I live in NYC. So does he. Everyone here knows about De Foe. He strikes on quiet Sunday mornings. Late nights, drunk stumbling home at five in the morning. Lunch in midtown at the street-meat carts. Nobody can ever know when, or where, it is only the how one can be certain.
They say it starts with a feeling.
Maybe it’s primal. Something genetically bred in all humans. Nature’s own helping hand if it were. It spreads to the hairs on the nape of the neck, then forearms, hair standing on end like lightning were about to strike. In men, certain parts of their anatomy disappear. Things pucker.
The target often turns around at this point to find themselves staring into the very face of wickedness itself. Chiseled angular face with defined cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a thin-lipped mischievous smile filled with nicotine-stained crooked teeth. Shadow-filled deep-set eyes under thick bushy eyebrows arched like the joke is done and now it is up to you; laugh damn it! Laugh! His nostrils heave on his prominent previously broken nose as if sucking in the very essence of their victim’s life.
Sharp, rugged, and on film at least, charismatic; Willem Defoe will then chuckle and walk around their startled victim never to be seen in person again.
Stories 