I arrived early, I abhor tardiness. The lobby was empty except for the receptionist---a young woman worthy of fucking from behind. But she was safe; I'd long since lost my desire for the average. In my current stage of elderly, my libido craves more eclectic entertainment.

I normally don't attend these functions, these ancient get-together's. A room full of sociopaths confessing their recent kill(s) is less thrilling these days. Young people have no imagination when it comes to murder.

Gathering the most notable fiends in one place was indeed a radical idea a hundred years ago. Coordinating such an event was problematic, to say the least. The advent of the computer simplified the process both in finding participants and extending invitations. The one thing we beasts of the flesh have in common is our lust for recognition. What fun is it to commit a heinous crime if you can't boast about it?

In the old days we used fictitious names and covered our faces. Today, most of the attendees don't bother with such precautions. An ego is a horrible thing to waste. Notoriety has its own reward.

Every year we have guest speakers, usually newcomers trying to secure a place in our history book. But anyone can speak and many do. The more detail in the narrative the better; a simple act of murder is boring and unimaginative. We do not welcome random drive-by killers, gangland vigilantes, or contract hit men. There is an art to everything; even picking a victim requires a certain je ne sais quoi.

Last year's headliner picked his victims from a long list of child molesting Priests. When asked if he, too, had been molested by a priest, his response was, "no". He just enjoyed seducing them, then torturing them to death. He made them eat their own testicles after castration. Forcing one's victims to consume their own body parts is always a big favorite.

This year's featured speaker is the reason I decided to attend. Our club has always been predominantly male. Being a sexual deviant is about rituals. It's hard work, time consuming. It takes a certain intellect, planning, and detachment. Women are normally too emotional about their kills. They have to feel something for the victim. Men don't. To us, the victim is no more than an extension of our fantasy---an unwilling participant in our drama.

But when a female deviant comes along, she often takes viciousness to a new level. This year's new star is particularly vile. She video-tapes babies being eaten by her pet python. She buys the infants from third world countries and sells the videos to wealthy perverts.

I found a seat close to the stage. I wanted to be close enough to smell her as well as hear her. My five senses are not a keen as they once were. I was not disappointed. Her essence was palatable. I could feel the evil in her soul.

Dexter joined me partway into her opening remarks. We often sit together at these affairs. We share similar quirks and enjoy comparing notes. He looked fit, handsome even. I started to rise.

"Don't get up, Hannibal," he said. "We're not as young as we used to be."

"I can still carry a body up a flight of basement stairs," I lied. "I hope you took the liberty of inviting her to your room for a night cap," I said. "Baby killers seldom gravitate to the likes of me."

"But of course, my friend. She took the bait---no pun intended," he said in a hushed voice.

"Did you secure a big enough snake?" I asked.

He nearly squealed with delight and pointed to his bulging bicep.

"Excellent!" I said.

"Shall we drug her first or just jump her from behind and secure her wrists?" I asked.

"Take her by surprise," he said. "I want her fully conscious for the festivities."

"Shall we serve her head first or feet first?" I asked.

"We could always toss a coin," he suggested.

"Perfect, but let her toss the coin. It's the only fun she'll have all night."