The table of the diner had a large, brown stain on it, and he couldn't help thinking it almost looked like a face, judging him almost as hard as he was judged himself. The bouncing of his leg made the table shake, and the face with it, so it sort of looked like it was laughing at him - only making the bouncing worse. He stared at his computer, the virtual, empty page screaming at him in the darkness of the 2AM moon. His fingers twitches as if to write something, but as soon as they filled with will, nothing flowed from his brain.

He started looking around, noticing how the sweet, old waitress leaned on the kitchen counter, tiredly chatting with one of the chefs, just to fill the time. There was not much of a crowd - there never really was - but today seemed even worse than every other day. He sighed. His idea of getting inspiration from another human being going straight in the trash - a place he wouldn't mind going himself right about now. He just needed someone, _anyone_, that he could talk to, bounce ideas off of. He knew it.

Then he heard it. The unremarkable sound of a coffee mug being put down just at a few tables from him. Bingo. He almost got up immediately, but then realised the truth of his situation. He was a weird man in a small, secluded diner in the middle of the night, that was just going to approach this stranger and - realistically - scare them away. He looked back at the cold, white page in front of him. He inhaled sharply, biting his lip as he gripped the table, and then he was gone.

They had really large, calloused hands - was the first thing he noticed - and they didn't even flinch when he catapulted his body into the booth in front of them. He smiled nervously, looking at the half face not covered by the dark hood as he looked for the person's eyes. He didn't want to explain until prompted, but when it didn't happen, his nerves reacted quicker than his brain and immediately went for his mouth.

"I'm not a murderer." He explained quickly, tapping his fingers at the edge of the table, unconsciously making himself smaller in his knitted jumper. "Too bad. I am." The men in front of him simply replied, no humor in his voice.

If he hadn't prided himself with a bit of common sense, he would have almost been scared, but instead he just laughed. The stranger saw his reaction and just smiled back. "I'm not a creep either, I'm just..." His voice trailed off. What _was_ he? A stupid bank employee who just got laid off because of his constant daydreaming? A guy with a collection of weird, knitted sweaters? An aspiring author who has never written more than a thousand words together? "I'm just in desperate need of some help." He simply said, his tone resigned as he sighed. "I mean- not _actual_ help. I'm physically fine, except for that omelette I just ate."

The stranger laughed, and suddenly he felt his shoulders relax for the first time all night. "I just need someone to talk to about something weird." He tried to explain as best as he could. The stranger tilted his head up, the hood of his shirt finally revealing his face. He had a few scratches under his left eye and some purple and yellow bruises on his jaw. His face was all crooks and angles, covered by a four o'clock shadow that only managed to make him look more like a character from an action movie. His nose was crooked, a slight tilt to the left, but his eyes were what caught his attention. They were a perfect shade of kind, warm brown.

He felt his face warm up as the man talked again. "So I was your first choice?" He laughed, mocking offence in his tone. That only served to make him blush more, his voice cracking as he tried to explain himself. After a few attempts, he simply took a deep breath and said, "More like you were my _only_ choice. I think if I looked at the waitress too much, the chef is going to put me in your conditions." He said, gesturing to his face, laughing. When he noticed the cold look on the stranger's face, he gulped. He didn't think he could apologise faster than he did.

"Just what exactly is it that you want from me, bunny?" The stranger simply said, clearly tired of his shenanigans. He looked at him weird at the nickname, and when the stranger pointed at his sweater he felt like sinking into his seat until he reached the opposite side of the globe. He was wearing this blue sweater with a bunny on it, that read: 'Some _bunny_ loves you'. He covered his face with his hands and only felt worse when he heard the other man laughing.

When he calmed down, his face still crimson with shame, he took a deep breath, then spoke again. "If I, _hypothetically, _used a wood chipper to disassemble a human body, how much noise would it make, and how far would the pieces fly off?" He asked quickly, knowing how weird the question he had just asked was. He stared at the stranger for a moment, fully expecting him to curse him out, call him a 'weirdo', or even throw his coffee at him. But arguably what he did was worse: _nothing_. He didn't give a reaction. Actually, he barely looked at him, too absorbed in his own thoughts to care about his nervousness.

After a few seconds of silence, he gripped the table again, his leg bouncing up and down as he could feel the anxiety fill his body. That was it. He had finally proven everyone right: he was a creep, and he deserved to be alone for the rest- "How big is the body?" He simply asked, and he finally allowed some air into his lungs. Without skipping a beat, he answered. "Standard size for a middle aged American man, about 5'9'', 198 pounds." He replied almost mechanically.

