Scarecrow

The first thing that I was aware of was the blood-- syrup sticky on my gloves, clothes and face as though I'd passed out onto a pancake plate. Ascending out of the void and into a crimson oblivion, the air thick with the scent of decaying copper, I was a newborn wrestling with the afterbirth. My muscles were in agony, convalescing from some unremembered strain-- my vision obscured by a film of thick mucus that veiled the world in an opaque fog. My breathing in gasps, a child waking from a fitful dream, I fought a few dry heaves before my thoughts began straining against the constraint of my cranium in an attempt to overthrow my sanity in a siege. Through it all, I sensed the blood. It was my constant companion through the shadow of darkness. It was my mother, my sanctum, my sustenance. It held me in a chilling embrace and reassured me in spite my lack of complete cognisance, and I clung to it like a suckling newborn until the tremors subsided.

I loathe these moments. It is a price that must be paid for the cravings that I indulge; but still, one does always long for a better-built mousetrap. Firstly, the disorientation is very alarming. Waking up to an eyeful of savagely-mutilated corpse while suffering a case of temporary amnesia is not the best way to remain continent, I'll say that-- and I've met very few men who enjoy releasing their bowels fully clothed. This is not to mention the perils of losing ones' faculties in close proximity to a crime scene. You're without alibi and ability to convincingly argue with anything more eloquent than a house pet... which means that the story will end with the phrase, "Officer, I find these handcuffs terribly confining."

Luckily, unlike many of my ilk, I do not tend to rend my clothing from my body at the drop of a hat during dismemberment. The reasons are manifold, and not limited to the fact that clothing can be incinerated while body hair can only be temporarily removed. I shave my head, face and eyebrows prior to any decent outing as a precautionary measure, but ultimately it's safer to be appropriately encapsulated in a sort of body condom to prevent random shedding when pleasure killing. This also prevents the awkward state of coming back into cognisance in the nude, as one tends to fall back onto infantile instincts when naked and panic stricken. Thus, awakening fully clothed and dripping with viscera is a situation that's much easier to manage psychologically.

Furthermore, black clothing is a must. It's not just for catburglars anymore-- it prevents the stains from any fluids from being painfully evident to any random passersby. If you're skilled, you'll be able to avoid the kind of dedicated scrutiny that would make bloodstains apparent regardless- but every little bit helps.

It would be difficult for anyone to digest the scene that unfolded before me once the grogginess of exhaustion had waned. The room around me appeared to have been decorated by some spasmodic butcher impersonating Jackson Pollock. It appeared as though someone had force-fed a handful of hand grenades to an unfortunate creature and proceeded to play pin the punk on the powder keg. There were entrails dangling from an antique chandelier above me... no doubt my gleeful attempt at a Gein-esque Christmas garland, regardless of it being mid-July. Portions of shattered skull were strewn around this spacious foyer, with the greatest portion of the face and scalp strangely affixed to the pendulum in a lacquered-oak grandfather clock abutting the east stairwell. Perhaps that was my attempt to impress the fact that time was of the essence upon myself once I'd come around. The victims legs were, for the most part, intact and affixed comedically to the wall around an electrical outlet to pass as some sort of makeshift vagina. Epithets had been carved into the flesh, but had been scrawled with such fury that they were mostly inscrutable. I believe the only words painfully evident to me were suppurating seacow. In any event, the detritus from some savage butchery was abundant to say the least.

Now, attempting to stand in any viscous fluid while exhausted and disoriented is like high-wire coitus-- it looks and feels as awkward as it sounds. Thus, my first few attempts sent me sprawling back onto the polished marble blood-pond that I'd created in my earlier rampage. Upon crashing the final time the splatter of blood from my impact found its way into my mouth and awakened a thousand anguished cries residing in the chasm of my subconscious. I saw flashes of faces contorted in the throws of sweet suffering, fighting to find some surcease from an overwhelming agony. I heard a horrifying chorus of voices, like the din of wailing angels as the morning star plummeted from grace.

