The name I go by nowadays is Drake. Detective Drake. A hot-tempered, cigar-addicted, needlessly wrathful particular detective, occasional slash muscle too, but that ain't the case here. There was something a couple of months ago that required me sniffing around, and I ain't talking about no desperate housewife endeavoring to hire a detective to catch a cheating husband. Actually, those jobs take a few days, I can scent the carnal need from kilometers, especially when amid the act of copulating. Why am I wandering now, you might as well add. 'That's not very professional, detective!'. Well, but this hasn't gotten me swimming in riches, no, it's personal. And the grotesque crime scene makes me wanna drift away in thoughts, just be cast off the edifice room before some a-hole reports the odd activity and move on, but I'm glued to this. The smoke disguises the corpse's inherent fragrance, to someone with senses as accurate as mine, it's a blessing. Not that the cigar itself isn't a foul thing, at least it suffices. The thoughts aid me to maintain accurately the maximum amount of focus I want here, and that is, avoiding the sudden realization of how disgusting I am.
The bodiless head found its comfort between my fingers, gushing it's red flow beneath. Poor lad that will have to purge the room of evidence, 'cause there's f*cking evidence splattered all over. The sluggishly twisting fan lodged above my head reveals a scarred body, like someone was torturing the victim. And trust me, the rubicund 'We know' on the wall is basically overdoing my hypothesis. One, they've followed me here. Two, they know I'm after them. Them amaranthine stories... How do hummies call it? Fables, ain't that right? Yeah, they're probably after me. Well, at least one of them.
As I said, they overdid it. Not mentioning an imminent defeat, mostly because they aren't dumb, they want me to acknowledge it and just bob my head as I can't do sh!t for now. I never kept tabs on them, Mary said she'd cover up for me back at the mirror. What can't you get from a damsel with a tad of charm. Funny, they might make me prince after all.
But back to the analysis here, apart from all the pints of blood splattered through flooring, walls and ceiling, which I would call exaggerated for my dearly psychopath, which I might add, has been a thorn in my foot for almost a whole year, and has now become a knife stabbing through my chest. Psychos who flee for almost an year without any traces don't decide to go messy out of the blue. No, he was waiting... But for what?
There's no mistake is subject X here, same pattern. Young lady, kills spaced with gaps of four to six weeks, a recent widow, not necessarily brandishing a humongous fortune. I'd love to say Charming, but he ain't one for beheading the strumpets he beds. This is the bidding of a less renowned Fable, perhaps the first to get out, to attempt to draw me back home. Oh, but I came here to live untamed, to have freedom, to live out of the shadows of someone I learnt to despise. I won't be coming back that easily. Took me a while to comprehend, but now I got the message. The answer is still unchangeable. You made a horrendous mistake revealing yourself, old friend, because now I am aware of what I might face... I've got you in my paws. Your old habits never changed, did they? Oh yes, I know who it is.
I know it is you, Bluebeard.
A Prologue?
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