Killer

"His first victim, he cut out all of the man's intestines, diced them into four pieces and tied one to each one, which he used to hang the man from his apartment ceiling lamp, resembling a puppet. All of the man's teeth were removed, and placed in the formation of a smiley face beneath his dangling body.

His second victim, he placed the man's severed genitals into his mouth, sewed it shut, then stuffed his severed head up into the man's torso, which was then, also, sewed shut. His thumbs had been severed and shoved into his eye sockets.

His third victim, the man's brain and stomach were removed, swapped and stabbed repeatedly. Thirteen knives were sticking out of his chest when he was found, and his limbs had been severed and swapped as well. Legs where his arms should be, arms where his legs should be. His ears were swapped and sewn as well.

And with this trilogy of terror, the maniacal killing spree of America's most elusive murderer has only spiraled further and further out of control."

The papers were writing about me again. It isn't like I don't enjoy the exposure, but when I start to get noticed, that's usually around the time I have to pick up everything and relocate. To avoid capture, of course.

So many years. So many faces, come and gone. Jane, Dan, Ronnie, Sam, Henry, Dick, Matty, Frank, Sandra, Joe, Eric, Bart, Leo... and those are just the few I have rotting at the bottom of the Hudson River. God knows how many more I've killed. I try to keep a grip on things. And out of respect for the deceased I do try to remember each and every one of them.

What I do is not a service. I do not do it to help anyone or to push ulterior motives. I kill simply because it is fun and, given the right circumstances, can be pushed to unfathomable lengths.

The key to existing as a killer of my magnitude lies in the ability to be unseen by all. To go unnoticed, under the radar of people you interact with every day. That's what I had told old Detective Connor a few months back. Right before that poison I slipped him took effect. Believe me, I had no ill will toward the detective.

But alas, he attempted to apprehend me. Which, of course, is something I can't tolerate. Things like that you don't duck around with. Playing on the fantasy of being apprehended is exactly what gets you apprehended. 

Throughout this "career" of mine I have met others like me. Each with their own motives. A few that have even tried to take my head. Apart from the psychopaths, I find most of them to be pleasant-enough people. More men than women, though. 

Once I had walked into the middle of a wide-open cemetery. I had brought my nineteen-eleven with my silencer. I was at a low point after this break up. This was many years back. I walked up and down the isles and when I came across a single person looming over a grave, well, I shot them. Took out six people that day. And no one had noticed.

Not a gunshot was heard, and anyone nearby just assumed the lifeless bodies were over-dramatic folk groveling in the grass. I would say It was almost poetic, but I'm not very good at making metaphors for stuff like that. Best not to assume a position on something I know nothing about and be proven wrong.

Now if there’s one thing that gets my stomach turning, it’s when someone kills a poor homeless guy. like they don’t already have it bad enough. To me that’s just rude. I used to know this guy, Derek Starch. He loved killing hobos and vegetables. Sick f**k.

I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Even had a few drinks with him. It didn’t take long before I paralyzed and hung the f****r from his trailer. Sure he looked up to me, but how was I supposed to associate myself with someone of that… caliber?

He had already killed twelve people by the time I had met him. He worked at an old folks home. Clever b*****d. I doubt the law would’ve caught up to him until he had about ten more bodies under his belt. So, I cut his career short. We’re all better off for it too.

Now, on the subject of my childhood. If I had to guess, I’d say I started killing at age eleven. grown ups, surprisingly. Never fellow children or animals. At least to me, that’s sick. The elderly or crippled I will also spare. It’s this sort of mutual feeling of hardship which allows me to differentiate between those deserving of death and those that have just fallen on hard times. In a perfect world what I am doing is a grand service.

That’s how it would appear. But, I do not care. maybe once or twice I’ll slip and help the greater good. Kill a mugger, shoot a rapist, gut a pedophile. But at no point do these acts take away from the fact that I kill who I want, when I want. And in which ever way I want, as well.