"Well, wood chipper would definitely make a lot of noise, and by that I mean _a lot_, and it's range can vary, but let's call it 20-30 feet. And it gets _real messy, real fast_. So probably not the most efficient method." The stranger spoke calmly, and he looked him with wide, sparkling eyes, as if he was offering him water after being stranded in the desert. He hurriedly got a napkin and took a pen out of his pocket, quickly writing the information down, his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he nodded.

"If you ask me, I'd tell you that there's much more _efficient_ ways to get rid of a corpse." The stranger spoke again, his tone so normal, it was almost as if he was talking about the weather. He raised his mug to his lips and took a sip of his coffee before his gravelly voice tumbled again. "Acid's one of the best - clean and permanent, gets rid of any sort of evidence - but it takes a hell of a long time, and it's hard to get your hands on a ton of it." He spoke, and his voice let out a soft, southern accent which he found particularly endearing.

"Plus, you'd have to check in on it every few days to refill it and make sure all the bones are melted. Teeth, man, they're the _worst_." He said, laughing as he sighed, taking another sip of his coffee to give him time to write everything down, which he appreciated. "So, that would take, what? A week?" He asked eagerly, looking up at him. "'Bout so, yeah." The strangers nodded and he almost felt giddy at how lucky he had been to find him.

"Another one's freezing." He said, putting his mug down. He could tell the man was having a hard time pronouncing his 'G's, trying to somewhat hide his accent for whatever reason. "Now the tricky part is the freezing itself. Ideally you want a commercial freezer. It's quicker and more homogeneous. It'll take you about 12-24 hours. Standard freezer would be about double that, maybe a bit more if you wanna make sure everything is frozen right." He spoke eloquently, and his use of some words showed him he came from an educated background, ore he at least was literature savvy.

As he frantically scribbled down on the back side of his napkin, the stranger kept on speaking. "After that you just dismember it. It's much easier because there's no blood going everywhere, and it'll take a few hours, bit more if you're inexperienced." He concluded, taking his mug again and finishing his coffee. As he wrote the last word down, he tilted his head back up, admiring the stranger in front of him with adoration in his eyes. "You're brilliant." He spoke breathlessly, a bit embarrassed that the words came out of him so quickly.

The stranger chuckled in response, smirking down at him. "So I've been told, bunny." He replied smugly, and his confidence only served to make him weaker in the knees. "I've never met someone like you before." He managed to get out, his eyes staring into the warm swirls of brown mirroring them. "Are you some sort of doctor? Or a cop?". They stayed like that, watching each other in silence for a few more seconds, before the stranger took his pen from him with a smirk and scrabbled something on a napkin. After he did, he got some cash from his pocket and put it on the table as he got up.

His eyes followed him filled with disappointment. "You should be grateful for that." The stranger laughed, and he couldn't help but laugh too, his smile contagious. "Tab's on me. Thank you for the entertainment, bunny." He simply said, leaving the napkin on top of the cash he had left behind as he went for the door.

"Wait- I don't even know your name!" He yelled out, tempted to follow him and his captivating aura, but too scared to actually do it. "And I haven't explained that I'm not a serial killer- I-I'm just a writer." He said quickly, as if to reassure him that he didn't need to leave because he was 'weird'. The stranger turned back, smiling at him with his hands in his pocket. "Nice to meet you, writer. I ain't got a name. As for what I do... Well, let's just say it's been mentioned." He simply said, flashing him a smile before turning back around. "Good luck with your book, bunny." He finally said, before disappearing in the dark outside the diner.

As the air turned cold again and his racing heart started to give him signs of truce, he reached the napkin he had left behind with shaking hands. All there was on it was numbers: 40.0722° N, 105.5089 W, 11:46PM. A quick internet search will later tell him that those are the coordinates for an isolated phone booth in the middle of Ward, Colorado, and that the time was probably when he was supposed to call. He smiled at the small drawing of a bunny that he found underneath, clutching the napkin into his hand and holding it close to his chest, as to will it to make him come back to him. He sighed deeply as his eyes stared longingly at the empty seat in front of him, wondering if the heat from the men's body was still decorating it. Just like that, the mini-jukebox - that hadn't worked for a solid ten years - suddenly decided to unwind.

_"You're my thrill,_

_you do something to me._

_You send chills right through me_

_when you look at me,_

_'cause you're my thrill."_