Most serial killers have a weapon of choice, an M.O., a perfect victim, a calling card, a talisman, a trophy, or a location they preferred to kill or dump bodies.

Franklin had none of these.

He didn’t even fit most serial killer stereotypes. His childhood was happy, he didn’t start by killing animals or pets, he didn’t keep trophies, and few people would say “he seemed like a nice guy” on the news when he eventually got caught and the gruesome path of destruction he left across the world was discovered.

He did keep to himself though. So he at least subscribed to one of the classic serial killer stereotypes.

Franklin was more a serial killer of convenience. He did it only when the opportunity presented itself.

He wasn’t sure how many times he’d killed. He tried to count, he tried to remember names and places, but every time he tried to do it, he couldn’t seem to remember them all.

There was the girl in Köln after the Weihnachtsmarkt.

There was the woman he met on the train in Italy.

There was the girl by the dumpster outside the club in…where were they that night?

There was the boy who wouldn’t stop bugging him that night they played with NOFX in Austria.

There was the cute lesbian girl with the lip frenulum piercing.

There was the girl on X in the Las Vegas desert.

There was the thin camgirl with the spider tattoo in LA.

There was Jenn.

There was the middle aged woman in Kunstpark Ost (Munich).

There was the hooker in Moscow who wouldn’t leave him alone.

There was the girl in the American flag bikini in the bathroom of some unknown club.

There was the British club promoter (that one was a terrible idea).

There was the girl in the beach after the show in Gold Coast.

There was…

He stopped trying to list them, just as he always did any other time he thought he could recall them all.

There were so many and they blurred together like shows, opening bands, backstage rooms at miscellaneous clubs, nameless diners at 2am, fans he met over the years, and the thousands of miles he’d traveled on lonely roads in the deep of the night.

Sometimes they merged into one - where details of one kill became the details of another.

If he told the stories openly, and there had been a witness (not that Franklin would let one survive), they certainly would interrupt him and say, “no, no…that’s not how that happened.”

But that would never be an issue, because Franklin knew that if anyone ever knew - even a sliver of the truth - he’d be tried and executed before sundown.

Franklin’s inability to feel was his greatest superpower. Without the nagging doubts and fears of guilt tugging at his heartstrings, he was free to kill whenever the moment came.

And kill he did.

With whatever was handy at the moment. Never with the forethought of how he’d do it. The only constant the simple conviction that the person in front of him had to die.