The Eyes Have It

by Arthur Mackeown

How I love to gaze deep into the eyes of a pretty girl like you and think: If you only knew what’s on my mind. Of course, you think you do know, but you don’t. I wonder what you’d say if I told you my true intentions. I wonder what you’d say if I told you you’re my next meal. I’ve already said you look good enough to eat. We had a little chuckle together over that.

I’ve always been an eye man. Right from the start. There are those who prefer the heart, or the liver, or the lungs, but for me The Eyes Have It. I’m not sure why. I mean, they’re hardly a dish fit for a king, are they? By themselves they have about as much taste as escargots — snails, to you.

And they look so forlorn staring up at me from my plate, it’s really quite depressing. That little sparkle caused by wine and the bedroom eyes of yours truly doesn’t last for long, and all that remains is a hint, just a hint, of terror. Perhaps that’s the reason: it’s the nearest I can get to actually feeding off fear...

Your eyes are so beautiful I might even add them to my collection. But not before I let you get a look at it, yourself, of course. I hug myself with delight as I imagine your face when I open that cupboard, and you see the rows of sealed jars with their pickled contents staring back at you. You’ll be able to scream as loud as you like. There’s no-one to hear.

So now I have to get you out of this club and back to my apartment without being noticed. That’s the first rule of the game: never ever attract attention. Shouldn’t be too difficult, as I’ve never been here before, and neither have you. If you had, if someone here knew you, I’d have tried somewhere else.

You’ve already told me you’ve run away from your husband, and that you need a bed for the night. You’ve also made it clear, although not in so many words, that you are not averse to paying for the favour. And so you shall, my dear. And so you shall...

* * *

You really think you’re god’s gift to women, don’t you? So smooth, so smug. So sure you’ll get your way. And you are rather nice-looking, I must admit. Under different circumstances... who knows? But not tonight, my friend; tonight, you and I have other business to settle.

I wonder when you’ll make your move. I’ll bet it won’t take you long. Heaven knows, I’ve dropped enough hints to encourage you. Talk about laying it on with a trowel. And how easily you fell for it, too. Being who you are, you should know better. And soon you shall.

The papers call you ‘The Night Stalker’. They say you’re Ted Bundy and Jack the Ripper all rolled into one. How you must love that. Well, have I got news for you, Buster: you’re nothing but a blundering amateur.

Worse, you’re a liability; you scare off the prey. Every time one of your stupid exploits hits the front pages, people stay home at night and I go hungry. And as for those idiotic letters to the Editor boasting about pickled eyes in jam jars...

What’s that you say? Would I care to come up and see your etchings? Well, isn’t that original? How can I resist such a subtle invitation? Actually, I’d much rather come up and have a peek at all those pickled eyes, but I can’t very well tell you that, can I?

So I just flutter my eyelids and smile seductively — not too broad a smile, of course; I don’t want you getting a glimpse of my fangs. Yet. You’ll find out about them soon enough anyway. And then, as I’m in a playful frame of mind, I might just add you to your own collection.

Shall we go?