I stay off of social media. That s**t rots your mind. I can’t imagine spending my precious hours typing away on a phone or keyboard, bitching and moaning to a world that doesn’t care. What we do out here, pinned up against flesh and blood. This killing. This is real. More real than any point of view held on some bullshit social media account. Or maybe I just don’t understand what makes it all so fascinating.

I do like to believe I am living out of the shroud of corruption and corporate mind-numbing tactics. but, what if my “condition” is a negative effect of me rejecting that brainwashing? Now that’s heavy. never the less, I go about my daily activities with glee. In these parts I am a sales man. these parts being Colorado.

Before here I was a mechanic in Iowa and an underground medical doctor in Arizona. I’d say that in Iowa I killed roughly twenty-four people. Give or take. A gang member here or there. An ex-coworker. The usual batch. But when I hit Arizona, oh boy. It was a Neo-Nazi open season. That was the best two years of my life. I must of cut up twenty of those poor b******s. I left them all in pieces across the desert. Even left some of them in Nevada.

Sometimes I’d mail their heads to their little ‘daytime meeting groups’. It was funny watching them scatter, going to war with biker gangs that they thought had committed the killings. It escalated quickly. After a while there weren’t many of em’ to kill anymore.

All that massacring got me tuckered out. So I left a good while after the nazis’ and the bikers’ numbers began to dwindle.

I’ll say it again. I didn’t do it for the greater good. I did it cause I felt like it. I did kill an innocent mailman. No. Two actually. Yeah. But they were on an off-day. Just to get my jollies up. Okay, so one of them was sleeping which this guys wife. So what? I did them all a favor. I guess sometimes I’m just drawn to the pitiable. I can’t help it. I run on fun. Fun and instinct.

I am pleased to say that my age has brought with it a solemn lessening to my violence toward those I do kill. As the papers say, I was quite the Jackson Pollock in my youth. Every few years I change up my tactics and my style of slay. This has put me in the running of a position with not many “in-the-loop” killers get.

See, there are those killers who go about their deeds completely ignorant to the fact that if you look hard enough, there is a whole anti-nation of folks just like me. An unspoken society of a murderous population that keeps the world in balance, when we can help it.

Now, among this ‘under-nation’ there is a singular goal that most murderers in my shoes wish to achieve some day. This is gaining the statues of a mass murderer. To reach the point where you have literally wiped out a whole state’s populous in your lifetime. There’s online communities dedicated to it, forums, sites, the whole nine yards.

Not only that, but with the birth of the new age murderers are recording their kills and uploading it to the web for all to be astonished by. It’s quite amazing. With so many sick people in the world, it’s a wonder this society of the secretly psychotic ever started up in the first place.

So this one night I was walking home from the corner-shop back in Idaho. I notice this guy in a hood starts coming up behind me. Now, I’d say I had a pretty good idea of what he was planning to do.

Mainly since whenever I would try and shank a nightcrawler, I’d watch my footing and use my location to help trap and kill a target. If I never killed someone in the matter that he was planning on doing me in, I could have been dissolving in a barrel after that. Luckily, as he came up behind me, I maneuvered his hand away and shoved my head into his throat, crushing it in. Well he choked out and made a fuss before finally killing over. Looking down I noticed his knife and a camera, recording his kill.

And that was the first time I had ever seen something like that. Traveling for some time, I usually got thrown out of the loop on things like the advancements of computers and phones. Which I frequently pondered about using in my murders. I didn’t really bother to hid his body. Obviously, it was in self-defense. So when the cops came snooping around my trailer early that morning, I was happy to comply.

Good thing my kill was caught on a store-front’s camera too. There was no denying I merely protected myself. That was one of the many things I’ve always loved about the south. The laid back nature, above all else. I never expected for my little venture with that night-stalker to go anywhere, but when I was tracked down by some of his “buddies” you could imagine I was quite taken with what I’m gonna tell you next.

