The five-hundred dollars was wrapped up and shoved within a nearly empty pack of cigarettes, which was how you could easily give someone money when they were being watched without giving the appearance of shady dealings. How did you know who to give the pack to if you had never met the person you were "working" with? It was simple. They would stand in place and pat their jacket, in this case overalls, four times over. Twice on their chest, where shirt pockets would be and then once on the dominant hand pocket and once more where a back pocket was. Four times. Simple, really. That would be when anyone would assume that the dock worker was looking for a cigarette and it would make perfect sense if a man, who just happened to be unassuming and standing there with his morning coffee, would lean over and offer a guy his pack of cigarettes. Foreman would shrug and go about his duties and a transaction would be completed. Inside would be the money, folded and shoved down so as not to be seen as the dock worker would pluck out the standard sized stick of cancer, purse it between his lips and then slide the pack into his own jacket.

Transaction over.

Now, shipping crates were often dumped off near the half-assed harbor in Hathian all the time. It was an easy and efficient way of transporting goods that had less to do with airplanes and road trips with meth'd out truckers. Nothing out of the ordinary here except for the fact one such shipping crate would be left unlocked before the workers would file back onto their water-ready rig and bumble off to the next location. This left Saint to glance over his shoulder, eyes scanning the row of sea-salt rusted and devoured crates which were easily about ten to fifteen feet high each, and determine which one had the marking. Ah, there it was. A black cross was haphazardly spray painted on a corner of the crate's door which signaled that was his. Would anyone have thought twice about this adornment? No, because graffiti riddled the crates anyhow from hooligan teenagers with too much time on their hands and an affinity for street art.

The ship that had dropped off the crates would be off into the horizon before Saint would stand up from his perch on the bench, fold up his issue of Fables and tuck it into the inside of his jacket pocket to lean at the waist and swing a hand to snatch up his black canvas dufflebag. Hoisting it over his shoulder, the six-foot-six man would then start towards his unlocked treasure chest. With one hand holding a lukewarm cup of Gein's bold roast and the other protecting the strap of his bag, the man's shoe then nudged the door to feel it swing open. Inside, well, it was just like he asked. A few boxes, empty and a few pallets (also known as skids). These were obviously used for the shipping of meats and dried produce because hooks hung from the ceiling of the container, which was another thing he asked for. Saint knew what the inside of a transportable preserved meat locker looked like and it smelled like the inside of a smokehouse. Dried and cured ham, beef and even the aroma of salted fish lingered all around him as he tossed his bag down and began what would turn into two hours of rigging.

Set up on one of the pallets was an expensive and yet modest looking iPhone dock that, when the screen was touched, would quietly play music that would fill the inside of the container gently while giving a soft hum to the metal all around him. Acoustics were great, right? The song? It was by a man named Nick Cave and the song was called 'Stagger Lee' which was a fascinating concept for a song. Musicians had been doing their own versions of the story of a man who could've been called 'Stagger Lee' or 'Stagolee' and many other variations. The stories, melodic and beginning back in the first decade of the 1900s, usually detailed the exploits of someone who was just known for being one bad-motherfucker.

Needless to say, Nick Cave's version was definitive. (http://youtu.be/lneSAju-Xtc)

As the song rumbled on repeat, Saint's long tree-trunk legs moved from one end of the shipping container to the other with rope wrapped around his forearms as he set up what would look like two nooses on the back corners of the container. These nooses dangled directly over a few scattered wine crates and with an unceremonious push of his foot, he grasped the roll of plastic sheeting that was propped up in the back, the translucent carpet got laid out from end to end. Box-cutter to shred one side and one would lather, rinse and repeat until each inch of the floor of the container was properly sorted out. Boring, wasn't it? Well, it was until one were to see that a pallet was then adorned with rubber sheeting and tools were set up neatly upon it. A cleaver, four scalpels of alternating sizes and lengths, a staple-gun, three gas masks, four canisters of knock-out gas and an apron was then folded neatly and left there beside the items. Rope would leave fragments on someone's body but you know what didn't? Duct tape. Sure, it would rip out hair and that would be a tell-tale sign but that same adhesive would also remove any fingerprints, oils and loose hairs that Saint or anyone else could've left behind. So, the two rolls of yellow rubber duckie duct tape were set beside the apron. The final piece of the entire thing was a huge plastic milk jug full of the epsom salt that was slammed down. God, that canvas dufflebag was nearly emptied out now. Good.

As he stood, he rummaged around and picked up the last item of use for him in this moment and it was a can of black spray paint. Upon the plastic sheeting that now made up the carpet of the container, he sprayed the words in long and sprawling letters only to stop, look over his work and toss the black spray can which was now empty. Done.

The man, with his matching and squid-ink black eyes would scour over the interior of his workshop before easing back on his heels and plucking up the few things he had left behind such as his phone, his nearly empty bag and the speaker dock. There we were. See, if you were to study the intricacy in which Saint, the son of Zacch and the beloved child of the departed Daelia, you'd see that insanity was genetic and so were his principles. He had no idols. He had no fascinations with the fictional worlds of serial killers before him or even the factual ones. What he did have, however, is a constant and mind-numbing appreciation for a good idea. Absorbed were the stories and concepts of a one (1) Brett-Easton Ellis character and documented was the guilt-laden yet sociopathic Miami-Metro forensics and blood splatter analyst who spoke of the womb-like serenity of having his internal serial killer birthed in a shipping container.

Imitation, while a form of flattery, could also be expanded upon and turned into the perfect symphony. Things were improved upon constantly, weren't they? Brick phones became smaller, slim and flipped open which then turned into little touch-screen computers that also made calls. Could anyone say those people copied one another? Sure, but it could also be argued that improving upon an idea was, in and of itself, progress.

This was Saint's progress. This was the Lion stretching his limbs out to surround his kill-zone. This was the salted fish smell of where someone would die and if not completely, they would meet the end of at least a little part inside of them that felt untouchable. Regardless; something would not exist anymore when Saint finished.

While these fictional characters were drafted together of ideas and concepts from real life murderers, Saint was not. There was nothing about a him that you could really determine was a knock-off handbag of a human being. Did he find an inkling of personal reflection in each insane story he read about the Joker from Batman or did he give a slight nod of the head and tip of the cap to cult leaders who charmed the fuck out of their followers? Sure. Why? Because one was a caricature of psychosis and the other could convince someone of anything and get what he wanted: devotion.

A few links of chain and a heavy padlock would close up the shipping container and Saint solidified his appreciation for how shut up and closed it was with a kick of his foot against the door. Nobody was getting in until he was ready for it and once they did, well, they would wish and pray that they could get out. Saint had to get to work now because, well, the denizens of Hathian weren't going to solve their own psychological problems. He had four appointments booked back to back and that would keep his mind off the incessant planning he had done while he combed the streets in order to keep an eye on where the family of the man he was after would be. At all times. When he would return, there would be two flood-lights rigged up in the corners by the nooses that swung against hooks and all you would see as you entered were the long, skeleton-like words that were painted with spray on the plastic sheeting:

"Welcome, Kakihara"