His name was not Jack Sparrow. Not in real life. But as he sat and played the Pirates of the Caribbean movie on repeat in his dark basement apartment, he began to feel like he was the swarthy swashbuckler who made every woman from sixteen to sixty swoon.
He took a black eyeliner pencil and expertly lined his eyes without having to look into a mirror. He grabbed his ratty, tangled wig and plopped it on. And then carefully pasted the thin costume moustache and goatee.
He donned the pirate costume and got into his bed. He carefully extracted a small box that contained his treasures: Small labeled vials of blood from each one of his victims. He used the needle not only to inject his victims with undetectable poison, but he used the needle to extract the victim’s blood. Each vial was carefully preserved in the velvet-lined box for his ritual.
With one hand down his pants, he opened up each vial, one at a time and took a small sip of blood, careful not to take too much. He needed the blood to last. It was the most precious thing he owned.
In his excitement, he caught a glance of himself in the long mirror opposite his bed and the sight of his blood-stained lips brought him to his final climax.