Rainfall is a necessity in the ecologies that we as a species thrive in. It sustains flora and fauna (as few animals outside the human species have easy access to underground aquifers) and revitalizes arid areas through regular monsoon activity. By and large, the distribution of life on this planet can be traced to regions with frequent dissemination of collected atmospheric moisture via precipitation. Furthermore, many human beings see rainfall as nature's purifier. This, however, is not a factual conclusion. Rain's contributions to "cleaning" our planet are merely superficial. Precipitation dilutes the refuse and ruin of mankind and transports it into subterranean states; nothing more. Thus, the violent storm rampaging in the Baltimore skyline tonight is a farce to me. It cannot undo what I have wrought. These droplets are the embodiment of the wasted anguish of angels plummeting to the earth to mourn my actions. As it stands, they are far too inept to impact directly. I have usurped their glory on this globe... I am a new-world nephilim.
Dispatching the child was not a difficulty for me. I lament it only in that it did not allow me the proper time to simply enjoy siphoning the soul out of her mother. There are many who feel that the death of a child is the greatest tragedy known to mankind. This is sentimental horseshit. In actuality, I've done this innocent a favor. I have deprived her of her life, yes; however, I've also prevented her from experiencing the breadth and depth of man's depravity over time. She will never know true heartbreak or sorrow. She will never have to suffer through a loved one's bout with cancer. She will never be raped at a Friday night frat mixer by some drunken reprobate... and some sick sodomite will never get her addicted to barbiturates and whore her out to his friends for his own amusement. It was bad enough that she was being subjected to the noisy fornication of those gangly adolescents that were presumably charged with her care for the evening. She died a pristine spirit. Snapping her neck was the greatest gift I was capable of giving her. It's the best I can give to anyone. I am a liberator of souls.
Popping a third piece of gum into my mouth, I take a deep cleansing breath and try to envision what I'd done to incur this kind of karmic clusterfuck on only my second night in town. Surely, it was bad enough that a child was present in this home... My little blonde succubus, Deborah Novotony according to her identification, certainly did not appear to be old enough to have sired offspring. I suppose it's a tribute to the decline of the supposed moral fabric of this queer country. Or, perhaps I should say, cunt-ry.
This is the price I pay for living on instincts. One cannot exist sating every synaptic urge without occasionally encountering unexpected snags. This scenario, however, was a total calamity from the word go. Naturally, Deborah objected to my killing her daughter. Thus, the moment I sprung from her chest she was scrambling across the floor after me. A well-placed thrust to her throat had prevented any anguished cry from escaping her, but she was still capable of scratching and clawing like a rabid wolverine while I tackled her child to the ground. The girl attempted to scream, but I drove my forearm into her trachea as I fell on-top of her, effectively collapsing her wind-pipe and settling the matter quickly.
At this point, her mother was on my back and driving her furious phalanges towards my eye-sockets... another product of weekend self-defense courses at a community college. I grabbed two handfuls of her hair and jerked her over my shoulders and onto the squirming form of her daughter in front of me. Fighting to maintain balance, I snatched an odd leaden object from a bookshelf to my right and bludgeoned the woman until she was twitching like a jonesing dope-fiend. The object, I found upon later inspection, was a bust of some elderly fellow with atrocious sideburns and what appeared to be a lifetime of torment trapped behind his eyes. Of course, the thick trickle of blood from the object may have lent to my interpretation of his glum expression.
It was then that I heard the bucking of a headboard against the plaster of the wall to my right, coupled with a gentle moan of erotic delight. So the child wasn't completely unattended, after all. Looking for a bit of entertainment to compensate for the evening's lost opportunities, I crept through the bedroom door to see two acne ridden tweens writhing in a sad approximation of human coital entanglement. The girl had barely any shape to her: certainly not enough to conjure any libidinal liftoff for me personally. They were arranged, as so many ridiculous children tend to be, in a position affectionately referred to as a "69." She was bouncing her head so fervently against the boy's pelvis that I was sure he had to be hung like a fucking raccoon to avoid impaling her. The boy's complexion resembled chicken-skin drawn over a barbed-wire fence, and he was so thin that I momentarily believed the girl was molesting herself with a broomstick.
