Pro.

 In 1997, 14-year-old Wyatt Badgley went missing. He disappeared in May, and was found in July. No, found isn’t the right word. Discovered is more fitting. His body showed signs of consumption assumed to be cannibalism. His absent father, thought to be the killer (due to him having the assumed murder weapon, a rather sizeable axe, opportunity, given his lack of alibi, and monetary motive, it being clear that the insurance company would pay him if and when one of his direct family members had died) was put on death row in August, but was taken off in October. This is because three more killings were committed in the exact manner of Wyatt’s: the arms were severed, the canines pulled, and a one-inch square of skull was missing from the forehead. Another thing shared with the four: each had their torsos skinned while they were alive. For a majority of them, they died from the mere shock of the pain alone. Not Wyatt. The people that examined his body said that he was able to feel every second of the skinning, of his teeth being pulled from his skull, of his arms being torn off. He didn’t get his relief until the killer finally shot him at point-blank range through the cranium.

 The perpetrator of the heinous crime was James Juniper, 16 years of age at the time. This monster was first known as the Chicago Slicer, until, in late 1998, Julia January was found dead in Hershey, Pennsylvania. She was the 26th victim of the menace, and he was then known as the Pestilence of Pennsylvania, and even later as The Great Pretender, due to his pattern of copycat killings (there were four killers he seemed to imitate: H. H. Holmes, Jeffery Dahmer, the Zodiac Killer, and Jack the Ripper. They were known as his Cursed Four).

His crimes came to a halt, him having 143 confirmed kills, in 2001, always somehow alluding capture. His car was reported to have been in an accident, investigators at the scene determining that he’d suffered a severe brain injury. Much of the public say that the wreck, “knocked something loose” and it made him not want to kill anymore. I disagree. I say the coward fled, leaving the body of poor Tonya Winkle behind, only 30 years old at the time. The crash left his DNA at the scene along with his license plates, so the police are left with no doubt about the perpetrator: one Mr. James Juniper, as I’ve said before.

With a decade of no reported “Slicings,” I think it’s safe to say that the mystery menace has put away his axe for good. I also think it’s now safe to properly critique the mad-man. Bring his flaws to light and show that he’s no unstoppable beast- he’s just a human. A cruel, twisted, vile wretch, but a human nevertheless…

1.

The Year was 2011, and Laramie “Lars” Lorde just completed his first full article. The entire text was laying into the Chicago Slicer, a long disappeared serial killer, the Chicago Slicer, criticizing him and his work. Lars, walking his work to his boss, bumps into his coworker. Papers soar to the sky and flutter to the ground like the feathers of a befallen bird.

“Ho, jeez. Sorry about that, Lars. Here, let me help ya there…” He said, leaning over to help organize the hoary mess of leaves.

“Don’t mention it, Tom.” Lars pinched his fingers between his brow. He hadn’t published anything good in months, and saw this as his last chance. Some would say he was taking a risk. He’d always respond with, “I’m just writing the story everyone else is too scared to write,” which was true, given the stories of the last journalist that made an attempt to besmirch the psychopath’s name went mad and was brutally torn apart.

But Lars is a strong advocate that life without a good job isn’t a life worth living, and he had a good job.

“Whatcha writing about here, Lars?” Tom asked, his hand caressing his hair, brown with hints of Vermillion. Being Tom, his other hand was leafing through Lars’ work without his permission, reading abstract parts of each page as he got to it.

“Mind your own business, Tom.” But it was too late. Tom stopped in his tracks as if he was shot dead, slowly looking up at Lars with a look of sheer and unbridled terror on his face. “Don’t tell me, Lars…”

“I’m not gonna, Tom.” That last word had a harsh bite to it as he ripped his pages from his cold, pale hands.

“If I could give ya advice there, Lars boy-”

“I don’t need your advice, Tom. Moreover, I don’t want your advice. Just keep walking and leave me to my own business.” He pushed past the concerned Thomas and put his papers back in their order. In twenty minutes, his boss’ face was an echo of Tom’s distress.

“Is it not good, Sir?” Lars patiently asked

“No, no. It’s good. It’s really good. Just… Are you sure you want to publish a story about… him?”

“With all due respect, sir, this monster hasn’t been spotted in an entire decade. The coward fled. If he didn’t have the guts to face the music then, he wouldn’t risk getting caught now.”

“I’m not afraid of he himself coming back, but he has a rather sizable… Fanbase. We don’t entirely know what they’re capable of when provoked.”

Lars, frustrated and tired, stood in his exasperation. “Dear lord, everyone here acts as if these people are unstoppable demons! As if they could rip through twelve scores of fully-armed officers with the utmost ease bare-handed. They all are just humans! Just like you. Just like me.” Suddenly, Lars had the realization of what he was doing. He embarrassedly sat back down in his seat with downcast eyes. “Sorry for the outburst, Mr. Bellagamba, sir. I’ve just… I’ve been stressed lately.”

