Three Days Late for Halloween… Means I’m Improving!

Posted: November 3, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

I’m going to break from my usual sarcastically factual, or at least brutally truthful, idiom here to toss some fiction up for a change.  That’s right, ladies ‘n’ germs, you get a freebie in honor of my favoritest holiday ever.  Now, I warn you, I wrote this about 6 years ago– with the expressed purpose to freak out a professor of mine.  So, I wrote something that, in turn, can still make me cringe years later.

That’s right, the following is not for the easily queasy.

Take a moment to glance into the back of my mind... and be horrified.

Turn back before I ruin your dreams for the next month.





“… possibly the most dangerous jailbreak in state history, citizens are advised to stay in their homes and report any suspicious activity immediately to the police…”

I set down my coffee mug on the Formica table and folded the paper beside it.  I turned up the radio to listen to the report.  Two rapists, a few ancillary murderers…  Must have been a group effort.  I looked out the window at the play of color on the clouds outside.  There were worse breaks in the past,  however the last name got my attention.  Dave “Bear” Kelso.  I thought that sick son of a whore got the chair years ago.  Come to think of it, I might have to shuffle my Friday schedule because of this.

The toaster popped.  I stood from the table, and finished my coffee as the report went on.  Kelso.  I couldn’t believe it.  My mind wandered as I saw him standing in the neighbor’s back yard.  The male voice on the radio elaborated on his dossier as I came to realize what I was staring at only yards away from my home.  Kelso was convicted of multiple brutal rapes, almost two dozen murders, half of the victims still aren’t identified…  Small miracle the prison system hadn’t killed him off like ol’ Jeffy Dahmer.  Then again, this guy must have been locked up in solitary since the day they caught him five years ago.  They found him beating the body of a six year old boy with a sledgehammer.  And here I found him, in my back yard.  I set down my cup of coffee and untied my necktie.  Perhaps I won’t have to change my schedule at all, I thought as my hand snaked into my pocket for my roll of Rolaids Soft Chews.

This monster in my back yard, and looking next door to the Hayes’ place with what looked like a crowbar in his hand.  Behind him were two neo-Nazi skinheads, you could see the swastika‘s emblazoned with pride over the sides of their shaved skulls.  I popped one of the Soft Chews into my mouth, lips puckering to conceal my grin.  One of the skinheads pointed at me as I rinsed out my empty coffee mug.  I waved back as I undid my collar and top button.  The office wasn’t expecting me for another hour anyway.  One of the skinheads charged at my back door with his crowbar as eagerly as a Freshman about to lose their virignity.  Skinheads don’t understand subtlety, they’d rather curb stomp their way through a problem than handle it, say, the way I do.

Good thing I never wasted money on guns.  At a time like this I might have conceded to let these overconfident bastards to die cowards’ deaths.  A gun is just so simplistic, so… so impersonal.  If you’re going to go through the trouble of shuffling loose some poor soul’s mortal coil, at least let them know who’s doing it.  And why.  And you must do it in a very personal way.  Anything else just makes you less of a man and more like a child.  I stepped away from the window, put the paper in its place on top of the recycling bin, and prepared administer a direly-needed postpartum abortion.

The skinhead made short work of the back door in about the time it took me to put on a pair of shoes and grab the iron from the ironing board.   As I walked back into the kitchen, I heard that simpering bitch neighbor, Mrs. Hayes, shrieking for help.  Now, tell me, where is the excitement in throwing around a forty five year old husk of a woman?  You can’t honestly tell me that’s some kind of thrill, making her cower in fear.  She can’t even raise her two brat children, you expect her to actually do something besides cower? I had lost view of Kelso and the other skinhead as I passed the window, eyes turning towards the basement door and the small entryway adjoining it.

