Serial Killer

It was midnight on a cold winter’s day and Jimmy’s pub was packed to the rafters. A local grouping of singles had organized a Valentine’s Day boycott, opting to drown their loneliness in an ocean of alcohol, all the while pretending the grass was greener in their lonely pastures. The women outnumbered the men, taking shots as though tomorrow would never come; a proposition which Dwight O’Riley was more than willing to oblige. He sat in one of the corner booths with poor lighting, his face partly obscured by a navy blue baseball cap and the hood of his red flannel jacket. An unkempt beard covered the entirety of his chin, giving him a rugged, masculine appearance while his thickset hands lay gently on a beer mug he had been staring at for hours.