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Auburndale was the epitome of small town. It has a population of around 500 and is the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. Most of the residents liked living there, preferring the quiet simplicity to the hustle and bustle of big city life. Besides, the residents figured, a small town is much safer than a big city. A small town doesn’t have many rapes or murders or carjackings or thefts. Small town crime mainly involved cattle tipping.

Or, at least, it did.


The Larson family was having dinner. Like most dinners, it was a nightly affair, starting with a prayer before moving on to eating and talking. Usually these were happy affairs, full of laugher and good fun.

Tonight was an exception.

“What do you mean you ‘had’ to cheat on that test?” Jeremiah Larson, father of Tom Larson and husband to Tara Larson, asked loudly.

“Well, if I wanted to pass the class, I needed to pass that test,” Tom replied back, not as loud.

“But cheating? Come on, Tom, you’re better than that! You have morals! Your mother and I raised you better than that!”

Tom opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it,” Tara said, glad to have an excuse to get away from the conversation.

She walked to the door, and opened it.

Standing before her was a woman clad in black, wearing some kind of body armor and a feminine looking white mask. But what really got Tara’s attention was the large gun the woman was holding.

She wasn’t aiming it at Tara though, instead holding it so the muzzle faced the floor.

“Hello?” Tara said, wondering why this woman was at her house. The woman responded by pointing the gun at Tara, and firing.

Back in the dining room, Tom and Jeremiah were still arguing. At least, they were before they heard the gunshot.

“What was that?” Tom asked, worried.

“I’m not sure. Go to your room, and I’ll handle it,” Jeremiah replied, also worried but trying to hide it.

Before Tom was able to go, the woman walked into the dining room, gun pointed at the two.

“Tom, go!” Jeremiah yelled.

The woman fired the gun, spraying the room with bullets. Tom and Jeremiah collapsed to the floor, dead and full of bullet holes, blood oozing in a puddle around them.

The woman walked to the bodies, bent down, and dipped her fingers in the blood. She brought her fingers up to her face, as if to examine the blood, then started using them to write on the wall.

She hoped Jeff saw this.


Jeff the Killer had decided it was time to leave DeSoto City. It wasn’t because he didn’t like it anymore; far from it. DeSoto City felt welcoming to the serial killer, full of places to hide and people to kill.

The problem was that he was starting to become too well known around the city.

Being a serial killer already makes a person somewhat high profile. Add to that an incredibly distinctive look, and suddenly it’s much harder to stay under the radar. And if idiots like that fanboy can find him, then the cops can’t be far behind. Jeff doesn’t mind attention; he does mind being arrested.

Of course, Jeff is used to moving around. Being a serial killer, one learns to be somewhat nomadic. Staying in the same place for too long makes it easier to be found. As such, Jeff has had to devise a way of moving around and not being noticed due to his look.

First, he covers his face in skin colored makeup and puts gloves on. That way, a lot of skin isn’t visible and the skin that is isn’t paper white. Then, he puts on a clean, non-bloodstained jacket, and puts his bloodstained hoodie and other essentials in a duffel bag. To hide the scars on his face, he wears a scarf over his mouth.

While he’s not completely inconspicuous, his identity is at least hidden.

To get from place to place, he takes the bus, using the money he occasionally takes from his victims (for necessity’s sake, of course; Jeff wasn’t a thief) for bus fare. He takes a few buses to get to some random city. He doesn’t have a logical path; it’s harder to track someone if they seem to be moving about at random.

That being said, his movements do have one constant: he goes to large cities. Cities, as a rule, are larger, have more victims, and more places to hide, which makes it harder to be found. Something like a small town doesn’t have that. Jeff figures it’s worth that small amount of predictability for those advantages.

After having done all of his preparations, Jeff made his way to the bus stop.

The bus stop was in front of an electronics store with multiple televisions in the windows. The televisions were playing the news.

“…breaking news: the serial killer known as ‘Jeff the Killer’ has killed a family in the small town of Auburndale.” The anchor said.

Jeff turned, surprised, and watched the news report. The report had cut to a shot of a house covered in police tape and swarming with cops. A man in a suit was standing in front of it.

“That’s right. Apparently Jeff the Killer, or someone claiming to be him, did indeed gun down a family of three in this house. Police aren’t sure if this the work of Jeff the Killer, since he’s known for using a knife, not a gun.” The man said.

Jeff’s eyes widened in shock and anger. Someone’s claiming to be him, and using a gun? A gun? How could they insult Jeff this way? Jeff the Killer doesn’t use a gun! Guns are loud and cause too much damage and aren’t subtle in the least. Knives though, knives are a true killer’s weapon.

Incredibly lethal, and gives the killer the extra advantage of being more up close and personal with their victim. If killing was an art, Jeff considered a knife a fine paintbrush. To him, a gun is the equivalent of throwing a bucket of paint at the canvas and calling it the Mona Lisa.

Whoever did this clearly wanted to get his attention. Even if he had to make a quick stop in a small town, Jeff would give this person exactly what they want.

After he was done, they’d regret wanting it.

Credited to Dorkpool 

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