Nasty Habit
by Curt Jeffreys

He lit another cigarette from the glowing ember of the stub, coughed, spat, crushed the stub to death with a twist of his heel. It was a nasty habit but smoking gave him so much pleasure it was hard to quit. It always seemed to him the nastier habits were the most fun. Besides, nicotine kept him sharp, focused, frosty; he wouldn't be able to do what needed to be done without that extra edge.

He took a deep pull, setting the tip all aglow, letting the cancerous fumes invade his lungs in an ecstasy of toxins. He shrugged himself deeper into his coat against the cold and headed back down Sixteenth Street.

The mall was busy today despite the chill. He smiled sardonically at the oh-so-important business types scurrying to and from meetings like rats sniffing out cheese. He understood these guys, knew what made them tick: There was money to be made and they were going to make it or die trying, that was priority number one. There was no number two. Forget family. Forget love. Forget your little boy waiting at home for his daddy. Daddy never came home, did he? No, he was too busy, too important. He couldn't be bothered with you or Mommy, could he? Mommy cried and cried and cried. Thank God he hadn't turned out like that. He understood there are more important things than money. He learned that from Mother. From Father he learned nothing.

He strolled down the mall, casual but not too casual. He took great pride in that. Overdone casual was a dead give away. Might as well hang a sign around your neck with neon lights flashing "Hey, look at me!" No, his was a studied, precise casualness he wore like a disguise. The idea was to be average, typical. Visible but not noticeable. Somebody might remember seeing someone but they'd never be able to describe you or pick you out of a lineup. Like a ghost blip on a radar screen, you want to be gone before your presence has time to fully register. He worked hard to achieve this level of anonymity, considered himself a master; his clothes were nice, but not too nice. His shoes were good shoes, but not expensive. When he walked he looked straight ahead, never down at the ground. Most importantly, he avoided direct eye contact. The eyes are the windows to the soul, that's what Mother always said, and you don't want strangers looking in your windows, do you?

He passed a gaggle of sweet young things huddled together for warmth, waiting for the next shuttle bus. He gave them a real smile. If any one of them looked at him he would make eye contact, smile and say“Hi.” But they didn't see him, they never did. He was invisible to them just as he was invisible to all women. All women except Mother.

He was cold and frustrated. Today was starting to look like a bust. He'd gone up and down the mall twice already and hadn't seen anyone he liked. No one fit the parameters. He lit another cancer stick, smoking it in his nonchalant way as he covertly studied the business stiffs walking by.

How about that one? His hair was right. Nah, he was half a foot too tall. His old man had barely been six foot.

Now that guy over there, he was perfect, a dead ringer, right height and build. But he was a maintenance worker. Blue collar. Unacceptable. The old man was a businessman. Suit and tie, all the time, even weekends.

He was about ready to call it quits and go home. Mother would be so disappointed.

A voice from behind said "Excuse me." A well dressed, distinguished looking gentleman brushed past him. From behind the guy was perfect. But what about the front? He dropped his cigarette and quickly caught up with his prospect, passing him on the left, carefully not looking at him as he slid by. He put some distance between them then turned left into a doorway, watching as the man went past.

This one was perfect, down to the last detail. Brown hair, slightly gray at the temples, cleft chin, green eyes, clean shaven. No glasses though, but never mind, that wasn't a deal breaker. Everything else was there, all other criteria had been met.

Look at him, so perfect, so poised, sauntering down the mall as if he owned the whole city. The old familiar rage rose inside him, lava hot, threatening to erupt.

Calm down, you idiot. You're going to blow it. He could kill for a cigarette.

He fell in behind his chosen one, matching his pace step for step. They were approaching the Broadway turn-around with all its traffic. If he was going to make his move it had to be here, had to be now. He moved beside his victim.

"Excuse me," he said in a not too loud voice, straining to control himself. "Would you happen to have a cigarette?"

The man slowed, stopped, turned. Fumbling under his expensive coat he produced a pack, shook one out with practiced ease and held it out with a empty smile.

He took the cigarette, held it to his lips, avoiding the man's eyes. "Light?"

The pack disappeared under the man's coat, magically replaced by a gold lighter. This the man flicked to life.

He bent low over the golden flame, taking a deep draw. Standing, he looked directly into his father's eyes. Old feelings, hot and juicy, rose from somewhere deep inside him, the betrayal, the abandonment, the disgust, the pure ecstatic hatred. His hands shook, his gut twisted. Time to free the beast.

He took a deep drag, coughed violently at the fumes, falling against the surprised man as spasms shook his body. The man held him up, slapping his back, asking if he was okay.

“Why did you leave? ” he hissed into his father's ear. “I was seven and needed my father. But I sure as hell don't need you now. ”

What happened next was so quick, so smooth it went totally unnoticed by at least a dozen passers-by. His hand slid under the man's open coat, his blade sliding between ribs, slicing through arteries with practiced precision. The pure joy, the absolute rush was like he imagined sex to be. God, it felt so good!

He steered the dying man onto a bench, thanked him for the cigarette then walked not too casually away. Alone on the bench the man slumped but did not fall, a tiny pool of blood quickly freezing on the pavement below him.

He was four blocks away before he dared stop. Safe at last, he turned to appraise the situation. No screams, no yelling, no police. No one had seen, no one had noticed. God, he was good.

He pulled a crumpled pack from his pocket, mouthed a cigarette and lit it. He coughed and spat.

Three times now he'd killed his father with no plans to stop. It was a nasty habit but it gave him so much pleasure it was just too hard to quit.