“It’s okay, Lars.” Mr. Bellagamba sighed. “Look, I’ll publish it for you.” Lars’ ears perked up. “Just,” he continued, “Be careful, alright? You may be right about this Slicer fear being mere paranoia. But just because it’s paranoia doesn’t mean it’s foundationless.”

Lars stood up and shook Bellagamba’s large, callused hand. “Thank you! Thank you so much, sir!” As he excitedly rushed out of the office, Bellagamba concernedly mumbled “Yeah, don’t mention it…”

2.

Lars’ scathing indictment of the madman was a huge success. It was the only opinion-driven written word on the Slicer since 1998, so consumers devoured each word like it was their last meal. Lars climbed to fame, going as far as to begin writing a full novel, his memoirs, titled, “My Onus of Truth.”

 But, amongst the fame and glory that Lars amassed, there was one worrying letter that was delivered mere weeks after Lars’ article was released into the wild. It was a small envelope, inside held a paper no bigger than a business card (of which Lars now had many). The words were few, but gave Lars gooseflesh any time he’d thought of it since. On it read, “Read your Paper. I have notes.” Lars kept it in his nightstand, expecting more- but there was nothing. For years this harrowing hypercritic, this alleged faultfinder has been silent. Lars never discovered if this ominous correspondent forgot about him… Or if they’ve been lying in wait this whole time.

It hardly mattered. It was just a prank, anyways.

What truly concerned Lars is his publishing meeting on My Onus of Truth, in which he described his feelings on the Chicago Slicer as he did all those years ago.

He approached the daunting building, the revolving door sounding like a tornado’s train-whistle to him- a threat, a risk. Lars wasn’t great at risks. But, if he did it once before, he could do it again.

The elevator climbed the ancient shaft with the efficiency an industrialized world had come to expect. Lars’ knees shook, but felt as the iron hearse halted at floor seven: three floors away from his true destination. The solid wall of the box slid open, per the usual, and on stepped a grizzled young man.

He looked a little older than thirty, but you could tell reconstructive surgery was done on his face. The man stepped into the elevator, it now felt like a steel tomb in a more literal sense. Lars was uncomfortable around this taciturn person, even more so when the silent figure started to talk in his low, raspy, and haunting voice.

“Oh, it seems like we’re goin’ to the same place, stranger.” He chuckled. Lars didn’t know why, but he was silent. He drowned in the still air, movement withheld by intense fear. A primal fear. Like his body could sense danger that he could not. Lars looked at the man’s name tag, reading “Stan” upon it, and thought wild thoughts to himself.if 

He’s the right age Lars pondered. Right build, height. He doesn’t look like James Juniper, but he could’ve swapped faces… What if he’s-

Lars’ train of silent, wild accusation came to a screeching halt, unlike the elevator, which had slowed into a peaceful resting stop. Stan walked off, and Lars ran to the bathroom. He immediately fell to the floor and, for the first time in years now, began to cry. Not one tear nor two, but a waterfall upon his face and a downpour unto the clay ground. He held his fear in his chest for near a half-decade, and this was the outburst.

Was he the Slicer? That question was the impetus for Lars’ breakdown and he knew it.

No, no. It’s just paranoia. It’s all okay. Everything is going to turn out exactly the way it needs to go, and it needs to go well. There’s no other choice, no other outcomes.

Lars’ silent affirmations to himself gave him the strength to stand and stride to the meeting with the utmost confidence.

3.

On his drive home, everything reminded Lars of his worries. His mind was a broken record playing one track, and it was Lars’ most hated song: The Chicago Slicer. The man that copied four killers, The Great Pretender himself. Lars often pondered how, if the killer struck while he was a journalist, he’d be unafraid to write about him. It would bring others to do the same, and the monster would no longer be a faceless name, but a human. A human like everyone else.

But he wasn’t like everyone else, was he? Not everyone kills over a hundred people. Not everyone evades the police for decades.

Not Everyone makes me break down in a bathroom, he thought.

And there it was. Thoughts of Stan, the silent and eerie maintenance man. He could’ve been the killer, sure. But so could ten thousand others in Philadelphia. James Juniper, The Chicago Slicer, was the epitome of the Basic Man. He was five-foot-nine, a fair caucasian complexion, brown hair with brown eyes. Not muscular, but not fat nor lean. That’s how he got through life. He hid with the crowd, the only way you’d figure out anything was wrong with him was either if you had an instinct deep within your mind, or if he was cutting off your arms in his murderous rage.

