“Get off me!” Gregson said.

The girl sat-up and pouted.

Gregson picked up his .357 Magnum—it felt light, like all the bullets had been shot.

“Did you empty my rounds?” He asked.

“We did it three times.”

“No. My bullets?”

Before she answered, the door burst open. A man covered in snow, walked in. His beard was white. His skin was albino. His eyes were black, like coals.

“Put some clothes on!”

The girl, smiled. She reached for her pink panties, and slipped on the shoestring. Gregson stood-up in the nude.

“My cheating girlfriend gets a thrill out of sleeping with the next person I kill.”

“What’s your name?” Gregson asked.

“You are different. Most guys caught with their pants down, plead for mercy.”

“Mercy from what?”

“A bullet to the head, what else?”

“Anybody can pull a trigger, and it doesn’t make you worthy.”

“Then what would?”

“Hand-to-hand.”

The Snowman pulled a hunting knife from his scabbard, and grinned. His black blade looked like death.

Gregson brought his hand into the light. His silver knife flashed in the sun. He extended, and their knives clicked. The Snowman struck from above, like a bolt of lightning, and Gregson grabbed his arm, throwing him into the wall.

The girl screamed.

Gregson shifted like a dancer, moving one step and then the second—the two-step dance of death—thrusting— impaling the Snowman through his heart.

“Why haven’t I heard of you?” He gasped.

“Because I don’t talk about myself.”

The snowman melted to the floor in his own steamy blood, and Gregson didn’t feel sorry for him. It felt good to kill—to feel the life leaving the body, and the power rushing into the room.

“Put these on! We never got to use them for sex.” Gregson threw the handcuffs in the girl’s direction. “I’ll drop you off with Detective Talbert. God knows, he needs some eye-candy.”

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