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The killer had a pattern. Maybe it was a little too simple for the average serial killer. Some might even call it a cliché.

But it worked, at least for the first few victims.

Pick up someone with the least contribution to society. Prostitutes fit the bill perfectly.

Kill someone useless, Papa always said. Someone who's wasting their lives away. That way you'll sleep better after the job and your conscience won't nag you.

Next on the list was straight from the movies: lure the girl to a seedy motel. The ones that even the roaches stayed away from lest they inhale the smell that was more lethal than your average bug spray.

From then on, it was clockwork. Eat out of the girl first, then a couple of her organs. Pack up the remains in the carefully insulated bag given by Papa and cook them later at home.

The first few murders were seamless, maybe even smooth. Not a single organ had fallen to the floor while being dismantled. After the initial snack to satisfy the appetite, perhaps a finger or two, that grew with drinking the semen, each part was carefully washed and boiled at home before being devoured.

But then the authorities caught on and were eager to put a stop to what was dubbed by the media as “cannibal chaos.”

All of a sudden, motels like Nightly Paradise and Lusty Dreams were attracting more attention in the news than the Hyatts and the Hiltons.

The local street corners were abandoned at the hint of a sunset. The only girls that stuck around were rotting in destitution, perhaps deliberately seeking the greener pastures of the afterlife.

Those too were sampled but brittle bones left a disgusting after taste. The fireplace seemed to have more tolerable taste buds for those and gobbled them up quickly.

A change was needed and fast, lest the killer die of starvation.

The pattern had no choice but to leave its innocence of the adolescent years be