Then, Lars’ phone suddenly sprang to life. He slowed to take it out and read the name on the small screen: Henry Lorde. He moved the phone to his ear and answered.

“Hankie, what’s going on?” Lars exclaimed. “Oh, it’s going, Lars.” Replied Hank. “Just called to see how your little Publishing meeting went.” “It went swimmingly, Hank. Fantastic, as expected. I’ll be published in no time.” Lars sat silently for a moment, but then spoke up as if his lungs were possessed. “Something weird happened today.” He blurted, not realizing he even spoke until he was done.

“What’s that?” Hank asked absent-mindedly. “Well,” began Lars, “there was a maintenance man…” “As there typically are” Interrupted Hank. “No, Hank, he was anything but typical, that’s the problem. He just… Gave me a feeling. Like I should fear him.”

“Interesting.” Remarked Hank. “Well, you could look at this a number of ways. Paulo Coehlo would tell you that the Language of the World can be found in anything.” “You want me to place my faith in a fictional novel?” Lars was almost offended at the thought that Hank could even begin to insult his intelligence like that. “No, no. You’re not that kind of guy, Laramie. That’s why I think you should look at this logically: you were worried about your publishing meeting, you stifled your true emotions with a veil of confidence, and you blew up. It happens, we’re all just humans.”

Lars was frustrated. “No, you don’t understand, Hank. I think he’s…” Lars trailed off. “He’s whom?” Lars took a deep breath and, in the exhale, said, “The Chicago Slicer.”

A mass of guffaws erupted from the other end. Lars was inching towards the illuminated crimson button when Hank stifled his laughter with concern and confusion and replaced it with the inquiry “Wait, are you serious right now?”

“Yes! I don’t joke about him, Hank. I never have, I never do." Hank audibly sighs on the other end. "Okay, so you saw the Chicago Slicer. On an elevator. In a publisher's office." Several seconds went by until Lars broke the stale silence. "I never said it was him. I just… I got a feeling from him. A vibe, if you would." "I would not." Immediately replied Hank. "Look," said Lars, nearing his abode, "I know I'm just crazy. I've just been getting bad feelings for… For a long time now."

"I'm just saying you've nothing to worry about, Lars. Look, if it makes you feel better, you could try therapy." Lars was offended by the mere thought. "Hank, therapy's for the… Well, for those that are crazed, desperate, or foolish." Now was Hank's turn to feel offended. "Excuse me, Lars, but I happen to have regular appointments with my therapist." "That says far more of you than me, Henry." Lars cut him off by pressing his thumb firmly into the bright maroon button as he jammed his phone into his pocket. He trudged up the stairs to his apartment, reaching his door: 4G. All the way up his mind frantically danced the line of thinking all of his thoughts at once, as well as none at all. His hands meticulously flipped through his few keys, finding the right one and plunging it into the dark, cavernous slit. His hand twisted the ellipsoidal yellow-copper handle and entered his darkened domicile. But such a jovial task as turning on one's lights and entering their home turned sour as Lars looked upon hundreds of newspapers lining his floor. From headlines such as "The Slicer Strikes Again: Body of Ms. Georgia Blue found…" and "Badgley Family states: We Just Want Our Son…" In the center of this execrable cacophony was just what Lars feared would be. Lars stepped towards the center, as if getting closer would change what it was. The title read, "A Monster, a Menace; but a man: by Lars Lorde." He fell once more to the ground as his fingers fumbled to the buttons on his phone, tears starting to run down his face and soak into the black-bolded letters of malice and horror.

The police were in and out within a few numbered hours. Most said it was a prank, trying to soothe Lars. But Lars was irreconcilable, incessant and unremitting in his strong belief that The Chicago Slicer was back. Not a copycat. Not a prankster. Not a fan. The Great Pretender himself.

When the last police officer exited the premises, Lars once again felt the crushing weight of his eerie solidarity. He immediately went to his computer and, after searching for several minutes, booked a therapy session a week from yesterday.

"Here's to hoping…" Mumbled the affrighted and concerned journalist. He sat down on his couch, awaiting a sleepless night, and mumbled once more, "Here's to possibly making it that long."

4.

Lars stared at the chrome windows of the bleak tower. He entered the lobby, a direct facsimile of every single one he's seen before. A fern next to a chair. Several elevators welcomingly lining the stone-patterned walls. A polite doorman, easy on the eyes, but not distracting to the point of noticing him. It was like every other lifeless building he's entered. Except, with the others, he felt at ease with the calming stillness of the air. In here the air was solid and the lights were blinding. This simplistic and empty room might as well have been a catacomb in Lars' mind, the liminal area closing in as he leaned on the wall.