After nearly two minutes of quiet observation I felt nauseous enough that I nearly vomited on them before they'd even noticed the door was open. At this point I stepped forward and drove the girl's head far enough onto the boy's member to choke her, causing her to bite down violently after three wretches. The boy squealed in agony, but I managed to quickly adjust a pillow over his face to stifle the cry. I had never had the opportunity to choke a woman to death on another man's pelvis... In case you're keen on attempting this at home, be warned: it's exceedingly messy. First, there will be blood from the bitten penis. This will flow free and fast, as this is an area being heavily supplied given the circumstances. You're also confronted with the typical dilemma of asphyxia, wherein the body will expel stomach contents to try and dislodge the esophageal blockage. The young man also voided his bowels in reaction to the wounds being inflicted on his testicles as I drove her further and further down... and I have a vague suspicion he was near climax when I initially introduced myself to them, as there was a semen-esque substance trickling with the vomit from the girl's mouth. After nearly ten minutes of depriving these two of oxygen, they finally surrendered themselves to the hereafter.
Now that I had turned this quaint urban apartment into an orgiastic abattoir, I began to shuffle the bodies into the kitchen to facilitate my cleaning process. Firstly, I had to scrub beneath Deborah's fingernails to remove any possible skin she'd managed to claw free during our exchange. I then sprayed her clean with a sink attachment and removed a portion of her labia to fry up once I'd returned to my hotel room.
I hit a snag with the daughter as I was dragging her into the kitchen... literally. She caught on the corner of a counter as I was attempting to maneuver her past her mother's prone body, and I had managed to bore a rather sizable hole in her stomach before I'd realized that she had bent around the structure. While I was attempting to shift her away from the island, her leg became entangled with her mother's. I still happened to be holding an emery board that I'd been utilizing in paring Deborah, and unfortunately drove the board into the child's stomach whilst trying to separate their limbs. Due to the hole I'd already managed to wear, I had plunged the better portion of my hand into the wound along with the board... which meant I was extricating portions of viscera when I managed to pull free. In fact, I'd pulled so much out that it was making it difficult to maneuver around this bloody heap of humanity I'd created. After falling atop the bodies twice I began to twine the intestines around the child's neck as one would wind a cable around the plastic posts on a vacuum cleaner. This task completed, I shifted both women near the sink and went into the bedroom to retrieve my young lovers.
After nearly four hours of constant exertion (including but not limited to: tracking a woman for an hour, killing four individuals, shifting their bodies and cleaning any perceivable evidence from said bodies and various items around the apartment) I was sapped of all energy. Having managed to arrange the bodily remnants in a supine pancake stack, I exhaustedly fell atop the heap and attempted to enjoy a moment of respite from activity.
I'm unaware of how long I had rested there... I don't believe that I nodded off, but before I was fully cognisant of my surroundings I heard someone exclaim, "What the fuck?" directly outside the front door of the apartment. Realizing that I did not have nearly enough time to wrest myself away from this dog-pile, I simply continued to lay prone across the bodies in the hopes that I would be counted amongst the carnage when the individual entered. As luck had it, I was.
I presume that his exclamation was due to the fact that the front door was standing somewhat ajar. The door must have recoiled rather than lock into place when I had kicked it earlier. The man entering was not large, the presumed Mr. Novotony, but he was certainly fit. Like his lover, he was firmly toned and appeared to take great care in maintaining his physique. He was sporting a sandy-blonde wavy coiffer, parted in the middle and somewhat wind-tussed from the gail he'd likely endured getting into the building. A gray woolen trench-coat hung loosely around him, and he carried the ever-so-cliche brown leather briefcase in his right hand. The lights were still off in the apartment, as I had been operating by the candlelight the amorous couple had been using for ambiance. Thus, as Mr. Novotony (Nathaniel, I later discovered) entered his abode he was not instantly confronted with the grizzly horror that was the product of my evening's reverie. Closing the door behind him, he was no doubt aware that something was amiss given the amount of blood on the carpeting and the plethora of overturned furniture. He entered cautiously, peering into the gloom of the apartment and jumping at the vague shadows projected in the candlelight flickers. Upon surveying the room and seeing no immediate danger, I presume, he reached to the wall and turned on the apartment lights.
Once the lights were on, as there were limbs ostensibly extending from behind the island in the kitchen, he gasped very pronouncedly and leapt toward the bodies to ascertain their identities. As he rounded the corner, I continued to lay prone until the shock of seeing his loved ones in such a state had registered in his mind. He froze in place; mouth agape, absolutely terrified. At that exact moment, I sprung from the body heap with all the reserved energy I could muster-- hurling myself with a complete disregard for my own well-being in the hopes that I could use this momentary advantage to overwhelm him completely.
