Serial Killer

"Quickly, back to the bunkers! Trotson, get over here! The Changelings are attacking! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE! AAAHHH! TROTSON! HELP ME! TROTSOOOOOO-"

He quickly woke up from the nightmare he just had. He looked out the window. Moring he thought. His name was Dr. John Trotson. He was an ex-military doctor who had fought in the battle against the changelings. Horrible things happened during the battle. He lost his best friend, whom he couldn't save from the swarm of changelings that cornered them in a dark alleyway. He poured himself a cup of coffee, sat down and opened an empty book. This was supposed to be his diary, but he hadn't written anything in it yet. He checked his watch. It read "8.15 AM". Gotta start heading to the therapist he thought. He got up, and headed out the door.

"How's your diary going?" Trotson's therapist asked

"Good. Yeah, very good" Trotson answered shakily. The therapist shook her head.

"You haven't written a word, haven't you?"

"Yeah..." Trotson said with a sigh.

"John, you're a soilder. It's going to take a while to adjust to normal life" the therapist said. "You're supposed to be writing a diary about everything that happens to you!"

"Nothing happens to me" Trotson replied. Little did he know that was all about to change.

October 12th

A stallion stared at the shadow. The shadow of a mare. The mare had a very sharp knife. And the knife was coming towards him. Before he knew it, everything went black.

"My husband was a happy stallion. He loved his work, and lived life to the fullest" the crying wife of the stallion sobbed, the cameras of the press flashing every second. "And that somepony should of taken his life this way... is a shock to all who new him. I don't know why somepony would murder him".

November 26th

"I'm just seeing what time the bus comes!" a teenage colt yelled to his friend.

"Don't be long!" his friend replied. Time passed, and the friend was getting impatient. He walked to where the bus stop, where he found a note:

Got a cab. Sorry I couldn't go on the bus with you.

In an abandoned building far away from there, the young stallion was looking at the same mare that the the other stallion that was murdered earlier that year saw. The mare still had her knife. The knife she had was covered in his blood. He fell to the ground. Lifeless. Motionless. Dead.

January 27th

The Trotdon Gala. A night were ponies can dance, "dance", and flail while people look at you and think you're stupid. A mare came out of the door to meet with her coltfriend. "She's still dancing?" he asked.

"If you call it that" the mare replied with a chuckle. The stallion looked through the doors to the main hall. "Where is she?" he asked.

Little did they know that their friend with the horrible dancing skills was far away from the building, lying on the ground. Dead.

Cameras from all around room flashed, the press eagerly awaiting the reason for these serial killings. "The body was found late last night outside the Trotdon Main Gala Building. Investigations suggest this this was murder." announced Sergeant Sally Donomane. "We can confirm this murder closely resembles those of 2 other ponies's murders last year. In this light, they are now being treated as linked. This investigation is still going, but Inspector Detective Lestride will take questions now". And with that nearly all the hands in the room went up, people yelling there questions. "These three ponies, they have nothing that link them?" another reporter asked.

"Not yet, but there has to be one-" Lestride was cut off by a letter that appeared in front of him. He opened it up.

Wrong

"What does it say?" the reporters asked.

"It just says wrong" Lestride answered, knowing who it was from.

"Are there anymore questions?" Sally asked the crowd of reporters.

"How did they die?" another reporter asked.

"We don't know what exactly is the cause of death yet but we have our best people investigating-" he was cut of by another letter.

Wrong

"Are there anymore questions?" Sally asked again.

"Could this be the work of a serial killer?" one mare reporter asked.

"It is possible, but we can't confirm that yet" Lestride answered.

"How can we keep ourselves safe?"

"Look, we are all as safe as we want to be-" another letter interrupted Lestride.

Wrong

But there was more:

You know where to find me.

SH

"You got to stop him doing that" Sally whispered to Lestride.

"Tell me how he does it and then I'll stop it" Lestried replied sternly.

Trotson was walking down the street when he was stopped by a voice. "John? John Trotson?" he turned around to see his good friend that he hadn't seen in years, Mike Stanhoof. "Mike?"

"Good to see you!" Mike said. They both sat down on a nearby bench. "I'm teaching now!" he exclaimed.

"Where?" Trotson asked.

"University of Trotdon" Mike answered. "What about you?"

"Oh, can't afford Trotdon. Not with the money they paid me" Trotdon replied.

"Got somepony to share a flat with or something?" Mike asked.

"Who would want me as a flatmate?" Mike chuckled. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today!"

"Who was the first?"