"Nervous, are we?" Asked the door man, the Bronx neighborhood being laden in his voice.

"Oh, well… Yeah, I suppose so, Mister…" Lars leaned in to see the doorman's uniform and read the small plastic rectangle embroidered with the polite man's proper appellation. "…J. Siman"

"Whatcha here for?" He smiled a warming smile, one that Lars felt comfortable with to tell him his purpose in being here. "I'm having my first appointment in… therapy." As he said it, his mind screamed at him. It almost seemed as if he were in denial the days leading up to now. "Now, don't say it like hellfire's gonna rain down from above, man. It's pretty common, nowadays."

"Yeah, but I'm not common." The words seemed to escape Lars without consent nor consciousness, as if words seeded deep within Lars' mind. He swiftly left for the elevator, knowing what he'd said was a clear indication of some kind of Superiority Complex. And if I can just Self-Diagnose like that, why do I even need this place? He thought. But even he knew that was ludicrous. Shrugging off the mild embarrassment he felt in that linoleum purgatory, he stepped off as he approached the sixth floor. He then walked into a space oversaturated with motivational posters and inspirational quotes. He read them all, from Carol Burnett's "When you have a dream, you've got to grab it and never let go," to Rabindranath Tagore's "Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky," each one giving him one thought and one thought only: This is Ridiculous.

“Welcome… Lars, was it?” The therapist was a male, possibly Asian-American, neither chiseled, nor thin, nor soft. A light brush of ebony hair caressed his chin and cheeks. The light cascading in behind him made it as if he were almost a deity or messiah, a great and holy man come to save all from their problems and worries alike. His words echoed once more in his ears, This is Ridiculous.

“Yes it is.” Replied Lars, who was far too interested in deducing the room he was in and the therapist himself than focusing on actually talking to him. “You may sit, Mr. Lorde.” Lars was hesitant, but compliant. This wasn’t to say he didn’t still focus more on the room about him than the session itself. He studied everything with exact detail, from the sticker on his laptop reading, “Love is Love,” to yet another poster on his wall, “Nothing is impossible. The word itself says ‘I'm possible!’ — Audrey Hepburn.” Those words made Lars wish he’d had the room alone so he could vomit in the trash can. “You wrote the Chicago Slicer piece, no?” The name cut through Lars’ mind like a railroad spike.  

“Well, I see that got your attention.” The therapist, Mike, almost smiled to himself. “May we start with that?” Lars was still pale as an apparition, but soldiered through. “Okay… So, as we’ve established, I wrote an article that The Chicago Slicer was the topic of.” Lars began. “Soon after that, I received a note from an anonymous source that said it had some ‘notes’.” “And you dislike criticism of your work?” Lars stopped in confusion for a beat, but regained his composure. “No, Mr. Pasquesi-” “Please, my father is Mr. Pasquesi, call me Mike.” Lars took those words to blow up in a steaming pile of rage finally boiling over. In a stream of curses and profanities, Lars exclaimed about the stress of publishing, the ‘stupidity’ of the quotes in the building, the cold, heartless, and ominous building, and J. Siman, the well-meaning doorman. Mike calmly sat back and watched Lars supernova into oblivion, waiting for the dust to settle so he could get a word in edgewise.

“My apologies, Mr. Lorde. My intention wasn’t to offend you. Would you mind telling me what the significance is of this letter you were sent?” Lars, realizing he was on his feet, sat back down. “Er, yeah. I know I'm just crazy, but…” Lars took a deep breath. “I had a feeling the Slicer himself wrote the letter.” Mike sat silent for naught but a moment. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Lars. Stressed, sure. But not crazy. Your feelings and instincts are valid, and I don’t want you to think that I don’t believe they are.”

Lars perked up like a dog. “So you believe me?” He feverishly asked. Mike seemed to hesitate, before continuing his thoughts. “I do believe you have valid emotions and that whoever sent you that letter did so without the best intentions. But I do apologize in advance, because I don’t think the Slicer is the one that wrote the note.” Lars’ heart sank. “But,” continued the young psychiatrist, “that should be good news. That means there’s not a large chance that a mysterious maniacal serial murderer is after you.” Lars thought for a moment. It occurred to him that he’d been so hellbent on being correct that he ignored the fact that, if he was, then he’d be in severe mortal danger. It’s almost as if he separated the thoughts of his thirst for being right and his paranoia of the Slicer being after him, when the two thoughts are one and the same.

“It looks as if someone’s had an epiphany.” Mike did look happy with that. “Yes, I… Thank you, Mike.” The young psychiatrist brushed it off. “I just handed you the bike. You’re the one who pedaled. Now, if you’d like, we can schedule a full session next week and see where it goes from there. Lars agreed and exited the wing. It wasn’t until he reached the brass-laden doors of the elevator that he’d realized his notepad was left in Pasquesi’s office. As he approached the door, he heard his therapist talking in hushed tones.

