I T WAS HIS THIRD murder that week.His fiftieth in total, over the course of years. This one was special,something he would celebrate later.The woman's body lay torn open in the dingy alley, her heels askew, herlipstick smudged, her eyes vacant.He loved that look in their eyes, the unseeing gaze up at an open sky theywould never fly in because he was their god in their last moments. They called him the Fortis Finisher . He preferred Lord of Death but nobody really called him that. They would someday when all the murders got connected to him and the corrupt cops stopped sleeping.Smoke seeped out from the crack between the buildings in tendrils, a light bulb flickered somewhere, and the butcher? He wiped his knife on a torn part of her skirt, the blood soaking into the white fabric as a souvenir he would stash with the rest of them. He was still high on the kill, on the chase, on her desecrated body nude to the elements. The incoming rain would wash away all evidence, the cops would never give a shit aboutanother whore gone missing, and the one man who owned the city would go down for it framed for the crimes.And the butcher, he would then be the entire city's god.It was the perfect plan.