Wine and Gun

——And the person in front of him is obviously not able to integrate into human society well.

Just look at where they are now: a dusty apartment that looks exactly like the kind of abode someone who has lost motivation in life would choose for himself; the handsome young man sitting across from him feeding him is clearly not How to pay attention to the appearance, Herstal also remembered that the Ford sedan he drove was also gray.

Herstal had noticed Elliott's hair was very long before. In addition to the ponytail tied at the back of his head, there were also many broken hairs on his forehead, all of which were now held on top of his head with clips. But Herstal believes the hairs may have been let down when the man and others were arguing.

He could easily sketch in his mind the image of this man in unobtrusive clothes, with his hair down to cover his face and prevent others from looking at him. He may try to avoid eye contact with others in his life, being withdrawn, eccentric, and wandering on the edge of the crowd, but now he has all the hair on his forehead clipped.

Because he wanted Herstal to see his face.

It's funny, there's still a sneer somewhere in Herstal's heart that this serial killer is looking for a relationship with his victim.

So many things are explained: why the killer Qiángni did his best to take care of his victims, aside from depriving them of their freedom, until he finally had to kill them for whatever reason. Eliot followed certain rules to select his victims, blond, handsome, slightly older than him, was that out of his affection?

Herstal swallowed the rice grains, he had no appetite, but apparently Elliott wasn't going to stop until he had eaten enough. Partly to avoid the approaching spoon and part to confirm his suspicions, Herstal asked, "Are you also feeding the people who were with you before, Elliot?"

He'd muddled up with the phrase "kidnapped by you," he thought, maybe Elliott didn't think those people were kidnapped by him at all. He didn't even think he was killing them by nearly cutting their heads off. It is possible for a mentally ill patient to have anything on his mind.

Elliott gave a low, joyous laugh, clearly enjoying the subject: "Are you jealous?"

Yes, in the eyes of the serial killer, they obviously deserve to be in love. Perhaps those victims were the "lovers" he had chosen by his own standards; but they were all killed without exception, and perhaps even Elliott was so mad that he finally realized those poor fellows Just wanted to run away from him.

"Can't I?" Herstal asked without changing his face. When he defended those gang members, he said a lot of bastards that were more contrary to his intentions, which is nothing at all, "After all, I have nowhere to go now. Go. Shouldn't I be concerned about this?"

"Oh!" Elliott whispered, hurriedly putting the fast food box on the folding table beside him, then rushing over and hugging Herstal's shoulders.

The cracked lips fell passionately on his chin and neck, bringing an unpleasant touch. Hestal took a deep breath, knowing that the last thing he should do now is to provoke the other party and see how the other party cuts the necks of those victims. Slowly, slowly, he tilted his head back, exposing his throat, figuring out the angle of obedience—

"Come on, my dear boy," said the man, his hair drenched in the hazy divine light of the stained glass window. "My dear boy, I am washing away your sins."

Herstal's throat choked with savage words and nauseated desire, but nothing of either came out in the end. Elliott buried his head on his neck and shoulders, biting gently on a small piece of skin, licking it wet.

"Say it again," he demanded frantically.

"Which one?" Herstal asked, and then he had an epiphany. "Oh."

He sneered somewhere in the bottom of his heart, because he felt cold joy in the middle of the red heart. When he opened his mouth, he kept his voice low and low, as if he didn't notice the spirited organs of the other person's lower body and the gradually heavy breathing.

In a sense, Herstal knew what was bound to happen, after all, the other party was indeed a criminal; but he also got the key: the key used to save his life and destroy the other party.

How easy it is to take someone's life.

Herstal repeated obediently: "Now I have nowhere to go."

He paused, then increased the stakes and said, "Obviously, I only have you, Elliott."

The young man let out an ecstatic choking between the sockets of his neck. Herstal could hear the screeching of the fabric and the zipper being pulled open. It was going to happen sooner or later. Prevent.

The young man hugged him tightly and slapped his crotch indiscriminately, rubbing the wet prostatic fluid on his legs and rubbing his lips against the corners of his mouth. Having someone close to him against him—against his will—hands would only give him a familiar nausea, at a time when he would rather take his thoughts elsewhere. The pathetic paranoid, he thought, was obviously full of subtle hints; for such a man, he must be convinced that his chosen blond prey was deeply in love with him.

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