“No, ma’am, I’m telling you. My patient mentioned a door man by the name of Siman, but I’ve never heard of this place even having a doorman. For Christ’s sake, the building has a revolving door! What would we need one for?”

Lars stood in disbelief. He left once more without his notepad, and descended the great behemoth of the building. Once again, the elevator was a hearse, but instead of carrying the living inside, it carries not but a husk. It wasn’t until Lars stepped off that he sprung back into animation. He saw “J. Siman” leaving the premises, and Lars bound to him like a fox to a rabbit.

He finally caught up with the kind-looking doorman. Lars balled up the sides of his collar and lifted him into the air, pushing him against a wall.

“You son of a-” Lars was a teething pot of rage. The doorman looked at him with horror and confusion. “What? I- Excuse me, sir, but I don’t know what you mean.” Lars’ head felt like it was both underwater and in the sky at the same time. A great clamp of pressure was crushing him, and the only way to get out alive was this man.

“Don’t try me, Juniper! You are a freak! I should bash in your head on the street right now!” At that moment, the man started to laugh. A horrid guffaw that gave Lars gooseflesh. A crooked smile. “Sorry, I couldn’t hold my composure, Larry-boy.” Lars dropped the maniac as he brushed himself off, looked back up to Lars and said, “Ready for those notes, Lorde?”

The next forty minutes was a blur. His mind only truly began again when he was approaching a highway. He collapsed on the roadside as he fumbled for his phone. With shaking fingers he pressed hard on the screen, pressing the call button and moving the phone to his ear.

“Hank…” His voice was shaky and quiet, as if it were an ancient relic untouched for many a year. “I need some help.”

Hank took an hour trying to find exactly where Lars was lying, Lars having not moved in that time. Hank exited his car and knelt down beside his cousin. “Are you okay, Lars?” He sounded truly concerned for Lars’ condition.

“I was… I need… Hank.” Lars failed to gain steady footing on any solid thought. His blood felt like fire ants in his veins, tearing him apart as he lay there, near catatonic. Hank stood up and extended his hand to Lars, smiling. “Come on, let’s talk about it in the car.”

Lars was silent as Hank drove, until they approached his house. “No, not there.” The drowsy figure in Hank’s passenger side had jumped up back into the Lars that he knew.

“And why is that?” Hank was fairly confused at the situation.

 “He’ll find me, Hank. We need to go to the Police.”

 “We’re not going to do that.” “And why not?” Lars was yelling, his eyes full of terror and strife.

 “Listen, Lars. I can’t keep perpetuating this cycle of insanity! Somebody has to tell it to you straight- The Chicago Slicer isn’t hunting you! Is some lunatic trying to leverage the psychopath’s fame against you to try and make it big? Maybe. But you thinking that the elusive killer, uncaught for decades, has suddenly risked his own safety to chase specifically you down is just a sign of your raging narcissism!” As if timed by the Devil herself, Lars’ phone rang. The caller was none other than the Pittsburgh Police Department.

5.

 “Mr. Lorde. Please, have a seat.” Chief Dunham, a greyed, grizzled man, bulky and quite menacing, with a calming voice. Lars did as the man said, quite pensive about learning why he was called in.

 “So, Mr. Lorde. You’ve said that you believe that the so-called ‘Chicago Slicer’ has been chasing you as of late, am I right?” The Chief’s breath was an appalling and offensive cacophony of Coffee and Cigarettes. Lars nearly gagged on his words as the stench filled the room. Almost distracting the distraught reporter even in this unthinkable situation.

 “That is correct sir. Exactly why did you call me down here?” Lars hadn’t the time to dance around the true motif of this conversation.

 “Ah, yes. You see, we’ve come into some… Disturbing evidence recently. It is our current working theory, after our last case in which fit the killer in question’s MO, that the Great Pretender isn’t dead.” The hulk of a man seemed to pause, as if letting Lars process this information. Lars, on the other hand, sat in his seat, unfazed.

 “I know. I told you.” “Yes well… Us at the station do apologize-” Lars stood and cut him off. “No need to apologize, sir. I understand your doubt. I understand… everyone’s doubt. Even my own.” At the tail end of that sentence, Lars looked, unfocused and introspective, at his feet on the ground.

 “There’s one more thing, Mr. Lorde.” Chief Dunham’s words slung Lars back into reality like an axe to the head. “You’ll have to go through WitPro for a little while. At least until we’ve this situation under control. You can grab a couple of things from your home, but we leave at 7:30 PM today, sharp. Be there.” Dunham’s last words seemed to bite Lars as the giant spoke them.

