Pop!

Desmond
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 

come.
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 

friendship.
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. 

Pop!

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule