. He stayed strong for the first hour or so but soon realized the end was near, there was no reason to keep up this charade any longer. He confessed. He had one question though. How did they know to check his house? How did he possibly come up to be a suspect? It just so happens there was a common factor between each of his victims. If you took the first letter of each of their names in a certain order it spelled out his. He couldn't believe it. How was this possible?! He had recklessly chosen her name from a phonebook. He was sure that there was NO link, NO connection.

He couldn't have been more mistaken.