People tended to see what they wanted to see, or what served their own individual purpose to see, or what their prejudices, narrow minds, bigotry, upbringing, or inadequacies, steered them in the direction of.
Underestimation can be a very dangerous thing.
When most people looked at George Least, one glance was enough to tell them everything that he was capable of, or incapable of to be more precise, in that one glance they could read everything about him, he was, and always would be, a failure at everything he ever did, he would never succeed at business, he would never win the fair lady, he would never win a two-fisted fight, he was a weedy, cowardly, brainless, four-eyed no-hoper, this is what people saw, even his name belied what George really was inside.
Appearances can be deceptive.
George was Five feet three inches tall, weighed a scant ninety eight pounds, wore glasses, and bore more than a passing resemblance to Steve Buscemi, all this combined to cause people to constantly dismiss him, belittle him, and underestimate him, and this burned him deeply.
George was originally from New York, but had moved to Chicago soon after graduating three years ago, he had a degree in mathematics, made an absolute fortune on the internet, had bedded dozens of beautiful women (paid for, but beautiful women nonetheless), hidden beneath his clothes, his body was hard toned muscle from working out for two hours each day, he was also a third Dan shotokan karate expert.
In the last three years, one hundred and eighteen men and women had been brutally slain in Chicago, the M.O. Was always the same, they were found where they had died, eyes gouged out, smashed ribs, broken teeth, broken neck, a multitude of other internal injuries, a large 'M' carved into the forehead, and as a final violation, posthumously raped.
The police experts profiled a man aged twenty five to forty, black hair, approximately one hundred and ninety to two hundred and ten pounds, powerful build, approximately six feet two tall, blood type O, taking a size eleven shoe.
George laced up his size seven brogues, ran a comb through his blond hair, he took a final glance around his expensively furnished apartment, then stepped outside. His rather weak looking expression hid a smug and superior attitude.... And something else.
By the morning the body count would be one hundred and nineteen, there would be further clues to support the profile, and the police would be no nearer to catching the monster.
Misdirection was George's middle name.
©2011 Stephen. J. Green.