Friday, 31 May 2013


Rapacious for the experience of finally committing to his plan, 
Desmond held his secret close to him, like a precious gem that 
he had polished for a long,long time.
He wanted to kill, but not just any wanton whore that crossed 
his path.  He wanted it to be the perfect crime, executed in a 
grand, melodramatic way.  It would baffle the generations to 
Desmond sought to not only rid society of stupid women, but 
also to take a pop at the Police. A misogynist, always 
secretive in his dealings with others, he was on the rise
in his career as a Banker in the city.  Daily he could perform 
magic on the Stock Exchange floor, which intrigued his colleagues. 
They were constantly taking a pop at him, his wispy grey hair 
skirting his immaculate collar, the violet ink in his vintage 
fountain pen, the sea of empty chocolate wrappers that littered 
his desk, his disregard for the value of their proffered 
No, Desmond was not bothered about the opinions of others. 
His aim and motivation in life was to make a lot of money and 
create a perfect plan for the execution of women that he procured 
every weekend through his favourite agencies.
Desmond knew that his sexual preferences, bizarre to others but 
always acceptable to the hookers and call girls he employed, would 
one fine day lead him to the fulfilment of his crime.
Murder, he knew, would be a great high, a supercharged pop for him. 
His day was dawning, and his excitement was growing into a frenzied 
anticipation. He awoke on that particularly cool November morning, 
singing softly to himself:
"Half a pound of twopenny rice,
Half a pound of treacle,
That's the way the money goes
POP goes the weasel".
It was a Saturday, it was ' the'  day,  he knew it.  Today would 
bring  the culmination of all his planning.  Tonight he would perform 
the perfect murder. 
The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule 

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