The Krylon Killer
Clark stood seething but silent several feet behind the unsuspecting tagger rattling the can of black spray paint before the whimsical mural on Mohawk just off Sunset, the centerpiece of which features two cartoonish chickens in love. It was one of Clark’s favorites.
At first, before he had any idea of the power he had — much less that he could actually control it — Clark would simply revive after everything went black at some indeterminate time and place forward remembering nothing much more than the rage that had filled him upon finding another mural or other public artwork destroyed by some worthless piece of shit.
It didn’t take long before he started putting things together. First because the body count and their marked similarities started getting more play from a media hungry to capitalize on the city’s next serial killer — already dubbing him the “Krylon Killer” despite police insistence the four cases weren’t necessarily connected. And second because the victims were all found at the scenes of their last defacement — which also was always where Clark had last been.
But here was the freaky thing: Clark wasn’t catching any of these maggots in the act. Instead his fury had somehow triggered an ability to jump back to the time and place of their destruction and do a little of his own.
Honestly though? As much as Clark venomously despised these subhumans, he hadn’t wanted to kill anybody — not that he mourned too heavily their demises. It was only in those first fully engulfed journeys that they died — and not at all nicely. Now it was much different as evidenced by this punk who stood before him still entirely alive. Clark could have already wrapped the bike chain he held between his hands around his scrawny neck and choked the life out of him. But now that Clark had gained greater control of his rage, all he was going to do was send a message, albeit a painful one that the jackass wouldn’t soon forget.
Still, he had to be careful. It took a locomotive level of hate to cross over and then it took a full reverse thrust to keep him from killing. Or in this case, being killed. Because when Clark cleared his throat almost politely to draw the surprise attention of his target, the last thing he expected was to see his target turn and draw a gun out of his waistband, much less feel a searing pain in his right thigh as it fired.
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