His friends call him Filth. They don’t know his real name, and he isn’t telling. He isn’t dirty, but the sewer is where he works. Working down there took some getting used to, but now the place almost feels like a second home. He could do without the smell, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Working down there has its advantages. No one can hear his victims scream, for one, and he doesn’t have to bother cleaning up the mess.

He peers up through the metal grate. She’s a pretty little thing, especially from this angle. Maybe he’ll invite her down.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Click here to read stories from the other Fictioneers.

20 responses to “Filth

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