In the vast swathe of humanity, criminals represent a fraction. From this fraction, murderers are selected. From among those murders, a select few derive pleasure from their killing acts, their skills honed so masterfully that their deeds could almost be seen as a form of performance art.
The eventual number you arrive at is minuscule, yet every single one of them is incredibly adept at killing and derives genuine pleasure from the act.
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are."
The innocent nursery rhyme echoes through a pitch-dark room. A young girl sings sweetly about happiness, joy, fortune, and a touch of youthful naivete.
"Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky."
The room, devoid of any light, plunges into utter darkness as the clouds conceal the moon and the stars. The stench extraordinary in its intensity fills the room; not even with all windows open can you see your fingers in this darkness.