The skinhead burst through the foyer, and I launched myself at him, smacking the iron flat against his face.  Jesus, don’t these amateurs know how to properly execute a home invasion?    I flung open the door to the basement stairs, wrapped the cord around the guy’s neck, and then hit him in the face again with the iron.  As I pulled the iron back, there was a beautiful carnation pattern on the pristine stainless steel.  This is how an artist works.  However as he fell backward, I yanked on the cord hard, pinning him against the inside wall, out of view.

I said nothing, and not even the starchy vanilla flavor of the Soft Chew could make my face stop smiling.  It hurt.  I tightened the cord around the skinhead’s neck and he attempted to throw me off him.  Of course I tumbled down the stairs, but I had a firm grip on the end of the cord and the iron…  We tumbled head over heels down the stairs, and he ended up sailing through an open door to my first storage cell in the basement.  Wait for it.  Wait for it.  Ah there‘s that calming sound I was waiting for.  There’s something delectable about the traumatized scream of a man who’s found his old cellmate’s prison jumpsuit.  Or his old lover.  Who knew with these kinds of talentless thugs.  More importantly, who cared?  Surely not the prison system, it was easier to just post the pictures of my guests on their “most wanted” lists and forget about them.  Then again, this had become my life’s passion, my every waking desire was for some of these supposed menaces to society to wander my way.  Didn’t anyone take time to wonder where all of these cons were escaping to?  I popped another Soft Chew into my mouth and exhaled slowly.

I looked up and saw the skinhead panting for breath and screaming.  I guess my housekeeping leaves something to be desired, as I’d forgot that I’d left a part of a scalp stuck to number 4578321’s prison uniform.  It’s ok, I’m sure it’s desiccated enough not to stick to anything else.  After all, I haven’t had any of these fearsome predators pay me a visit in awhile.  I knew I had to silence him quickly, and forego the usual treatment.  Bear and another skinhead were out there, probably gloating over the fact that they can dominate and kill the defenseless.  They’re getting their childish jollies from torturing a woman.  Maybe a good scare might make her rethink her laughable existence.

I’m sure her husband would have agreed with me, but then again he’d killed himself over three years ago.  I reached to the wall and unhooked a pitchfork.  You’re the lucky one, skinhead, you get to die quickly in battle—  not crying out to whatever you believe in as I carve out your organs with a screwdriver and keep you conscious with smelling salts.  He swatted at the tines of the fork, and dodged the second stab.  Maybe he wouldn’t be lucky after all..  I backed up, slammed the door, and padlocked it.  If the storage room could hold a pissed off gym rat on PCP, I’m sure the skinhead wouldn’t fare much better.  Come to think of it, that guy on PCP was a real challenge, and it was a shame that he didn’t see the irony when I showed him what his humerous looks like.  That one really clung to his last shreds of life, and it’s a damn shame the skinhead probably wouldn’t even get past the Columbian necktie.  Oh that necktie just pissed off that hopped-up behemoth, he was quite the challenge.  I looked up the stairs and there stood the second skinhead.  I heard more shouting from up above the stairs.

“Motherfucker where’s Jesse!?”

Of course Jesse must be the pathetic excuse for an S.S. wannabe in the storage room.  Right.  I still don’t say anything, because the skinhead on top of the stairs probably heard the weeping.  I popped yet another of the starchy vanilla chews into my mouth and closed a sneer around it.  There’s no greater power than being able to deprive someone of theirs.  I’d just given him a few love taps, I hadn’t even gotten to ripping the sinews out from beneath his skin with a pair of pliers.  He’s already weeping, how utterly pathetic.  That takes the pleasure right out of it.  The skinhead started down the stairs with a crowbar in his hand.

“Bear, leave the bitch!  Hel—”

I did the one thing I had to do.  I couldn’t have Bear cornering me in my Elysium.  I hurled the pitchfork and it went right through his chest.  You see, sharpening your gardening tools can serve a purpose aside from award-winning azaleas.  He fell forward.  As he fell, the pitchfork landed on a stair causing his body to topple head first, with his full weight on the tines, right into the plywood wall.  A rat ran from a crack in the crumbling concrete foundation.  I stomped on its head as it tried to run for the trap door in the basement floor.