The man was strong, that's for sure. Perhaps once the survival instinct kicks in, one is imbued with a strength that transcends normal human ability. In any event, he was able to absorb a good deal of my momentum without falling completely off-balance. However, I flew into him with a rather uncoordinated cross-body which sent him reeling into the kitchen cabinets and counters whilst I slid downward onto the floor. Unfortunately, he recoiled off of the cabinets and fell directly on top of me. This was not an advantageous situation for me to find myself in, but I managed to find decent footing as his weight was adjusting on top of me. I kicked against the cabinets beneath the sink, effectively turning the both of us onto our backs like invalid turtles. While he was attempting to find purchase with a stranglehold, I wildly flailed my hands around to try and locate some weapon to utilize in my desperation. When I happened upon a pair of ice tongs that had fallen to the floor in the midst of the struggle I felt as though salvation had come at last. I drove the prongs, pinched together to resemble a spearhead, directly into his groin several times. This certainly took a good deal of fight out of him, and he began to roll away from me while holding his testicles and retching.
At this point I'd managed to recover a modicum of composure, and saw an opening to put the proverbial fork in the fucker following the literal one. He had begun to crawl towards the front door mewling like a wet cat, still pitiably clutching his manhood and wriggling like a silk worm across the carpet. I waited for him to get near the door, and just as he was about to reach up for the handle I leaned over him and jerked the door open. The door itself slammed against the left side of his head as I pulled it, and brushing past that also collided with his right hand which had been outstretched towards the nob. He groaned noisily, and as his head fell to the floor I grabbed the collar on his trench-coat and dragged him a few more inches forward toward the hallway and into the entryway.
Poised as a coiled snake, I hurled the door towards the jamb repeatedly as I'd seen done so frequently in popular cinema... and the effect was quite entertaining. The skull itself did not collapse from the impacts, but it was certainly enough to concuss the man severely... Hair and flesh tore away from his scalp and temples as I pried the door back time and again. Not exactly sure that this would sufficiently dispatch the gentleman I nudged him further forward and, turning him onto his right side (thereby facing his jugular towards the doorjamb), closed the door repeatedly against the back of his neck. When I felt that his trachea had been sufficiently collapsed, I dragged him back into the apartment and placed him atop the concentration camp dog-pile I'd manufactured over the course of the evening.
Given the amount of energy I'd expended over the last few hours, I again felt an overwhelming need for rest and recuperation. However, prudence prevailed at this juncture and I quickly set about gathering whatever valuables I could to aid in sustaining myself. That task done, I found myself still feeling rather unfulfilled by the evening's activities. I certainly wasn't satisfied with the experience at all, regardless of the outcome. As such, I decided to do a little redecorating with the bodies and scenery.
I placed the daughter back in her own room, nestled safely in the confines of her bed. However, to avoid being seen as soft by my growing fan-base of law enforcement officers and journalists, I splayed open her wounds using a practice similar to high-school anatomy dissection utilizing the same tongs that I employed to dispatch her father. I then arranged two couches directly facing one another in the living room. On one I configured Mr. and Mrs. Novotany in a near Ozzie and Harriet fashion, his right arm draped around her shoulder (his head drooping sickly over the back of the couch following the neck trauma) and his legs crossed with his left hand on his genitals. I fashioned a rather sick look of glee on Deb's face (as she had started to stiffen by the time I got around to tinkering with her), and left her arms looking as though she was meekly holding her hands in her lap... then inserted both hands into the gaping wound I'd left there. I arranged the young nude teens, who were still locked together by their rigor in their chosen sexual arrangement, as the focus of the Novotany's attention... It was eerily reminiscent of a Monty Python sexual education class, with the two youths acting as the instructors in this instance.
With this work came a spiritual levity, and I left the apartment feeling as though I'd dodged a bullet as opposed to having made a colossal error in judgement. Even fate, it seems, cannot thwart me in spite of it's most earnest attempts. The rain buffeted the Baltimore streets in some strange synchronicity with my footfalls, as though I was still being chided for my conduct by beings on high. Awash in the chaos, I railed against my better judgment hoping that the rain could corrode the calamity of this evening... or at least transport it into the subterranean states of my subconscious.
