The Perfect Victim

Jenny adjusted her sunglasses and studied her fellow passengers. Who would make a good victim? The chubby 10-year-old boy who chased his sister around, knocking into occupied deck chairs, spilling his sticky soda onto the backs of sunbathers' legs? Or what about the man in the Speed-o? Honestly, what are these grown, pot-bellied men thinking, wearing suits that pinch off their back fat and bloated stomachs and do nothing to hide their skinny chicken legs below the patch of fabric encasing their genitals? Jenny couldn't bear to study him. His obnoxious attire saved him.

She turned her attention to two young women who were already bronzed. They looked as if they spent every weekend aboard a Caribbean cruise, soaking up the sun with coconut-scented oil, and then dancing the night away in strapless mini-dresses that showed off their tans. Jenny might like to kill both of them off, if only to mess up the perfectly lazy lives she imagined they enjoyed.

Then her eyes alighted on a middle-aged woman with bouffant hair, diamonds dripping from her fingers, and skin so leathery from years of tanning that Jenny knew she'd never worked a day in her life. This was the perfect victim; someone that had undoubtedly pissed off gardeners and fellow socialites. Her husband was probably equally as obnoxious as she was, or maybe he was a cuckold whom the police would suspect first.

Jenny watched the woman sip her fruity cocktail and lay back against the cushioned (where'd she get a cushion?) lounge chair. A young couple walked by her and stopped for a moment to scout the rest of the ship. Jenny watched the woman frown, then tip her sunglasses up as she informed the couple that they were blocking her sun. The young couple looked startled, then burst into laughter as they collided into each other conspiratorially and wandered off, imitating the sourpuss of the woman as they made their way to the pool.

Yes, she was the perfect victim, Jenny decided. She took out her notebook and began to write.