Then I heard the slow deliberate footsteps of a large man on the creaking floorboards of the main floor.  Bear was upstairs, heading my way.  I hoped he hadn‘t tracked blood or dirt onto my hardwood floors.  I had just waxed them.  I then looked over at the hacksaw I had embedded in the skull of some gang thug that pled like a four year old girl with every stroke of the saw.  He should have known better than to try and pass off a broken cellular phone as a gun in his pocket.  I gnawed on the Rolaids and counted the four perfect gashes on the severed cranium.  Amateur.

I heard the footsteps stop at the top of the stairs as I was admiring my tribute to Bear.  I heard the voice of the mauler himself as I counted my the cuts I‘d made in tribute to his trademark.  “The bitch and her kids are dead.  You’re next.”

Funny, I thought his voice would be lower pitched considering his stature.  I grabbed a garotte from the wall made out of razor wire.  Although I’d have loved to deal with Bear like I did the last woman hunter, I knew the police would be on the way soon.  Screams in suburbia never go unnoticed.  If they’d picked my house first, there was a chance that the nosy bitch next door wouldn’t have noticed.  I could have gone on, and I could have savored the fact that I, a lowly tax agent, brought down one of the most feared serial killers in state history.  Not just brought him down, but made him cry for mercy as I ripped out each bone individually out of each finger sheath.  With the neighbors dead, there was nothing left to do but accept the fact that luck had made an amateur of me.  Bear slowly headed down the staircase, clomping like he thought he was unstoppable.  This walking cliché didn’t deserve a man’s death, for he went for the easy kills.  His lust for gore and mutilation were so shocking to the common man that all regarded him as a monster.  I saw the truth:  Bear was nothing but a child who’d learned a new trick to shock an adult.

In his right hand was the hacksaw from my garage.  He heard the whimpering coming from the first storage room.  I crept backwards deeper into my charnel Eden, and into the sub cellar that I’d dug beneath the basement floor.  He turned from the door and looked straight at where I stood.  His grizzled face smiled at me as I lurked in darkness.  He surprised me, it was a ballsy move for a third rate serial killer.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The almost nasal quality of his voice made me pause.  It was curiosity.  He stepped over the body of the impaled skinhead and ducked beneath a pipe.  The smell of death would mask the chalky vanilla of my breath.  The darkness would give me cover.  This charlatan in the guise of a berserker was not going to die a man’s death.  He would never even see my face.  He didn’t deserve it.  With his slaughter of the neighbors, he had made an amateur of me.  Perhaps had he chosen my house he would have come to know the true sport of the kill.  Perhaps had I given a rat’s ass about the walking waste next door, I may also not be in this peachy situation.  I popped the last of the pack of Soft Chews into my mouth.  Bear stepped a foot into my private crypt, packed almost solid with the fetid, decaying  remains of his former prison mates.

I leapt, wrapped the razor wire garotte around his throat, and planted my foot on a pile of rotted heads and skulls.  I spun the garotte quickly and then cinched it down.  He flailed in the darkness, causing some of the piles of limbs and bodies to fall.  He tripped and fell on me, but I held fast, not uttering a word.  Finally the unmasked monster struggled his last.  Then I heard hard heels pounding into my house on the first floor.  Police, at least ten minutes ahead of schedule.

It was over.  I sat down on the pile of putrid severed heads and breathed deep the dank ambrosia of death.  I put my feet up on Bear’s face, frozen in a look of sheer terror.  Leaning back on a butchered, possibly rat-infested torso, I knit my hands behind my head and spat out the remainder of the soft chew.  The irony was almost as delectable as the look of horror on the first cop’s face as he shined his flashlight in on me.  An amateur would attempt to fight in this situation.  There was no chance of gain.  The legal system, however, is rife with loopholes that could provide partial absolution with a padded room.  In many ways I find that a far better alternative to being lotted with an amateur like Bear.  I didn’t move, save for the smile on my face.

“I surrender.”





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