Awash in these orgiastic memories of human misery I became my whole self again. The man and the monster reincorporated one another and returned to a state of glorious unity. As gravity clutched me to her breast like an over-protective mother, the blood became the conduit to my ultimate awareness. I welcomed the claret-induced clarity with a cheshire grin.

I haven't the foggiest idea who the individual was that constituted the whole entity now represented by this decimated array of flesh... It's better that way. Rationally, it is best to kill individuals you can not be linked to in any way, shape or form. While it would be great fun, killing acquaintances is the surest way to make reservations for a soothing session on an electrified throne. Besides, random acts of violence have a way of fortifying my conception that the better portion of humanity is only qualified to be lambs for the slaughter.

Now that I had come around completely, I had begun to listen for any indication of impending peace officers or random passersby. Without knowing the exact amount of time that one has been unconscious, it becomes difficult to estimate whether capture is imminent. Thus, I had precious little time to enjoy the fruits of my labor in a completely cogent state of mind. I hastily scooped a copious quantity of blood into a sizable receptacle that I had brought with me to facilitate a post-slaughter masturbatory bloodbath at some point later in the day and proceeded to vacate the premises.

The word bloodbath is too often associated with hyperbolic headlines in sensationalist tabloids. Any old murder these days can be mislabeled as a bloodbath purely based on the fact that the scene contained a spurt or two of arterial spray. I resent this as much as any artist who sees one of his masterpieces compared to a rendering of fruit... it debases the entire art form. A true blood bath is a rarity to encounter these days, as few individuals possess my dedication to draining.

Something very rarely discussed in polite company is the effect the constriction of rigor has on blood flow. To facilitate draining the requisite amount of fluid from a victim, one must consistently tap the cadaver at given intervals... and this requires a great deal of dedicated effort. Certainly more effort than simply succumbing to the initial fury of a frenzied stabbing. One must allow the victim to drain as much as humanly possible during the spastic, undulating death throws as you can (So, sitting on their chest and driving an ice-pick through their jugular while they thrash beneath you is an excellent idea as a starter). This will allow for a steady stream of fluid whilst the heart is still pumping excitedly, long before the body has begun to constrict. Once the individual has ceased moving, you will need to make drainage ports at varied intervals on the body (similar to bloodletting methods employed by Egyptian embalmers) if you intend to properly siphon plasma from a subject. Of course, I have a much different motivation for this kind of conduct.

A blood bath for me represents the literal meaning of the word- the act of bathing oneself in blood. It is an exquisite after-dinner mint for those afflicted with my preternatural killing instincts, as it allows you to fully enjoy the essence of your partner in the comfort and privacy of your own abode. As a rule, it is best to do so in close conjunction with the killing-- as one does not want any physical evidence on your person should any pesky law enforcement types manage to locate your den. Added to which I've found that re-heating blood that has been significantly cooled is far less satisfying than utilizing blood that has been sitting at room temperature for a short time. It just tastes different, and I cannot abide a low quality vampiric experience. As Hunter Thompson, a man I greatly admire, frequently said, "Anything worth doing is worth doing right."

After a brief once-over with a towel to remove the blood from my face, head and neck, I was striding briskly out of a byzantine palace in Baltimore and into the waiting embrace of a crisp evening breeze. I was galvanized, revitalized and practically weightless as I glided through the gloomy streets like a prowling alleycat. The peril of falling back into the general populous after such an edifying experience is that I can feel my own transcendence dwarfing the significance of the lives I am adrift in. I can feel the percolation of every cell in every vein of every individual of the throng, crying out for proper consumption. With every inch that passes under each footfall I sense the blood... beat by beat I become closer to complete enlightenment.

Me, stalking down the city sidewalks with strangers-- I'm a panther posing as a house-pet: A picture worth a thousand wounds... and counting.