As it stands, I learned that what doesn't kill me makes me harmful...
Thanks to the years of Hollywood education, people expect serial killers to fall neatly into one of two categories. The first being a highly educated, cold calculated bastard that blueprints and analyzes every possible minutia of potential targets, from the time they leave their apartments in the morning all the way down which scummy bars they prefer to hang out on a weekend or even insane details .One memorable example involved a man so familiar with his victims abode from endless surveillance, neighbors testified to him feeding the cat and watering houseplants and he slowly defiled the victim over the course of several weeks. They had assumed he was simply a house sitting due to his cheery demeanor.
The other flavor in the baskin robbins dairy case of pleasure killers is a simple terminally violent psychotic. With no discernible plan or real justification for any action, they are motivated by a cornucopia of perceived demons, disembodied voices , ghosts of relatives, obscure deities, omniscient cups of store bought gelatin and occasionally good old fashioned pure unadulterated primal instinct. Generally speaking such perpetrators never say at large for very long as they take huge risks and eventually leave witness behind after committing unspeakable acts in the public eye. A gentlemen running naked at full tilt through the Kansas City mall wielding a machete upon command from the Norse King Aun manifested by various homeless gentlemen he came across being the prime example of such.
This one, Arthur thought to himself, didn't fit into either of the movie theater archetypes. A nomadic nature suggested little or no forethought in the choice of victim, the wary detective had been airport hopping in the wake of debauchery for quite time now. Little Rock, Baltimore, West Orange, Fort Wayne, Portland, Santa Monica, New York, Helena, Tucson, Flint, even a Military Barracks in Corpus Cristi Texas. The only real linking factor (due to a chronic lack of physical evidence) was improvisation and a flair for the obscene.
Unlike previous acts that only involved the enjoyment and disposal of a single victim, Arthur was horrified to discover that our mystery scumbag had graduated to group homicide, albeit clearly accidentally. Detective Arthur Flemming had seen what he had thought he had a grasp on the entire library of this killer's activity (a grim "best of" reel played in his head) but this new sequel and its new characters and exciting dialogs of motivation, dismemberment and disregard for nearly all things sent a stiff arctic wind down the back of his collar.
The smattering of information discerned from forensics had made for a police report that read like some kind of blood thirsty Woody Allen venture. What had started out as theoretically a simply single abduction and murder had escalated quite considerably with the discovery of a child interrupting the in progress festivities as times of death were found to be within minutes of each other. After dispatching the housewife by means of blunt force trauma (a nearby miniature concrete replica of Wagner left discernible imprints ) and the offspring by means of embowelment (again improvisation took the day with use of readily available set of salad tongs and strangulation with the small intestine.)
Judging by the slug-like trails of various bodily fluid impregnating the carpets, our boy began to drag the still leaking mother and child through the house towards the kitchen to facilitate easier employ by proximity to utensils. At this time its speculated that he made discovery of yet another unintended set of victims. Testimony given by neighbors given to canvassing police officers indicated that the sounds of the multi-homicide were effectively covered by the sounds of noisy copulation between what was later discovered as the babysitter hired for the night and a gentlemen caller. God knows what kind of strange acts they perceived to be going on in the bedroom given the added soundtrack of Aztec-style sacrifice going on in the next room.
Analysis of DNA left behind suggests the now potentially exhausted perpetrator then fell unconscious upon mattress bodies in various states of butchering, nakedness and drainage. Here he remained until being abruptly awakened by the arrival of the family patriarch, who had casually walked into his abode after a late shift and stumbled upon the still unconscious gentleman reclining on a barcalounger composed largely of his nuclear family. Various defensive wounds reveled a quick struggle and defeat of the bringer of bacon by the deft use of a heavy wooden door (as testified by neighbors complaining of repeated thudding noises perceived to be more frantic relations and the pieces of hair and skull later removed from the door jam)
Entering the living room of the apartment, the genuinely curious constable came up the five victims had been planted in various poses depicting idyllic domestic life adsorbing the worst in mindless network TV sitcoms through their now vacant and expressionless eyes.
There was never any plan here, no rhyme or reason. The entire scene was something more akin to a horridly twisted and visceral Saturday night live sketch done in a single take than a carefully planned installment of destruction. However, the family commentary, effort to remove physical evidence and long history suggested something more complex than a garden variety chemical imbalance run amok.