 Lars was escorted home by two officers. They stopped at his house with a jolt, turning back to look at Lars as the car settled. “You’ve thirty minutes. Only grab what you can’t leave at home. We can provide you with clothes, and have contacted your family, employers, and landlord about your current situation. If you’ve anyone else that would need to know, now would be the time. You won’t get a chance to communicate with them while you’re under the care of the Witness Protection Service. Do you understand, Mr. Lorde?” It’s like I won the world’s worst free vacation Lars thought, but “Yes I do” was all he said.

 Lars grabbed a suitcase of his belongings to take with him, containing some photographs, sentimental knick-knacks, and, he thought to himself, my notebook. As Lars looked around his room for a moment, he stopped and laughed. His laughter didn’t end, and each time it seemed to stop it only swung and came back like a mad pendulum. Lars was just picturing the young Mike Pasquesi putting Lars’ notebook in one of his desk drawers, expecting him to come back for it. And, when Lars didn’t, he’d try to call. When that didn’t work, he’d try to wait until their next appointment. The more Lars thought about it, the more he laughed. His laughs tore deep into the sides of his lungs and tears burst from his eyes once more like the bursting of a dam, their rain causing a small downpour onto Lars’ bedroom floor. Lars then collected himself and his belongings, and left.

 While on his way descending the stairs, Lars spotted a familiar face. “Well, wouldn’t ya know it, Mister Lars Lorde! Do ya live here, bud?” Tom reached out his hand to shake Lars’. “Hey, Tom, how’s it going?” “Oh, it’s going alright. I’ve a date with a mighty pretty lady in your building.” Lars just noticed the flowers in Tom’s fist. “Attaboy, Tommy.” Tom started to walk again, but Lars spoke up again. “Hey, Tom?” Tom spun back around. “Yeah, Lars?” Tom’s voice indicated that he noticed the rising seriousness in Lars’ tone. “I need your advice.” Finished Lars.

 “Really? It seems you’ve done fairly well the last time ya ignored my advice, bud.” Lars chuckled. “I wouldn’t say so, Tommy…” Tom stood for a moment, mulling over his thoughts. “I’d say, no matter what ya do in your life, ya don’t compromise your morals, and ya always look out for others- even if they wouldn’t do the same for ya, but especially look out for them if they would. Other than that, keep outta trouble, look both ways, and follow your nose, pal.” Lars watched as Tom walked off once more, getting one last look at the man. His advice would’ve seemed pointless and moronic a couple weeks ago, but now? Now, they were a great help to Lars. With that mental note, he continued down the stairs, following his nose the entire time.

 Lars was sent to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The cold air bit Lars as he stepped out of the police car. He was met by two officers standing guard at the gates of his home. Their name tags read ‘Naill’ and ‘Sylvester’ respectively. “Welcome home, Mr. Lorde” said Chief Dunham. “We’ll have good surveillance on this place for a little while. At least until we think the Slicer has stepped back for a while. These boys are out here on day shift right now,” Dunham pointed at Naill and Sylvester, “and Naill even has night-shift.”

 “Lost a coin toss.” The voice made Lars pivot left as he saw it came from the large-nosed Naill. “Oh, uh… Cool” responded Lars. “Well, it’s back to the Keystone State for me. If you’ve any concerns, holler out to the local Chief Extine ‘round here.” He shook Lars’ hand. “I’ll be seeing you, son,” he said. “Until then, Chief.” Lars retreated into his new temporary home, recalling his new identity from the briefing: Connor Koval. 24. Born in Hartford, Connecticut.

6.

 Lars laid in his bed, sleep ever alluding his troubled mind. He was right. The police chief said it himself. Lars was so convinced of his correctness when everyone around him said he was wrong, but now that he has undeniable proof, it felt so… Unreal. Like someone was pulling a prank on him. Like the doorman, the Police Chief, Officers Naill and Sylvester, Pasquesi the therapist, even Hank, were just going to pop out of his closets with one discordant, ‘Boo!’ and the nightmare would be over. And Lars could laugh and go to sleep.

 He tiredly looks at his digital watch, provided by the Portsmouth Police Department, and reads the time aloud to himself. “Three in the morning. Thursday, December third.” He thought to himself for a moment, the date sounding so familiar, until he had it. “My book comes out today.” He’d no idea if they were even still releasing it. Knowing the greed-fueled underbelly of the business world, being a part of that world, Lars figured they were. Even if it angered the Slicer, even if it endangered Lars. They had a contract, and they were going to stick with their schedule.

