The Art of Murder

Authors Note: Strike Hensling is a bad man. He will get punished for what he has done in the end of this great tale: The Art of Murder.\

 By Sarah Wiedemann

I chuckled softly as the man cried, begging me for mercy. Instead of letting him go, I instead took the knife that was resting on a nearby table and plunged it into his stomach. I laughed as he breathed his last breath, his eyes rolled back into his head and he turned pale. I sighed, Murder can be so messy, I thought.  I cut an “S” into his dead body and left him slouched onto the ground. I turned on my heel and marched out of the room.  Names Strike Hensling. Murderer of many. Any regrets? None.  I wiped off my knife and walked out of the front door off the trashy inn. No one would care that the man got killed by me. So instead of cleaning up my mess, I just decided to leave it to the maids. I laughed again as I climbed into the unsuspecting man’s car with the keys that he had left on the table.  Unfortunately, it was a crummy car, but I couldn’t complain because I currently didn’t have a car on my own, seeing as I am a wanted man in 4 states, one of them being New York. What can I say? I am just cool like that. I drove to the back ally’s of Chicago.  The lower side of Chicago that is. I parked in an ally that had a few random civilians wandering around, a little drunk.  I would never drink, because it dulls the senses.  Smoking makes you slower, and with my career path, I need to go as fast as I can.  I climbed out of the crummy car that reeked of alcohol and smoke.  I ruffled my already ruffled hair and walked towards the next person I could say I murdered.  I take pleasure in these kinds of things. I guess you could blame that on my father, he was… well let’s just say he had the same habits as I do.  Luckily, there was a nice little homeless man sitting on the corner of the street with one of those pathetic cardboard signs… Easy prey.

“Sir, would to like a place to live?” I asked the man on the corner.

“Why, sir! Yes please sir.. What is your name?” The man asked me gleefully.

“Strike, Strike Hensling. Pleased to meet you.” I said shaking the man’s hand.

“My name is Howard Blake.” He said standing up.

“Well that’s a nice name. Let’s get to the car shall we?” I said.

“Why sure!” He said gruffly.

I lead him to the car of the unsuspecting man and unlocked the doors. He climbed in and buckled his seat belt. I laughed softly as I sat in the driver’s seat, not bothering to buckle the seat belt.  I drove to the crummy inn again. The homeless man seemed to start to get a little suspicious. Well, his suspicions don’t matter now; he is going to die after all. We climbed out after a parked the crummy car. I walked to the front door and unlocked the front door. I waved him inside the inn. He looked at me with a growing suspicion gleaming in his black eyes. We walked into the inn and walked down to the 2 room closest to the door. I opened it up and turned around to make sure the man was still there, which he was. I walked inside and sat down on the coach. He walked in and stood in front of me. He started to tug off his coat, and his boats and his pants. Then, underneath his clothes was a swat team uniform.

“You are under arrest for 1^st degree murder. “ The homeless man said. I then realized that he was not a homeless man, no. He was a police officer.  I sighed and stretched my empty hands towards him.

“Arrest me then! Take me away to the slammer.” I smirked as I said this to the officer’s face.  

“With pleasure.” He places the cuffs on my out-stretched hands.  I laughed as he locked them.

“No back up?” I asked.  And as if on cue, police officers burst into the crummy hotel room. I laughed as they jerked me into the police cruiser. They took me to prison, and as they say, ‘left me there to rot’.  I laughed as the judge sentenced me t life in prison the next day. Well… Once I get out of prison…. Well… Watch out.