Bruce stretched and yawned as he stepped out of his car, a bright yellow H3 Hummer. Sure it stuck out like a sore thumb, but he loved the feeling of power that came with it. He scanned the rest stop from behind dark sunglasses, noting a mother and two kids playing at the picnic table, an older man walking his Golden Retriever around a small stone statue of a horse, a couple teenagers hiding in the trees, probably smoking pot, thinking they're hidden. He sighed, realizing he wasn't going to kill any of them. Perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps it would be a good idea to lie low until he reached his destination.
He slammed the door shut and headed inside the building. It wasn't much, just a small homely shelter, within lay an information desk, restrooms and brochures. A plain lady, probably around her early 50's sat behind the desk, eyes looking down, glasses resting on her nose. She too, would not die today by his hand. He took off his sunglasses, heading into the mens room. He placed the glasses within a breast pocket on his white wrinkled dress shirt.
He pissed, flushed, and went to the sink, bending over and turning on the water. Looking into the mirror, he noticed a large man next to him, washing his hands. He grinned as he stared at the reflection, and the shadow behind the man. He switched off the water and stood up, grinning at himself in the mirror.
The unknown man finished washing his chubby fingers and wiped his hands off with paper towels. He was a fat man, that was for sure, belly flopping over his belt, buttons on his button up shirt barely holding on. His face was round, with bulging cheeks and small eyes. He was sweating, which wasn't surprising, considering his weight, he was probably always sweating. The most interesting thing about him though, was the shadow behind him. The man looked at Bruce with a strange expression. He had noticed Bruce turn the water on, then off.
“You gonna wash your hands?” He asked suspiciously. Perhaps he was one of those clean freaks. Bruce smiled wider.
“Why wash them when they're just going to get dirty again?” He replied with a shrug.
The fat man huffed, then turned away, shaking his little fat head. He didn't see the shadow in front of him of course. Nobody ever did. He headed towards the door, and Bruce moved.
The knife was out of his pocket in a flash, blade out. Bruce always kept a knife on him. He never knew when he'd be called to kill. His left hand grabbed the pudgy man's short curly blond hair on his head, and wrenched it back. Bruce's right arm moved in symphony, reaching up with the knife and slicing the now exposed throat before the man could respond. The man choked, gasped, trying to speak.
The cut hadn't been deep. Bruce didn't want the blood to gush out too quickly; it would make cleaning up more of a nuisance. He shoved the bleeding man into a stall, the man stumbled, crashing into the toilet. Bruce entered the stall too, closing and locking the door, as the fat man gave out his last few gasps. Bruce looked down upon the pathetic creature, crumpled over the toilet. Blood was now dripping onto the floor, but Bruce didn't care. He'd be out of there before anybody could suspect anything anyways. He grabbed the tops of the stall walls, and lifted himself up and over. He walked over to the sink, and turned on the water. He looked into the mirror and saw only himself looking back. The shadow had gone, as it always did once the deed was done. He rubbed soap on his hands and put them under the water, washing them thoroughly.