Unless he does prefer to eat the rude

8PM. The posh car* has to stop at the light to let us cross. We take our time.
The windows are rolled down, symphonic music, perhaps a tiny bit too loud.
There's a silky haired blonde in the passenger seat.

-Smooth guy.
-Yep, says J. Do you think he's an Hannibal Lecter type? Expensive life style, caviar, the best music?

The light's gone green, foot on the accelerator, too much, just too much, the posh car speeds away, trying to impress the blonde maybe?

- Nah; no sophisticated, cultured serial killer here; he's just a rich wanker.
- Yes; also he probably listens to Classic FM anyway. The radio for people who don't actually like classical music.
- No redemption possible there. Shame. I shake my head in regret.
- Well at least he won't eat her brain for dinner.


*I don't know what make it is, I know fuck all about cars, nor do I care.