 Lars thought of his book as a distraction to his life right now, but it didn’t work. He thought of the book being put on the shelf, but then The Slicer picked it up. Lars thought of the publishing company releasing a social media post promoting their release, and there was the Great Pretender reading it. Every time Lars veered his train of thought one direction, that menace, that Pestilence of Pennsylvania, that monstrous freak of a man would steer his mind for him. Lars stood up and walked out into the cold air, leaned against his gate, and his dry voice left his throat like an exhale. “And how’re you two doing?” He asked the officers.

 Days blurred together as Lars knew nothing of the world outside of this property. He stopped watching television weeks ago. The only thing anyone had any thoughts about was The Chicago Slicer, anyways. Instead, he got to know Officers Naill, Sylvester, and Michaels. They were the ones that actually talked to Lars like a human, nowadays. He only interacted with his guardsman police officers, but a majority of them just saw him as an object to safeguard. This was never confirmed, but Lars figured his last hunch was right on the nose, so he was going to trust in his instincts.

 He laid awake once more, it becoming a habit at this point, as he scratched his coarse, rough facial hair. He looked at his illuminated watch, and whispered to himself. “Six in the morning, Thursday, January fourteenth.” He began to shut his eyes for the first time in days. Tomorrow was the first day no officers would stand warden over Lars’ safety. He almost forgot about his predicament- until he heard shots fired. He bolted out of his bed, hoping that it was all in his head. But no dreams come true in desperation. He saw a man past his gate, approaching the door. The only barrier between me and the closest mortal incarnation of Death Itself. Lars stared at the figure sliding towards his small abode. Lars let a scream escape his lips, it growing from a yelp to a primordial screech of terror. The walls were closing in on Lars. The ceiling was caving in. The floor was rising, and the door was inching closer and closer. Lars heard the infinitesimally loud raps on the door, a cold, soulless voice droning with two words, “Knock knock.” He was lavishing in Lars’ misery. He loved every second that he spent torturing the young man. Lars listened to a deafening slam on the door as he fell to the ground. Slam. Lars scrambled to try to stand. Slam. He watched the hinges on the old door start to unfasten. Slam. Lars started to run down his hall. Slam. The dilapidated door dropped off of its hinges and the Slicer slid through the door.

 His face obscured by shadow, he flicks on a light, a blinding, overwhelming light that knocks Lars to the floor once more, looking back to see the maniac looming over his paralyzed figure, the menace having a small, bleeding gash on his left cheek. “Heya, Laramie. Haven’t seen you in too long. How’s the family?” His mouth grew into an impossibly wide smile, reaching both sides of his face with bone-chilling ease. Lars was then lifted by his collar to his feet. The Great Pretender brushed off his shoulders and stepped back to look at him, a cackle beginning to release from his lungs. He looked around the room as he spoke. “No, no. Not here. Not now.” Then, in a twisted and jerky movement, he locked eyes with his victim. “We’re gonna have a little fun, aren’t we?” He spoke to Lars like a stranger does to a dog. “I am going to count to one-hundred, and you are going to run. You are going to hide. And I am going to find you. But remember, Larry-boy, there are two rules: Play fair, no weapons, and no running to your little Friends in blue. If you break either of these rules…” His smile was dropped as he placed a firm, irremovable grip onto Lars’ forearm. He pulled the quivering husk closer to him so he could whisper a raspy breath of a whisper into his ear. “I will mangle everyone in my way to get to you, tear your extremities off of your body, and make you watch as I mutilate anyone and everyone you’ve ever known and loved. Maybe I could start with that Hank fellow. He seems like a… Screamer”

 Lars stood as still as the walls surrounding him. As he stood and tried to comprehend what was just told to him, the Slicer put his hands around his eyes like a four-year-old, and bellowed out numbers in a sequential order, and in a bludgeoning rhythm. “One… Two… Three…” That’s when Lars ran. He could hear the psychopath count louder the further he got. Four. Lars scrambled for the car parked outside of his building. Five. He reached in his pocket, but found nothing. He didn't have the keys. Six. He thought as hard as he could as to whom could have them, and then a name popped into his mind: Officer Naill. James Juniper had still been counting as Lars was going through his dilemma, each syllable like a timebomb. Eleven. Lars ran to the desecrated remains of the kind-hearted law enforcement officers. He gagged as he tried to take the keys from their pockets, noticing their guns had been taken off of their bodies. Blood stained his arms as he wrestled the small, silver paramount to Lars’ escape out from the shells of formerly living, breathing, talking human beings. Lars didn’t realize it, but he was crying. But he was doing that so much lately, it wouldn’t have fazed him if he’d realized it. Nineteen. Lars bolted to the car and floored it, going from zero to seventy-five in a matter of seconds. He listened to the beautiful symphony of silence as the Slicer’s voice faded into nothing.

7.

