By David K. Montoya
Blood dripped from a blade onto the hotel carpet as the murderer crept down a hallway with individual rooms on either side. The man who held the blood covered blade was freakishly tall and muscular. He wore a pair of tattered overalls and a patterned flannel shirt. His greasy long curly hair hung over a clown mask; the mask itself covered the murderer's face but exposed the rest of his head.
The killer slowly moved until he saw a door to one of the rooms standing slightly open. With each step he took toward the room, his pace increased with excitement. It was the type of excitement a child would have had on Christmas morning when they saw all their present under the tree.
He drove his foot into the door; it erupted into splinters from the force of his kick. The man moved into the room which was dark and quiet—the only thing he heard was his own heart as it raced. The masked man stood in the center of the room and listened for any sort of sound. Then, without warning, he turned to one of the beds and drove the long blood stained blade into and through the mattress. A squeal came from under the bed, and the killer could not help but smile.
He tugged upward on the blade and immediately heard the sound of something hard impact against the carpet. The madman saw fresh blood on his blade as it came out of the mattress; he brought the metal closer and ran a dirty finger down the blood-coated blade. The killer examined the blood on his digit, but was brought back from his homicidal ecstasy when he heard a sound underneath the bed.
The murderer grabbed the metal frame of the bed and heaved it backwards. What he saw was a man who convulsed wildly. Without any thought, remorse or sympathy the killer swung his weapon downward and severed the man's head from the rest of his body. Blood erupted from where the skull once sat atop the torso and quickly pooled around the body.
He knelt down and grabbed up the decapitated head by the hair and examined the victim's face. He let out an evil laugh at the conformation of the identity of his victim—it was indeed the man he came for.
George Laimbeer was a simple man; he had no big dreams and what he really wanted Laimbeer already had—a good job as a mechanic, a nice home, and most importantly a beautiful wife. The couple had recently moved from New Mexico to Las Vegas, were the two had a better opportunity to find work. George's wife Lydia was the driving force behind the relocation; she was a real estate agent, but sales were dramatically down since the stock market dumped in 2008.
Lydia convinced George that Vegas real estate was hot and truly believed that she'd have a better chance to make good money. But for Laimbeer, he didn't care where the two of them lived as long as they were together.
George knew he wasn't the smartest man to walk the planet, but he knew a good thing when he saw one, and Lydia was definitely a good thing. She was a cheerleader in high school, Miss Albuquerque in college, and Laimbeer had lusted after her the entire time. He knew that he was a lucky man to be with her and would do anything to keep it that way.