"Whoa, whoa. Do you have any idea how much trouble it is being an axe murderer?" asked the man, holding his gut and making grimacing noises.
"Actually, I can't say I do," Jerald admitted, his interest piqued.
"It's not like in the movies; nobody just crawls away from you, presents a nice easy target, let's you kill them quick. You know why I wear this mask?" The man leaned leisurely against his axe, its head on the ground.
"I'm no longer convinced it's there solely to conceal your identity," Jerald said, humouring this man who clearly had seen one too many horror films.
"I wear it because some broad thought it would be a great idea to spray me in the face with mace. I'm allergic to that stuff, you know. My face hasn't looked the same since."
"That's terrible, really. Have you thought about facial reconstructive surgery? They can do some pretty amazing things."
"Well, yes, but axe-murdering isn't exactly the best paying job out there."
"Touche." Jerald was now pretty convinced this man was no fake, and was moere than a little afraid for his life, but what do you say to an axe murderer, really?
"Anyway, now that I've got my wind back, I should probably get around to killing you."
"I'm afraid so."
"Well alright then, fair is fair. Nice chatting with you. I suppose I should run now."
"Couldn't you maybe just crawl? It would be a lot easier on me."
"Well, you are trying to kill me, you know."
"That's true. I guess you'll be off then."
"Indeed I will."
The terrified man took off running into the night, his heart pounding in his ribs to the rhythm of some imagined, dramatic tune. The moon cast an eerie glow over everything; every shadow seemed to be alive. The masked man surely couldn't keep up with him, especially with that axe.
He turned to look behind him, and tripped on a fateful bit of greenery. And then, to his horror, he saw that the masked man actually was right behind him. But how?
"It's time to die," he said, once more raising his axe.