The Night Man

Don't shoot until you see the greens of their eyes. Wait for the night to curl away from their pupils so you can see everything clearly. Wait for their breath to die down. Wait for them to acquire that state of calm they have before the spring on the prey that comes before the torture.

He had somehow acquired the nickname of "pussy pot-shot." Nobody was quite sure why, but it meant that he had a slightly sleazy reputation. Nobody knew where he went at night and nobody really wanted to know.

Wait for their crouch before their pounce. Then hit them. Hit them between the eyes so that their brains are instantly penetrated. Hit them quick and hit them where the pain lingers. Wait for the final mewling cry. Then disappear. Don't wait for the fur to start to coagulate. Escape.

When confronted by his nickname, he didn't deny it, but neither did he expand upon it. On one occasion, the whole pub chanted his nickname when he entered, but he just grinned slightly and ordered his usual and sat as his usual table.

Escape. Plan the next one. Mark out the territory. See where they congregate. Choose the next victim.

He was always riffling through sheets of paper that he would never show anybody and which he would put into his pocket when he went to the toilet rather than leave them lying around on the pub table. There appeared to be pictures on the sheets, but nobody could get close enough to see properly.

Decide. Decide on the next one - a peripatetic male or a more stay-at-home female. Track them. Track them to within an inch of discovery. Follow them from hideout to hideout. Evaluate. Assess behaviour. Decide which one most deserves to be the next victim.

He seemed to spend a disproportionate time examining local maps. When challenged about this, he always said that he was planning his next walk.

Let them move. Let them go where they want to. To start with. Give them the feeling they are unleashed. Let them feel their alleged freedom. Wait. Wait an almost eternity if necessary. But then strike. Then strike. Strike. Strike.

He was sometimes seen scurrying out of the gunsmith's shop. On these occasions, he always seemed to be wearing a large overcoat with capacious pockets. He looked around but always made sure that he didn't make eye-contact.

The gun feels good in the hand. It fits just like it should do. It feels like an extension of the hand. When it goes off, it is like the hand itself reaching out and exploding over whatever it regards as its prey. It is good to gaze through the sight that magnifies their arrogant vulnerability, feeling a part of their insouciant laziness. They are looking but they don't know they are being looked at.

On occasions, he was observed squatting for hours in the same place.

I have made my mind up. This time I'll choose a male one. I have observed the sinuous way it moves along the branch. However, you always have to be aware of the natural aggressive behaviour of the male, because you never know quite what they might do. If it sees you, it might fly into a tantrum and attack you and sink its dead teeth and claws into the skin of your face.

On other occasions, he was observed trailing some hidden prey throughout the streets of the town.

And the other thing is, they travel huge distances without detection, seemingly, and this makes them rather more difficult enemies than the females. I have to admit that they do have a certain piquant charm that is manifest in the complexities of their role. This means that the challenge is nearly always worth it.

He became a target. They took notice of him. They started to observe him. They tailed him. They poked their noses into his affairs, into both his blatant activities and his hidden ones.

I see it. I see it approaching the branch. I see what appears to be swept fur framing the steam from its mouth. Wait wait wait until it sidles over its branch. Wait wait wait until it claws skin-like bark from the branch. Wait wait wait until it begins innocent yet slides to guilty then looks to apply the punishment.

They informed upon him. They weren't sure what he was doing, but they informed upon him anyway.

Innocent. People call them innocent. Harmless. But they are anything but. They are rapacious. They are merciless. They are killers. They need to be dealt with. Dealt with, and the bodies left there. Left there to be discovered by the authorities. Warning for all. Not that they ever take any notice.

Eventually, the authorities became concerned enough to decide to act upon the information they had received.

Nobody can deny the temptation that they exude. They are all temptation. Tempting is like a body fluid to them. It entwines itself inside their very existences. And they know it. They know precisely what they are doing. And therein lies their guilt. They are manipulative, and they will be manipulated because of it. I shall make sure of it.

And then they took him away. And when they took him away, he still appeared to be convinced that what he had been doing was taking pot-shots at cats.