Adjust my tie, straighten my collar, and give myself a look in the mirror.
My charcoal tux hangs perfectly, offset by a matte-black shirt and blood-red tie. Atop my head a tie-matching top hat, playing card tucked into brim. That hat cost a mint, the card (three of clubs) was taken as a souvenir the first time I wore the suit.
Tilt the brim rakishly. Perfect.
Satisfied, I fold my ivory-handled straight razor, slip it into my pocket, and stroll into the night, whistling.
They say serial killers look like everyone else. For six weeks I’ve been proving them wrong…
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Clothes Make the Man
Labels: 100 words, Clothing, Drabble, Murder, Short story
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