Hannibal

Macabre Monday Flash Fiction in Homage

“He’s learning, that one.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first one was messy, almost improvised. He did know what he was doing. It drove him to distraction.”

“Bursting from white latex gloves. And this later one?”

“Take a look at the file. What do you see? I see a pupa become a butterfly.”

“He was precise. Like a chef presiding over a feast.”

“Precisely.”

“I sense your approval.”

“I take note of similar motivations. Similar expressions. Similar execution.”

“Similar drives. What does this mean to you?”

“The first one was like a meal at a Diner, everything all piled together and seared. Rushed. The second one what infinitely more refined. Everything was sublimated. More refined texture.”

“What does this mean to you?”

“First principals: first must know who you are then you must refine it.”

“Will he strike again?”

“I would. I feel sure that he will too. He gets the feel of the oyster of his desire.”

“In the same way?”

“Do you still wear that cheap aftershave lotion?”

“What then?”

“Look at the file. What is he doing with this little play in three acts.”

“You tell me.”

“He’s waiting to be himself and cast off the façade of another.”

There were no changes to his face - it was clinical in its detachment.

But I could not help but feel the pinpoints of light shining from the red dragon’s eyes.