She smiled at him from across the pub and he gazed at her blankly for a second before breaking eye contact. He felt her gaze steadily on him  and he pointedly ignored her, focusing on his pint of lager.
Coming to an abrupt decision, he downed the beer in three large gulps and setting down the glass, he waved to the waiter and walked out of the pub to the car park. He had been passing by the unknown neighbourhood when the sudden need to drink drove him into the side pub; the sudden need to wash out the bad taste of the news his agent gave him more like.
“You have to do something or I’m afraid I’d have to drop you!”
He huffed now in irritation at the memory checking his pockets for his keys.
“I know who you are.” A female voice said behind him and he turned in surprise.
It was the woman in the pub.
His eyes narrowed and he turned back to his car as his fingers snagged his keyring up.
“And who am I?” He asked dryly as he opened the front door.
She walked closer to his side, a big grin on her face. “The Painter. Eugene De Croix”
His eyes narrowed further as her smile became wider.
“Former painter” he spat out gruffly manoeuvring himself into his seat.
“But a fantastic one!”
He made to shut the door but she stood in the way, holding the door.
He eyed her for a second, taking in her features with practiced eyes of one who observed human features for a living. She was unremarkable; a large forehead above wide set eyes and a hooked nose. Her only saving feature were her lips; small and full.
‘And not belonging to that face’ he mused sardonically to himself.
“What do you want?”
She hesitated suddenly unsure of herself.
“Well…Ummm… You’re a great painter. And I’ve studied your work. And I’m an art stude-”
“Do you want an autograph?” he interrupted rudely.
She bit her lip and his eyes strayed to them, tracing every curvature, mentally applying a vivid shade of red to them.
“I want you to paint a portrait of me.”
A cruel smile formed on his lips abd he snorted. “Ha! What?”
She stood straighter. “A painting. That is what I want.”
“Well Miss…”
“Miss Schronberg, yes. I do not receive painting commissions in parking lots. And even if I did,  certainly not from you or your type. You cannot afford me. And since you say you’re an Art student, you’d know I haven’t painted in the last three yea -”
“I know I know. But I do not think you do it for the money, your art.”
He laughed in derision. “Oh yea?”
“You don’t. Your paintings tell me that. And you have donated quite a lot of them. Don’t you miss painting? The thrill of producing something great like your ‘Selene on a Couch?’
He stared at her with renewed interest.
Could he…?
“Nah..” he murmured, shaking of his head an a short laugh as he dismissed her.
“Please Miss Scrotumberg. If you’d excuse me…”
Unoffended by the unconcealed insult, she refused to budge. “No.”
He snorted, amused by her defiance. “I would call the police, Miss.”
She smiled. “You wouldn’t. ”
“Oh yea?” He smiled.
She smiled back. “Oh yea!”
He huffed and suddenly his agent came to mind.
Another work…another work.
He stared at her again, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Does anyone know you’re here” he asked suddenly and she frowned slightly at the awkward question.
“ Don’t live around here. On a mini-sightseeing.”
He licked his lips.
“Fine. Jump in”
She broke into a wide grin.


He arranged her lips for her and walked back to his easel where a canvas was propped. He eyed the figure and dipping a wide brush into a paint pot, he smeared his paint medium on the half-finished canvas, total concentration as he brought her alive on the canvas.

Running dry of dark paint, he took his paint bowls and walked up to her. With unusual gentleness, he lifted her head and squeezed her neck, until tiny drops of dark blood oozed into his pot where he had made his precise incision earlier.
Her dead eyes gazed unseeing, a look of surprised permanently etched on her face.
He smiled briefly at her cold body, remembering how good it had felt to take her home; to sneak up behind her and with practiced movements, slash her throat.
She wanted to be painted after all and it had been a while he had employe his special medium.
Staring at her now, his hands began twitching again in excitement.
After his self-imposed hiatus because of  a murder investigation which resulted in him being questioned, it felt good to be back.Smiling and humming a little tune to himself, he walked back to his canvas, fresh paint in hand.


“It is fantastic to have you back Eugene! And you work, SPECTACULAR!”
He smiled indulgently at the overweight man who stood in front of his canvas, staring.
“This would sell. Ah I see you used your signature colour! The curves. The swirls. The contrast on the white canvas. SPECTACULAR!”

The spectacular rang in his head as he smiled, giddy with triumph.
Unable to contain his excitement, he took a late-evening walk, aimlessly meandering through streets and alleys.
“Hey boy. Fancy a fuck?” a voice whispered out of the gloom.
He turned and thinking quickly as a woman walked towards him. “Only if you allow me paint you after.”
“Whatever. Gonna be 30 bucks. Got a car?”
He smiled at her in the darkness.
His fingers twitched.
He licked his lips.

The End.


I always find it cheesy writing The End. Dunno why. Lol.
Have yourself a lovely weekend.