Welcome to the Eric Jones Show, starring me, Eric Jones.
I climbed up the stairs of the fire escape until I reached the apartment. I peered in through the window and saw no one inside. The apartment’s window was locked, but it’ll never be said that a sheet of glass could stop Eric Jones. I cut a section of glass from the window, reached in, and unlocked it to allow my entry.
I climbed in without making a noise. I moved quickly across the cheap, ugly green carpet to slip through the doorway and around the corner as I searched the apartment. My opponent was here somewhere, and he was unaware of me. He would know his time had come when we finally stood face-to-face, just before I put an end to this, Eric Jones style.
The silencer reduced each shot to a dull thud as I fired three swift rounds into his chest. My victim staggered briefly before he dropped into a heap on the carpet.
I left the apartment the way I came. I moved down the fire escape to the ground below and to the end of the alley, where my bike waited. I revved the motorcycle’s engine and lunged out of the alley, headed for my own apartment across town.
I pulled into the parking lot, parked my bike, and went inside. I went straight to my coffee table, where the thick phone book was sitting. I opened it to the marked page and marked off the name and address. Eric Jones. 19 Pennsylvania Avenue, Apartment 8.
“Open up!” was the shout at my door. Loud, forceful banging sounded. “Police!” The door was struck heavily, and it flew open. Guns drawn, the police poured into my apartment.
“Mr. Jones, you’re under arrest for the charge of first degree murder.” As I was cuffed and arrested, I wondered how long it would take for the police to find out everything, to look through my phone book and see every false entry crossed through with only my own authentic “Eric Jones” remaining, and to tie me in with the deaths of all of the others.
Whatever happens after today, with my grand finale witnessed in tomorrow’s paper and on the six o’clock news, there will be no mistaking the truth. Once and for all, everyone will know that I’m Eric Jones.
Tommy B. Smith is a writer of dark literature and speculative fiction. Also, he speaks to cats. He currently lives in Fort Smith, Arkansas.