How much longer could such diametrically opposed characteristics survive in the world. Such risks and brazen disregard for capture couldn't possibly keep a lead indefinitely. Looking down at the list of credit cards and valuables missing from the domicile, Detective Flemming began to try to piece together exactly who this lead actor was.
Mr. Herbert Hinkelman walks at a steady, sure pace, as he does every evening. He walks southeasterly on Grand, through the lower east side towards the East River, as he has done every evening for the past eight years. He is heading home for the night, ambling towards the brownstone apartment building at number 4476 that overlooks the Williamsburg Bridge. He walks ignored and unnoticed. He is unassuming, inconspicuous and completely unremarkable among the throng in which he casually blends in. His suit is brown, his shoes are brown, and his hat is brown. He is little more than a brown blur, a mélange with the brown facades of the brown buildings and brown streets that he passes by. If you saw him, you wouldn’t even look twice. If you did, you would likely only see just another man in the city of a million or more such men. Hebert Hinkelman prefers it that way.
The thing that Marjorie, who works the register most nights at the convenience store on the corner of Mulberry and Grand, ever noticed about the man was his nails. They were always neat, trimmed and clean. She could also say for certain that he usually smelled faintly of Irish Spring soap. Beyond that, she couldn’t really tell you much about Herbert Hinkelman. She didn’t know if he was married, if he had children, where he worked or lived, if he rooted for the Yankees or the Dodgers. She could possibly guess at his age, but it would only be ballpark. She might even hazard to speculate on his height, weight or possible hair-color, but she couldn’t be absolutely sure, not to swear to. He was only a semi-regular customer, after all, who rarely spoke or did anything to stand out or apart from the hundreds of other people who everyday came and went through the same heavy glass door with the iron grates and the clanging bell hanging on a chain from the handle.
Melvin “Boots” Bootman sold Hinkelman a paper every morning from his newsstand on Lafayette, but the best that Boots could remember was that he always had the correct change. Ten thousand people, possibly more, passed by Bootman’s paper stand every morning. Ten thousand people that Boots paid little or no attention to, especially if they didn’t draw attention to themselves. How could he be expected to remember one non-descript guy who didn’t speak and always had the correct change. If pressed, and only after a moment of deepest contemplation, Boots might possibly be able to offer up that Hinkelman was just a normal guy, your typical fellow, the kind you see everywhere in Lower Manhattan.
Mrs. Grabaldi swept the front stoop of the Shadow View apartment building near Madison and Grand every evening before going in to watch Honeymooner’s reruns on channel 7. She could tell you, with absolute certainty, that the man who lived all the way up on thirteen was quiet, respectful and well-kempt. After more than eight years, she still did not know his name, because she thought it impertinent to ask. And as he not yet replaced the old name tag on the apartment directory, Aida Feinster’s name was still attached to 1309, though she had passed away in ‘98. Oh, and he was polite, that Mrs. Grabaldi could also attest to. “Good evening, Mrs. Grabaldi.” he said, tipping his hat. He did so occasionally, when he saw her sweeping, she wasn’t already engaged in conversation with Bette Finn or old Mister Potter out walking his nervous little Papillion dog.
Hinkelman’s routine, as far as anyone could say for certain, never varied. It was always the same. That he was a typically normal, sometimes polite brown haze with neatly trimmed nails, smelling faintly of Irish Spring, jingling with change and striding down Grand Street in the morning and striding back in the opposite direction in the evening, was all anyone could say about him with any conviction. Most people, that is, but not Melinda Perry. Melinda, formerly the 2006 and 2007 Miss Hamilton Fish Park as well as honor student at Henry Street High School, currently a temp receptionist for Geller and Geller during the day and city college pre-business major at night, went missing 3 days earlier. She now finds herself bound, gagged and blindfolded in the back of the bedroom closet of the flat at 1309. Melinda does not think that Mr. Hinkelman is just a typical, normal guy. Rather, Miss Perry, torn silk blouse and runs in her stockings notwithstanding, would likely argue the opposite, if she didn’t have a gag stuffed in her mouth. She would say that he was anything but an average man among men. In a city full of conventional men, Herbert Hinkelman was an aberrant.
