Layla and the Crocodiles
Watching the crocodiles basking in the shallows below the sundeck, Layla sipped her Martini. Ice tinkled as she raised the frosted rim to her lips. Layla felt kinship with the reptiles. She too was cold and calculating, laying still until her prey wandered into range, lulled into a false sense of security by her apparent inertia. But all the while, beneath her quiet exterior beat the heart of a cold-blooded murderer, for Layla was a serial killer.
Unlike most female serial killers, Layla killed, not for financial gain nor revenge against mankind, but for pleasure. It was a hobby, like some people join the Caravan Club or take up golf. She looked forward to it at weekends and holidays.
Reliving her kills, a crocodile smile curled Layla's carefully glossed lips. The condescending mechanic found next morning on his driveway with a single gunshot to the head and the door-to-door salesman that enjoyed a nice cup of tea and arsenic, now languishing under her patio, among others.
Through amber tinted shades she scanned the poolside. Who next? The bartender? No, did one in Paris. The married businessman eying her knowingly? So cliched. The exhibitionist in too-tight speedo's doing lengths? Ah yes, he's the one...Layla's thoughts were interrupted by the bartender, "Another cranberry juice, Mrs Cruddup?"
Ah well, that daydream was over. Not much else for an arthritic septuagenarian widow to do while the rest of the family was off on their day safari but daydream.
submitted at 11:38pm
2 September 2009