"Mr. Oakley," the train attendant (who had an eerie resemblance to a very famous horror film director) called. "Could I serve you something? A drink, perhaps?"

Charles Oakley, a 38-year-old businessman, glanced up at the attendant with an icy expression on his somber face. "No, thank you," he murmured, only briefly looking up from his paper. As the attendant exited the seating area of the train, which was currently departing from a station in New York, Mr. Oakley flipped the pages of his paper from one side to the other, hoping that perhaps no one would notice how intensely he scrutinized every word.

What did it really matter? he asked himself. Who would know, even if they were to open to that exact article? The Merry Widow Murderer was not exactly a title he wanted to be known as throughout the country. As he turned to the fifth page, he felt a cold shiver run up his spine. At last he had found the gruesome headline he had been searching for that ten minutes past. Was it really so very terrible that he committed a few trifling crimes? After all, who were those old women anyway? What did they offer to society? Could the population not gain more perhaps if he were to do a way with a few unnecessary beings… the fat, wheezing animals…

"I'm afraid you might not be able to read that paper if it's crumpled to shreds," a voice chuckled. Mr. Oakley glanced up, startled, only then realizing that he was squeezing the article between his fingers, smudging the print with perspiration from his palms. He quickly released his grip, hardly wanting to attract any unnecessary attention.

"I'm sorry," he said, trying his best to sound unalarmed. "I suppose I… was distracted."

The gentleman seated in front of him smiled and nodded briefly, still eying the article suspiciously as Mr. Oakley attempted to smooth it out flat. "Oh, pardon me for being rude. I see you're reading about that case of the Merry Widow Murderer. It's quite thrilling, isn't it?"

"I suppose so." Mr. Oakley hardly wanted to enter into a conversation about it. The only reason he endeavored to locate it was so it could be disposed of.

"Pardon me," the gentleman raised a hand to him. "I'm Brandon Shaw. Just call me Brandon, if you'd like." Mr. Oakley reluctantly took the man's hand, not really wishing to call him anything at all, if it could be helped. "And you are?"

"Charles Oakley."

"Very nice to meet you, Mr. Oakley. How much do you know of those Merry Widow Murders?"

"Not an incredible lot," Mr. Oakley mumbled, pulling at his tie. "Hardly anything at all, really."

"Ah…" Brandon absent-mindedly pulled out a cigarette, still staring down at the paper. His thoughts were clearly focused on the article and nothing else as he kept repeating the same words, "Ah… I see," to the point where Mr. Oakley was halfway inclined to tell him to kindly shut up and let him read in peace. Yet this would create unneeded attention, so he remained patient. Suddenly, Brandon felt about himself, reaching into every pocket, as though he had lost something. "Pardon me, Mr. Oakley. I seem to have lost my lighter. Would you happen to have one that I could use?"

"I'm afraid I do not," Mr. Oakley grumbled, lifting the paper up higher. Brandon glanced about, frustrated by his own predicament, until the sight of a rather dandified gentleman lighting a cigar caught his attention.

"Excuse me, sir," Brandon called, moving slightly closer to him. "Would you mind if I used your lighter?" The dandified gentleman smiled brightly and was about to hand it to him. But suddenly his face became dark and he quickly withdrew his hand. Brandon watched, confused, as the dandified gentleman pulled out a box of matches.

"Sorry, I simply can't risk losing it… for sentimental reasons."

"That's quite all right," Brandon said, as he lit a match.

"If I'm not mistaken, you were discussing the Merry Widow Murder cases, were you not, gentlemen?" the stranger asked curiously.

"Well, yes we were." Brandon smiled, glancing at Mr. Oakley, who still refused to look up from his paper. "Sort of."

"The name's Bruno. Bruno Anthony." Bruno took Brandon's hand and shook it excitedly. "You know, I've been reading about those cases for months. Now normally such insignificant murders would simply bore me. But think of it. The idea of killing helpless little old women just to take away their fortune! It's almost too simple. There must be some back-story that we don't know about."

"Perhaps," Brandon contemplated with a shrug. "Or… could you possibly be underestimating the simplicity of it? In a way it's pure genius! After all, if one were to murder, why would they go after a business tycoon or a celebrity? These are the people who contribute to the world and all who reside upon it. But little old women? What do they contribute? It's as if they all are completely… completely…" Brandon searched for the precise word pensively.

"Disposable?" Both Brandon and Bruno quickly turned their heads to Mr. Oakley, surprised.

"Why… yes, Mr. Oakley… Disposable. I like that." Brandon thought of the word over and over again, reveling over it's sound, mouthing it to himself. "Yes, I definitely like that word."

"Well, I don't know if I would choose it," Bruno said, good-humouredly. "I happen to adore my mother. She's a little old woman. And if my father were to decease… God willing… I would hardly think of her as 'disposable'. In fact I probably would kill for her… if she ever wanted me to."

"Well, let's hope your father won't die," Brandon said, chuckling to himself.

"I wish it everyday." Bruno grinned darkly.

"But if he did, what would stop this Merry Widow Murderer from going after her?"

"Please! That's enough!" Mr. Oakley snapped, slamming a fist down on his paper with perhaps a little more intensity than he had intended. Both men stared up at him, puzzled. "Who could say that this Merry Widow Murderer is really just an evil, mindless killer as you two make him out to be? Perhaps he is benefiting society, by ridding us of these rich women who have their hearts set on destroying it!"