It is a natural human characteristic to fear the dark. Instinctually, as we as a species are not equipped with the necessary visual acuity to see accurately and surely in ill-lit environments, we feel a great sense of disquiet in darkness. Naturally this was a source of great consternation for me when I was younger as I, unlike my contemporaries, never encountered a sense of trepidation when immersed in the gloom. This fact was one of my first indications that I was a transcendent being... A child with no fear of the dark is profoundly peculiar, regardless of any other characteristics. I felt an overwhelming calm in caliginous obscurity. If blood can truly be construed as my mother, in the killing sense, the pitch dark of a moonless midnight would concurrently be my father.
Crouched at the corner of a blind alleyway shadowed by a lamp lit street corner, I'm as poised as a lion cloaked by the tall grasses of the Serengeti. This evening's study is statuesque- a buxom blonde molded and shaped by her body's exertions against gravity and the stresses of daily activity. Buttocks firm from tedious hours ascending stairwell simulators in health clubs... thighs taught from various evenings presumably spent straddling some strapping suitor... melon-esque breasts straining lightly against the confines of her blouse like tumbleweeds caught against a fence by a slight breeze. I eye her with a predator's appreciation of its prey. There is a desperate hunger wresting within the confines of my ribcage that she could easily satiate... and I adore her for it. Granted, animals lack the capacity for the abstraction of love; however, I am a different beast entirely. My mind can certainly rationalize my appreciation for that which will quiet my hunger.
The moralistic cunt-lickers of this world will call this selfishness... my need to sacrifice this woman to the lord of my unyielding desire. Those individuals ignore the naturalistic governing rules of this planet and insist upon enforcing sick schemes for universal conduct from contrived gospels to sublimate their own guilt. They ignore instinct because they are too weak to function as nature intended. They fight to control the impulses of those more powerful than themselves in order to sustain their own existence. Society coddles the incapable under the guise of creating equality and order- all these wasteful measures to fortify our tenuous grip on supremacy. We battle diseases, we fight disorders and regulate behaviors all under the pretense of maintaining the status quo. What these impish shits fail to realize is that their status quo does not deserve the upkeep.
The fearful mind clings to structure as it's savior. Those of us who can dominate know better... survival of the fittest is the only righteous governing precept established on this planet. Why should we act as the only species that is exempt from that maxim? In truth, our species is a pox on this planet: a cyst that must be removed to allow the body to thrive. I am nature's instrument of destruction. I am a walking holocaust waiting to wake itself. One could go so far as to call me the patron saint of xenocide, as I no longer consider myself to be truly human. I have evolved into something far more refined, and yet more attuned to the promptings of my instincts. Thus, I am a mercy killer.
Contrary to yet another law governing supposed typical criminal behavior, my need to kill is not a sadistic means of attaining sexual gratification. I sate those particular urges in the same way your standard-operating homosapien would... Not all continual killers are sexually impotent in the absence of the physical discomfort of their partner: this is, psychologically speaking, an old wives tale perpetuated by the talking heads in the FBI's behavioral science unit. I have always delighted in passionate or playful sexual congress with a woman as a means to satisfy my body's libidinous urges. Violence on the other hand, specifically slaughter, appeases another appetite entirely. Call it a God complex if you will; but being able to engineer overwhelming agony for another creature... for their physical and psychological well-being to hinge entirely upon your actions... is an unsurpassed power trip. Thus my desire to kill has no sexual affiliations-- I'm an indiscriminate executioner.
I have a particularly fond memory of turning a Chinese exchange scholar into a chopstick pincushion after a particularly frustrating conversation. I suppose it's my punishment for attempting to be familiarize myself with a culture other than my own. While on campus at UCLA I was attempting to discuss the case of Liu Pengli, cousin of the Han Emperor Jing that ruled in 144 BC, (who incidentally slaughtered hundreds of slaves and fugitives for sport long before Vlad the Impaler's infamous spiking spree...) with a group of overly garrulous Chinese co-eds. This cretin hadn't the slightest idea of whom I spoke, and had the audacity to question the reliability of the source of my information.
"Surely," he balked, "a noble-born Chinese is incapable of committing such atrocities."
