Stabby leaned out of his door cautiously, doubled-barreld shotgun in hand and Spot -his old bloodhound with no visible spot on him- at his side. It was well known he teeterd on the brink of insanity, but how mutch is not known.
"Stay, boy. I've got work to do."
He walked cautiouslly outside, shoutgun at the ready. No serial killer would get him to go down. Not without a fight, at least.