"You mistake me, Mr. Oakley," Brandon said, attempting to assuage the now heated debate. "I never referred to the murderer as a mindless killer. In fact… I believe that murder is an art…, which should only be performed by the few superior beings. And victims should be inferior beings, as you said, who add nothing to the society in which we live. This is my theory. I believe-"

"Would you like to hear a theory of my own?" Bruno interrupted, tossing his lighter from hand to hand, a dreamy expression on his face. "I think that a person should experience everything…at least once."

"Including murder?" Brandon asked, inquisitively.

"Well…yes, perhaps." Bruno rubbed the lighter on his sleeve to make it shine.

"And have you committed any murders lately, Mr. Anthony?" Brandon was now beginning to grin deviously. Bruno glanced up, unable to speak for a brief moment.

"Well… if I have, I don't think I'd be announcing it. And have you?"

"Not yet." Brandon was smiling as he said this, yet to a stranger, it almost seemed as though he could be perfectly serious. "Someday, perhaps. Preferably soon."

"Yes, no sense wasting time about it. Go on and do it! As I said, absolutely everything should be experienced, at least once."

"Look at him," Brandon whispered, nudging Mr. Oakley in jest. "For all we know, the Merry Widow Murderer might be sitting right before us!" Mr. Oakley wanted desperately to cry out, yet knew that he must not…he simply could not. Instead, he flipped his paper about irritably. Though not particularly in tuned to anyone other than himself, Brandon could not help but notice that Mr. Oakley seemed a bit on edge. "Perhaps we should change the subject. Mr. Oakley appears to be uncomfortable."

"Then he must be a better sort of man than either of us!" Bruno stated, lifting his glass of gin.

"Where are you headed, Mr. Oakley?" Brandon inquired.

"I'm off to visit some relatives in California."

"Really?" Bruno was intrigued. "What part? Hollywood? San Francisco? I had the most amazing journey through San Francisco last spring! I made it a goal to swim all the way from Alcatraz to the closest shore. I almost made it. I was about ¾ of the way there when I nearly lost consciousness and-"

"Not San Francisco," Mr. Oakley cut him off. "A little town called Santa Rosa."

"I don't believe I've heard of it. It must be a small, quiet little place, yes?" Brandon inquired.

"It's quite peaceful." Mr. Oakley wondered how much longer these two idiotic cretins would insist upon conversing with him. Was it not clear that he simply wanted nothing to do with them? Mr. Anthony was far too involved in reminiscing over his own past adventures to care, yet this Brandon Shaw fellow simply refuse to notice the fact that he was giving him clear signs of annoyance and disfavor. What was he to do to this persistent fellow? Throw him from the train? Oh, yes… That was a thought.

"Well, I have an apartment in New York," Brandon started. "I left it in the care of my good friend while I'm away. He lives there too, of course. I simply must go to see my dear friend David. He's currently sojourning in Philadelphia for a short while. He clearly needs some companionship while he's there. So I'm off for the weekend. It's a shame I couldn't bring Phillip (my friend, that is), but he has much to do, so therefore I travel alone. Uh… are you traveling directly from New York to Santa Rosa? That should be quite a long trip."

"No. I'm stopping off at Philadelphia for a day or two first."

"Ah, I see. You live in Philadelphia?"

Why… Why was this man so inquisitive?! "Yes. I live there."

"Well, perhaps we should all get together. Where are you off to, Mr. Anthony?"

"Oh, I live in the Washington D.C. area. I was in New York to see if I could climb up the entire Empire State Building. You know, it's much more difficult than it looks!"

Brandon was no longer paying any attention to Bruno. He found Mr. Oakley to be far too interesting. "So you have family in Santa Rosa, is that it?"

"Yes. I have family there." Mr. Oakley flipped his paper about once more.

"You're very close to your family?"

"Yes."

"Any member in particular?"

Mr. Oakley glanced up, giving him a queer look. "What?"

"Well, I'm just curious. I like to get to know people."

"Not that it matters, but… I'm quite fond of my niece."

"Oh really." Brandon turned to him, quite interested now. "A niece, you say. How old is this niece?"

"Why?" Mr. Oakley asked impatiently. "Are you planning on coming to Santa Rosa or something?"

"Well, no. I just-"

"Then kindly leave me be!" At last he had said it. Though Mr. Oakley refused to glance up from page eight of his paper, he could feel Brandon's piercing stare scrutinizing him.

"All right. If you wish." Brandon slowly stood and crossed to sit closer to Bruno. "How very peculiar," he whispered, still staring at Mr. Oakley, whose fingers were now beginning to tremble.

"Some call it peculiar. I'd call it rude," Bruno mumbled, gulping down the last of his gin. "Well… I suppose it's to be expected. People are rarely ever friendly on a train. Only once in a while can you find someone who will…keep your attention." He rubbed the lighter with his thumb. Now that he was seated closer to Bruno, Brandon could clearly decipher the letters "A.M." and "G.H." engraved on the front of it.

"Pardon me for prying. But isn't your name Bruno Anthony?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Well… Then… Who are A.M. and G.H.?" Bruno glanced up, his face once more becoming a little darker than Brandon would have liked. "Oh…" Bruno chuckled nervously. "I'm just holding onto it… for a friend." Brandon gave an affirmative nod, though not entirely suspicion-free. "Anyway, as I was saying," Bruno started, rapidly pushing the lighter into his coat pocket. "Trains are rarely ever pleasant spots for social gatherings. That's why I never take Mother with me."

"Mother?" a voice murmured from the other end of the cart. "Pardon me for eavesdropping. But I quite agree. I could never take my mother on a train. It might become unpleasant for her… and the other passengers." The young man rose and timidly shook the hands of the two gentlemen before him. "Hi there. I'm Norman. Norman Bates. Isn't traveling just a bore?"

The End