I quickly quieted him with a well-placed jab to the jugular. He dropped to the ground quickly, gasping and clutching at his throat in a vein attempt to clear his airway. With his companions noisily careening away from his thrashing body, my well-placed punt to his face effectively knocked him unconscious. To avoid further escalation of the scene, I dragged the man by his hair to the nearest alcove and picked up an emergency phone. I reported a bulky black man accosting a pair of sorority girls with a pair of studded vibrators to campus police and listened for sirens. Then, grabbing the hapless fool I'd put down, I proceeded to promenade with his prone form as though we were both heavily intoxicated. Like some bizarre parody of Weekend at Bernie's we careened through campus, taking random turns as often as possible to avoid heavy traffic areas. When the slant-eyed shit-sack began to stir into consciousness, I jabbed him violently between his third and fourth ribs then pitched strategically forward allowing him to take the weight of both our bodies in the fall. At that point our heap was discovered by two passing officers.
"You boys have a little too much Saki?" one officer, portly and panting yet trying to appear as though he was not winded, jested.
"Oh, no ossifer," I slurred, looking up from atop the human pillow I was occupying, "You can't have too muck sachi."
"Did you happen to see some lunatic waiving dildos around up the walk?" queried the other officer, who I couldn't quite see given I was trying to keep my face buried against the shoulder blade of my victim should he happen to squirm.
"Oh, hell yeah... why do you think we're lying here? We want him to think that we're ocupado."
This last phrase was accompanied by a string of girlish giggling on my part, which was strangely accompanied by a mewling sound from my oriental rug.
"Easy, tiger. We'll be home soon..." I cooed, then lazily dragged my hand down his spine and snappily slapped him on the ass conjuring another whimpering noise from his buried face.
Obviously disgusted, the chubby officer glanced at his partner and nodded back toward the board walk.
"Was he back this way?" he asked.
"Yes indeedy mister man. Right back by the pink elephant over there," I chortled. "And by the way... I loved you boys in The Full Monty!"
"Fuckin' fags," the obscured officer growled as the two dodged past us striding post-haste back along the boardwalk.
Presumably Mr. Moto's companions had been unable to convey the events surrounding the assault of their friend to anyone in authority, due to their tenuous grasp of the English language in conjunction with their state of discomposure. Thus, I had plenty of time to hoist my inert quarry back to my car and down to a waiting schooner that I'd ported in Santa Monica earlier that day. I left my prize below deck and went out for some Chinese cuisine. Upon finishing my meal, I spent the remainder of the evening seeing how far I could drive an assortment of chop-sticks into my snide little prisoner. You'd be amazed at how well-crafted those instruments are. I only ended up snapping 15 to 20 of them in the process. After finally driving two sticks into each eye-socket, I stuffed my fortune cookie into his rectum and sent my man-made sea urchin overboard roughly 15 nautical miles from shore.
Back to the task at hand... Ms. Blonde gliding down the hallway towards her apartment with a perfect fluidity to her stride that implies a background in dance or runway modeling. Unfortunately for her, she is also completely oblivious to her surroundings. I've completely enveloped her and forced her through her front door before she's even realized that I was behind her. I manage to tackle her to the floor and slam her door shut in one deft move, using my left foot to catch the door while driving her downward with my forearm on the back of her neck. She's obviously disoriented from the sick thud of her head cracking the carpeted entryway, and issues a quiet groan as I adjust my weight onto the balls of my feet and fingertips. Feeling a bit invigorated by the ease of her capture, I roll her over underneath me and take a moment to revel in the terror that wells in her eyes as her head begins to clear before I bottle the scream just beginning to erupt from her chest. Kneeling on her shoulder blades, I press my right hand firmly over her mouth and draw the pointer finger of my left hand to my lips for a conspiratorial "Shhhh..."
"Listen to me very carefully..." I growl, my voice already bestial with the excitement I'm suppressing, "I have no intention of violating you sexually, so screaming will not be entirely necessary. If you could refrain, I assure you that you will be rid of me quickly."
I see a pseudo-calm sweep over her as she registers that I'm not ostensibly a frothing maniac. Her breathing levels out, and her eyes roll upward into her skull to avoid seeing my own. Odd, how some women are so easily reassured by rhetoric. What a gullible breed. As long as their oh-so-sacred vagina isn't tampered with, all other trepidations are easily allayed. I remove a bit of tension from the hand covering her mouth, pressing lightly against her chin with the butt of my thumb to force her to look at me. Once our gazes entangle, I can't help but let the right corner of my mouth creep upward in a smirk. If she only knew that not only would she be rid of me soon enough, but free of the trappings of this mortal coil as well.
"I just have one trifling little necessity that you can provide me with... It isn't worth much to you, in any event. After I have that, I'll gladly be on my way... Does that sound agreeable?"