 Lars looked at the gas meter behind the wheel like a ticking clock, counting down to his inevitable demise. He pulled into a gas station and walked up to the pump, but realized he’d no money, so he just walked in the building to try and relax. He leaned against a shelf and watched the television suspended on the ceiling behind the counter. It was on the Channel Eight News, reporting on, of course, the Chicago Slicer. The screen read, “The Return of the Great Pretender: Copycat, Hoax, or the reappearance of the Chicago Slicer himself?” It showed footage of a man with a similar build walking out of a house: the place Lars was just staying at for weeks. Lars felt his heart sink to the floor.

 “Eh, gonna buy something or not?” The rough and raspy voice of the old, disheveled man behind the counter snapped Lars back into the world around him. “Pardon?” Lars was still dazed, and the man’s words didn’t seem to make an impression in Lars’ mind. “Either buy something…” The man leaned over the counter to get closer to Lars’ face, “…Or beat it.” Lars thought it nearly comical that this man thought he could intimidate him. Lars sauntered out of the store and started for a nearby wooded area. The sun peeked through the thick brush like golden arms reaching down with their blessed warmth, a contrast to the bitter cold Lars has felt for a while now. During his walk, his mind was silent. For once, he had peace.

 In a few minutes, Lars happened upon a small cabin. Its door was torn off of its hinges, the large room inside having not but two chairs, a small table, and a chess set. “I always wanted to learn how to play chess…” Lars’ voice was quiet and somber. A shiver traveled up his back, so he knelt down to start a fire. He had to look around for kindling so the fire would stay lit, and found a book. The title read, “My Onus of Truth.” Lars laughed to himself as he tore out pages to fuel the dancing, twisting orange flames, greedily lapping up the hoary pages as it grew stronger and stronger.

 Lars sat for an hour, and an all-too familiar face walked through the door. “How’d you find me?” Lars knew his fate as he spoke. “I… convinced the worker to tell me where you went.” A mass of flesh dropped from the Slicer’s hand, appearing to Lars to be an ear. The Great Pretender lifted an axe that he’d been holding in his left hand. “Do you’ve anything left to say, Lars?” Lars solemnly looked up. “Yes: would you like to play?” Lars’ hand gestured to the game in front of him. The Slicer stood for a moment, and took a seat. Lars had the first move.

 “There’s something that’s bothering me, James. Why’d you ever stop if you enjoyed doing this so much?” The maniac guffawed, and that guffaw morphed into a wicked cackle. “Do you really think that I stopped? My crash just rid me of my ‘Cursed Four,’ the four personalities that procured each and every victim. But here’s something the press often gets wrong- my Cursed Four aren’t the killers, I am. I am the one that finishes every job they start. But they were reckless, always getting caught, so when I was free of them, my murders weren’t discovered. In a simpler sense, I kept killing in the shadows." The killer feverishly leaned in closer to Lars and excitedly asked, "Do you wanna know what my count is at now?" Lars felt unsettled, a feeling that, at this point, he was far more familiar with than any other. Without an answer, the menace continued. "Two-seventy-eight! Can you believe it? And not just in America, either. I've done some in Canada, Mexico- even Germany!" As he spoke, he took Lars' rook.

             "And why've you been so interested in me, Lars? And no, I don't just mean after my letter to you. I mean the impetus of our little game, your article. Oh, the mean things it said!" He put his hand in his chest and moved his body in a faux, mocking form of distress. Lars sat for a moment, then finally took the Slicer's bishop and said, "You were uncaught for so long, James. Nobody knew who you were, and that made you an immortal beast. This gave me a sort-of curiosity when reading about your atrocities… A morbid curiosity. Such a fascination that led to guilt, and that guilt being channeled through the mediums of every scathing retort I hurled in your vicinity. Maybe I wanted you to come for me. Maybe I wanted to confront you, to see your face, to hear your voice answer my questions. To put it in a more pauciloquent way… You fascinated me."

             “…Checkmate.” Lars looked to the square that held his King, that square now but a hearse, a tomb. “Would you look at that?” Lars chuckled. The Slicer stood up and, once again, lifted his weapon above Lars’ head. “I’ve respect for you Lars. This is going to be difficult.” In the same breath of that last word, the axe descended into Lars’ head

Epi.

             James slipped the square of skull into his pocket. As he left the cabin, he could hear sirens in the distance. He took a light jog through the forest, not even breaking a sweat. He stopped upon a deer, such a tender creature. It didn't run when he approached, instead looking intently into his eyes. "And they said animals could sense evil," James chuckled to himself. He and the deer nearly silently drank from the river, and as James pulled back his head, he looked into his own eyes, and a cackle escaped his lips. He only stopped the horrid bellows to whisper but two words: "I'm back."