The taste of blood is perhaps best described as a sort of wine. Some wine is finely aged, properly created, this wine is much preferred. Some wine is sour. The only difference between wine and blood is the fact that wine is labeled. You know exactly what sort of wine you are buying, there's a name-brand and a price tag to ensure you that you get taste for your dollar.

Blood, on the other hand, is more of a guess. You draw it from your victim and take a taste, hoping it will be of a much better quality, though you can never know for certain. With this in mind, it is always a good idea for whomever draws the blood to taste a slight dab on the edge of your knife after the deed is done and, if the blood matches your preferred taste, proceed to drain your victim of the marvelous liquid. My name is Martin Eccelson and I am a serial killer.

My first victim was Martha Dern, a lovely brunette who I did not actually mean to kill. You see, Martha and I were young, about nine, when I accidentally pushed her onto a large rusted pipe, sending it through her stomach and pulling her intestines from her body. I, being the dull and kindhearted boy I once was, ran to her to see if she was alright and, due to my nervous habit of chewing my fingernails, ended up tasting her blood. It was quite an amazing experience and, even though I was sad I had lost my friend Martha, it stirred my love for the act, and my love for the blood. After her death I saw a psychiatrist for quite some time, fooling her into believing I was still completely innocent, still a virgin to the thrill. After that, I was free to delve into my desires. Currently, I am finishing up victim twenty-seven.

This kill is a masterpiece, having removed his organs with a clean cut, a skill I had picked up over the years. I had inserted several homemade javelins into various points on his body, holding his husk suspended in its place over his bed. His organs lay under him, arranged in a neat and orderly line, save for the heart, which I had devoured quite some time ago. His blood was a fine taste, and so I had drained every drop from him, leaving what remained of his body to look like a deflated balloon instead of a human. Now you may ask, why so brutal Martin? Your usual style of killing was just to drain the blood and eat the heart if the blood was an enjoyable taste? What had this man ever done to you? Well, the answer is simple... he deserved it.

A fucking copycat he was, a lamebrain, non-original, loser. How dare he come into my city and kill what could have been MY victims. He thinks he's all that, with just THREE kills before tonight. How pathetic can he be. It started out as just one brutal murder, one that I actually enjoyed hearing about. He had decapitated a middle-aged gentleman and stuffed the man's, for lack of a better word, penis in his mouth. The body was found hanging from a tree all the way across town. Quite some effort went into that. But then a second body was found, this time of a girl who had been skinned and found tied to a pole on Cedar Road. That's when I realized this man had swept in to try to take over my territory.

So the brutality of my murders began to increase, I suffocated a man with his own intestines, I had chopped a man into hundreds of tiny bits using his very own butcher's knife. But both men's blood tasted sour, I couldn't enjoy them at all. To make matters worse, the police had credited my murders to HIM! How fucking DARE they! Then his third murder showed up, a woman was found with her breasts cut off, and her implants shoved up her, for lack of a better word, vagina.

That's when I decided to strike back, killing the wife of one of the officers who I had learned was assigned to my case, tying her to a tree right in Gravier Park and setting her ablaze, watching as her skin boiled, blistered, and popped. I even forced myself to drink her sour blood, forced myself to eat her rotten heart, but, to my horror, they said the new killer, the copycat, the fake had done it as an act to scare off police. I was furious, but then it struck me. All I had to do to catch him, was to think like him.

So I did, I searched, hunted, stalked, waited. For three long months I had not made a move, and neither did he. But, just as I was about to lose all hope, I found him. As I walked down a beach on the far side of town, a small one where I had once kidnapped a young girl who had fallen asleep, I saw him. He stood over the body of a man face down in the water which ran red with blood and brain matter, his foot on his back and a long machete in hand, which ended in the back of the man's head. There he was, I just new it. I was just going to shoot his leg, make him vulnerable, but, unfortunately, I couldn't contain my joy. I began to laugh. That's when he noticed me, and he began to charge. However, I didn't budge. Instead, I waited until he was close enough and drew my gun. He stopped dead in his tracks.

We exchanged some heated words, until I revealed I was a serial killer myself, a much more prominent, accomplished, and professional one at that. I told him that he needed to move on, that this was my city. He, however, claimed that HIS killings were greater works of art than my own! The AUDACITY of this second-degree hack was STUNNING! HOW FUCKING DARE HE COMPARE HIMSELF TO MY GLORY! I AM UNMATCHED! I AM A GOD AMONG MEN! ALL SHALL FEAR MY EXISTENCE! THEY SHALL FEED ME, PLEASE ME! I WILL NOT BE MADE A FOOL OF!

Apologies, I did not mean to snap like that. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the hack then proceeded to challenge me, telling me that in one night I could not bring more hearts to the very same beach as he could. I, of course, agreed and even allowed him to count the man's he had already killed, knowing very well that such a pathetic fool could not top a master such as myself regardless of any sort of head start. So we were off.

The first man I killed was a homeless man not far from the beach where I had my rather unpleasant rendezvous. I killed him quickly, stabbing him several times until he stopped kicking under me, then quickly ripping his chest apart and tearing the heart from the cavity, placing it in the backpack which I had been carrying.

As was agreed in our contest we would mark the victim with a symbol to specify that it was, in fact, our kill was to not repeat the same tragedy that I was forced to endure when my work was credited to the underling. One was obviously not enough, so off I went. I decided I would knock a few out of the park. A small diner about five blocks away from my location was just closing. I knew five men and women worked there, and they would be the only ones in the diner at that time. I sprinted there, bursting in the front. A few came up to tell me the diner was closed, the fools.

I nodded and proceeded to shoot the two gentlemen who had greeted me right between the eyes with my silenced pistol. I walked around the counter and, just as a woman opened the door to see what the clatter was, had picked up a dish and smashed it against her face, causing it to break and her to spurt blood and scream. This alerted the other man and woman who were in the back and they rushed to see what was a matter.

I quickly dispatched the woman and the man attempted to subdue me, as if this insignificant specimen could ever stop a grander being as myself. I ended up smacking his head against the counter, repeatedly, until brain matter began to cover the front of my black hoodie. I then turned to the girl and, as she begged for her life, proceeded with the operation.

So far I had killed six, I wondered how many my opponent had managed to take down. I had no time to think however, as I began to hear police sirens not too far away. Perhaps our spree had not gone unnoticed. But I couldn't just go, not yet. I had to see how many he killed. So I ran to the beach, finding that the fool had the same idea as I. He quickly removed five hearts from his bag, and I removed my six. I thought it to be a solid victory, but then was reminded I allowed him to include the first man's heart as well. He began to laugh, attempting to say it would appear we were equals.


Apologies again, dearest readers. Back to the story. The police sirens were getting close. So, with a grin, he told me to follow him. We fled the scene, jumping over fences and rushing through backyards until we reached his home. He told me I could sleep on the couch until morning when the search would blow over. Laughing the whole time and saying that we could be partners. Exclaiming his excitement for the next day's news cast. If only he knew... He would never get to see it. I waited until he was asleep, and then my work began.

So here I am, the winner. As always. I can never lose you see, I am a god among men. If you are reading this, I must say you are lucky. To read something produced by such a gifted mind as my own is surely an honor. But now that you know my name you are a liability. I am not scared, tell whomever you wish. I am unstoppable. Who knows, maybe you could be my twenty-eighth? Perhaps! But I have more work to do, an artist's work is never finished!