I removed my hand completely from her mouth to allow her to answer. Should she scream now I would have to remove myself very quickly... but something in the way she's begun to tremble tells me that she's too petrified to do much of anything at this point. Stifling sobs, she begins to try and articulate one of the myriad thoughts scrambling to find purchase in the barren wasteland of her brain.
"You can take anything you want... I won't scre... I just... Please, don't hurt my..."
"Mama???"
Her pleas were cut short by a nearly silent chirp from some impish creature standing barefoot alongside the kitchen counter on linoleum that seemed avocado in hue due to the moonlight pouring through the windows. It's strange, but out of the millions of atrocities I've engineered over the years there are few images that have managed to truly haunt me. You develop a strange appreciation for the detritus of disfigurement. You easily stomach the image of a pre-teen asphyxiated from her own intestines being wrapped around her throat. But looking up from this flesh mound beneath me as the terror congealed in her eyes and seeing the seed of her womb soiling the floor at the sight of me is certainly something I can't envision shaking from my subconscious in the near future...
The entire city had been dying of a cancer for quite some time now, living on borrowed time. Slowly as business relocated, cookie cutter families with their 2.5 children and mortgage payments retreated and the communities themselves washed away under the tide of urban blight, something more insidious took hold. Much like a man with a multi-pack a day habit, every denizen was aware on some level of a festering presence sequestered deep inside the bowels of the city but it was preferred to remain oblivious to such developments. That was until the metropolis started coughing up blood.
The discovery was made by random chance, as these things normally are. A cadre of adolescents choosing to forsake educational pursuits for the day had taken to breaking into abandoned buildings for a bit of anarchistic entertainment. Sliding past rotted plywood barricades and crumbling plaster they entered a long since dormant townhouse sandwiched between industrial buildings in various degrees of silent decay.
Adrenaline made its presence known among the three lads as dim flashlight beams traced across a cobweb interred mudroom and splintering doors to the main house. Strangely enough, the seemingly vacant residence teemed with tenants of rotund flies and roaches engaged in some kind of revolting banquet.
Filled with equal parts alarm and curiosity, they pushed farther into the hall, opening the doors what was once an expansive living room. A putrid mudslide of penetrating stench that could only be accurately compared to bottling a beached whale inside of roman bath house assaulted them as the threshold was crossed. Nausea and apprehension gripped stomachs still filled with the innocent sugar-laden cartoon character breakfast cereal.
Assuming a dead beast of some kind occupied the parlor, a instinctual flip of a crust covered light switch revealed the partial accuracy of the thought. The normally white plaster walls had a patina of a brown actively decaying cocktail of various vital fluids starting as impressionist like paint strokes and random splash near the ceiling and thickening to a heavy doughnut filling consistency syrup pooled over tile floor. The stewing pool of creme de la viscera was occasionally peppered with what the now very damaged young minds could only assume were artifacts of various pieces of the skeletal system; bones, teeth, ribs and a large serpentine chunk that was undoubtedly spinal cord. More curious still was the shock regularity such outlandish internal organs seemed to have disintegrated of their own free will, detaching from a still writhing body in a spurting act of self determination and traveling the requiste distance to declare independence from the tyranny of being oppressed by their kidney and large intestine overlords.
Still unable to process the full extent of the scene before them, the three youths stood for a second in absolute silence, save for the dull drone of flies and the steady drip of mucus-laden bile slowly sliding off what was once an opulent table cloth draped over a table in the defiled dining room. Taking a tender step onto the caked on linoleum of blood that now served as the room's floor, the more adventurous of the boys caught a glimpse of what where once assuredly legs, rammed through the plaster walls on either side of an outlet with the dexterity of an artful surgeon and the brute force normally associated plastic explosives.
Their courage finally faltering, the trio silently made their way for the exit avoiding nightmarish bits of rotting anatomy on the way out. Several yards out from the shore of lake psychological trauma, the aforementioned brave adolescent felt himself succumbing to the effects of the overpowering aroma now native to the foyer and lost his footing. Stumbling briefly, and dropping his light the unfortunate boy reached out in the darkness to something hanging from light fixture only briefly illuminated by his clattering light source. Much to his horror, the still slick length of digestive tract freed itself from its precarious perch, landing on the lad with a discernible noise, akin to dropping a still blood pound of hamburger onto a concrete floor.
Police reports would note the scream was heard nearly two blocks away.
