Scarecrow Redux: Child's Play

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...