Potato salad. Check. Baked beans. Check. Lutefisk. Uncheck. The skinny man could hardly wait for Friday. Not much could beat what Skinny had planned for his 2013 Memorial Day weekend. It was important to remember the nation’s fallen heroes too, of course.

At this time of year, the weather in Minnesota was the same as in Switzerland in late summer. Like in that movie with all the kids and the singing nun and they’re trying to escape Hitler. Wait. Was that Switzerland or Austria? Wait. Was she a nun or a nanny? Wait. Nanny or governess?

 Skinny made a mental note to Wikipedia that later. It was important to get things right. Maybe one of the old-timers could tell him. The lady who talked to herself every day and claimed everybody was trying to steal her dentures, she would know. Yeah, she would know. Wait. Who would want to steal her dentures? Wait. Had somebody stolen her dentures? Some people were real sickos.

Nighttime was the best time of day, especially after another rough one at work. The gig would be pretty sweet if Skinny didn’t have to deal with an overbearing boss, bitchy co-workers or the demanding residents. People were just too stupid to deal with. Well, there would be one less stupid person to deal with after tonight. A small consolation for all Skinny had to deal with every day.

Rubber gloves. Check. Baby wipes. Check. Heavy-duty plastic trash bags. Check. These were a few of Skinny’s favorite things.

There was something about dilapidated buildings that made the art of killing seem somewhat creepier. Such places even gave Skinny the willies. Of course, video editing software also helped. Cross fades and cutaways and superimpositions. Skinny could feel the familiar tingling in his loins now. Wait. Was the Redbox movie due at 9:00am or 9:00pm?

This time the site was an abandoned brewery in Saint Paul’s East Side neighborhood. The brewery was a favorite of urbexers, urban explorers who trespassed into somewhat forgotten and often dangerous structures, searching for cheap thrills and bragging rights on their social media accounts.

Skinny had a favorite online account too, but it wasn’t exactly what you would call ‘social’ … he was pretty sure the urbexers weren’t members. Still, one needed to keep up with the Joneses. It was important to show that he too was living the dream. Wait. What was his password again?

Duct tape. Check. Various cutting and chopping utensils. Check. Nail clippers. Panic shivered through Skinny. He felt his pant pockets and sighed with relief when he found the nail clippers in the left back.

Skinny bent through the opening he’d cut earlier in the woven wire fence surrounding the brewery. Above, a silvery half-moon caught his attention for a few seconds as he walked toward the building. Over his shoulder was slung a dark canvas duffel bag, which wouldn’t win many awards for style but was serviceable and well-made.

Few people appreciated fine craftsmanship these days. It was important to be good at your job. Others depended on your efforts. Grand accolades weren’t important, but a little recognition for quality work went a long way. After all, who didn’t enjoy a genuine pat on the back occasionally? Wait. Did he change the cat litter? Sprinkles was finicky about her litter.

Skinny approached a rusting door and surveyed the area outside one last time before entering the massive brewery. The lock had been jimmied on his first visit and the door creaked open. Crap! He’d forgotten to oil the hinges earlier.

Inside the building the semi darkness morphed into a faint glow from a room down a hallway.

The faint scuffling of rodents ruined the otherwise perfect silence that Skinny preferred. The world was too noisy and too busy these days. Nobody stopped to smell the roses anymore. Of course, who could smell the roses in here with the air thick with rodent dropping dust? The place was probably infested with hanta virus or plague or something.

Skinny wanted to hock up some phlegm, but then remembered that DNA could be obtained from bodily fluids, so he choked down the rodent-flavored spit. Perhaps watching CSI with the residents really wasn’t such a worthless activity after all.

Skinny walked toward the light. Was this what it was like when you died? None of the residents had verified the ‘walking toward the light’ theory, despite Skinny having been with more than a few of them at the end.

He entered the room at the end of the hall and was bathed in the weakness of a child’s night light. Appropriately creepy, thought Skinny. His online friends would not only be impressed, they would be drawn in. Most independent filmmakers didn’t take the time, or have the creativity, to set the right mood. They were wannabes, not real auteurs like him.

Skinny set the duffel bag down near a tripod with a digital camera perched atop. He turned on the camera and adjusted its settings, focusing the zoom on something in the middle of the room, his soon to be pièce de résistance.

‘Pure as the driven snow’ victim. Double check. Well, okay, maybe she wasn’t that pure, but beggars can’t be choosers.

There on the floor lay a young woman on her side, her hands and feet had been hogtied behind her and her mouth was bound with duct tape. She’d exhausted herself hours ago trying to scream. Tears were the only resistance she was able to muster now.

The woman’s dark eyes shone like those of a Victorian doll. She would be an instant hit. Skinny admired how her tears twinkled in the soft light, almost like glitter. It was perfect. How many ‘likes’ would her performance garner? The community would surely applaud his offering this time. They must.

Skinny took a black ski mask from the duffel bag and put it on before carrying the bag into the camera’s frame and placing it near the woman. He began unpacking other items from the bag. It was slow work, deliberately slow for the camera. Skinny intended to have a before and after view for each tool. It was important to show the proper use of tools. The viewers always appreciated that.

The film was intended to be entertaining, but also instructional, like a National Geographic special about wildebeests crossing a river and alligators feasting upon them. Wait. Those were crocodiles. Yeah, definitely crocodiles.

The narrative would be added in during the editing process, probably between the screaming scenes. The script was complete and waiting on his desk at home.

Skinny finished unpacking the tools and then bent low to the woman’s ear.

“Are you ready, Princess?” he whispered, inhaling a whiff from her hair.

The woman struggled against her bindings, a useless rush of adrenaline providing the effort. Skinny sniffed her hair again, deeper this time, identifying hints of lavender amidst the pungent sweat. If this was what fear smelled like, it was wonderful.

He rolled the woman onto her stomach and stretched out the fingers on her left hand. Her hands and fingers were strong, yet feminine, and adorned with bright red fingernails.

Skinny let out a low whistle, as though appraising the quality of the nail job. He traced a dirty digit softly across the nails like piano keys.

“So lovely.” He reached for the nail clippers.