My Hobby

My Hobby by Tom Fabian

This story is narrated by a serial killer (reading this story feels like watching Dexter) and is brilliantly written. After the breath-taking introduction, we enter the problem at hand, where the hunter is about to become the hunted as old secrets begin to unravel and well engineered plans starts breaking down. WARNING: This story can put dangerous thoughts in to your mind.

Top of the morning to you. I hope whoever is reading this is enjoying their day. I, on the other hand, have had better days—you see I haven’t been feeling too well lately. But poor health and all, there comes a time in every man’s life when he must sum up, and that’s what I’m doing.

I suppose I should start by saying I was always a loving husband and father, and that those objects of love were taken away from me much too soon. That, however, is not an aspect of my life I wish to go into at the moment—if you are really interested in finding out my full story, you’ll have to take a trip to the nether world and ask my wife and son. It’s the other facets of my story, my character—which I’d kept hidden from those nearest me, hidden even from my dear Stella—that come to mind as I sit here with little to do but think about the past.

Dear Stella, who loved me because I was dependable and, yes, maybe even because I was boring. Stella needed stability in her life and found it with me. I had to keep certain things hidden from her. I was the family man who would come home from work and take care of the usual mundane tasks, then after dinner settle down with the paper or watch the game on television. As far as my wife and son were concerned, the days went by in a quiet uneventful fashion. And we were happy like that. “George has no interests, no hobbies even …” I once overheard my wife saying quite happily. And a neighbor once: “George’s as empty as a shell.” It didn’t bother me a bit.

My Hobby by Tom Fabian
I have a hobby, a very special hobby

The fact of the matter was, I did have a hobby—a very special hobby. One I could only share with a select few. You see, I kill people. Or I should say, I used to kill people. I know what you’re thinking: thrill-killer. Those nasty reprobates Leopold and Loeb come to mind. The bastards should have been sent to military school at an early age. Not enough parental discipline! Or you might be thinking I’m a killer in the vein of Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley, a sociopath who kills to get ahead. No, I used to kill in order to help people; it was sort of like charity with me. I would see people having a hard time and I’d use my talents to get rid of, say, a nasty father, a vicious wife, an exploitive uncle. You’re probably thinking I’m some kind of a maniac who is making his vice sound like a philanthropic enterprise …

Truthfully my hobby went both ways—it is, after all, as important to give, as it is to receive. There was always a beneficiary to the crime, and, in that alone, I always took the greatest satisfaction. But the challenge, the planning, the calculation, the anticipation, the peculiar sensation of looking into the eyes of my prospect and sizing them up—that’s where the real thrill was. And, of course, the knowledge that I had rid the world of a particular vermin. The actual killing? There was really no joy in that.

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