The kid I killed, Alex, I believe his name was, was the leader of a band of hooded serial killers. They operated as one unit. They would provide alibis for one another when one of them was suspected of their kills. And when one of them fell or was injured, the next in line would take his/her place. It had appeared that Alex remained uncaught for four years since the teens had started up their little project. And I was the one who killed their founder.

At first I believed they wanted to kill me. For obvious reasons. But that’s not how things panned out. No, they adored the little bloody number I did on Alex and offered me the chance to guide them. To take up the mantle of their group, “The Duskers” and serve as their functioning sociopathic grandmaster!! 

Oh, we all had some great times. There were six of them in total. We were unstoppable. We must have killed ten poor souls a month. Mostly bus-people heading in and out of the city. Commuters. Believe me, we were doing them a favor.

Nine months I stayed with them. Training them in my personalized art of the kill. And when it came time for me to move on, they were hesitant. Even threatening to kill me if I left. They really didn’t want me to go. So I compromised.

I killed each of them in their homes while they slept. Not one o my best moments, but how else was I supposed to get out of that jam? They trusted me enough, and I needed to take to the road again. I won’t ever forget them though. No matter how hard I try.

Some time after that I had found myself being tracked by individuals whom I believed to be private investigators. It soon turned out that this group of mercenaries were tailing me. Admiring me. 

Out of the pan and into the fire, I suppose. Turns out this group had been recording my every kill and identity change for the past six years. Collecting more than enough evidence to put me away for good. They asked me to join their little brigade for a few years or so. I would be paid to do what I was doing now. Killing, only this time, without the fear of capture.

This group knew ‘officials’ which kept them out of the public-eye. They weren’t part of that sociopathic-society I had mentioned earlier. These men were old soldiers that blurred the line between vigilante and cold-blooded murderer. I went along for the ride. And in two years I killed myself an estimated one-hundred and fifty four city folk. Most of them with guns and bombs.

The group liked to make it seem like we were terrorists. They said it fueled the citizen’s hatred and gave rise to their loyalty to their country. We could kill off all the people we wanted, blame it on foreigners, collect the earnings and at the same time have everyone believing that each mass killing made them stronger as a civilization. Yeah right.

As if they could ever pass the racism, greed and class indifference they’d always felt since birth. Change was a miracle. And my time with the ex-dogs of the military showed me that no such thing exists in this world. Not that I cared.

It’s 8:17 by the time I hop onto the elevator with Eric. He doesn’t know me at all, but I’ve been observing him for quite some time. Eric is a meek man with a large belly, not much hair and a habit of biting his nails until they bleed. He’s a heavy-set paranoid blob with good reason to be weary cause’ tonight is night I take his life.

It didn’t take much effort to decide whether or not I was going to kill him. He works a couple blocks from me, doesn’t have any family and contributes nothing to society, so the way I see it he’s as good as dead anyways. Still, a part of me is going to miss watching him walk down the street in that monkey suit of his, tightening his bowler on that bald head of his. Stalking victims almost fills me with a sort of unspoken connection by the time it comes to finishing them off.

Almost like we could have been friends if we’d both been dealt different hands in life. But this is the trail I skip along. With knives hidden on almost every inch of my body, it is my duty to rid the world of undesirables. The world calls my actions “senseless murder” yet if I worked for the CIA I’d be paid heavily to shove knives through men’s throats, or other fun acts.

Such a twisted structure of morals we’ve set up here. And such a twisted face Eric now has. I waited until the doors closed to pull out my beautiful stiletto and cut his throat in a mere instant. He was so surprised and spent a few seconds fumbling around the elevator, realizing it was a long way to the top and by then he’d surely bleed out. 

Now I’m not the sadistic type so I waited until he finally bled out completely before carving his face. Even I admit it’s a rather ghastly sight. looking back at the act it seems almost childish. Makes me feel a little ashamed, realizing my excitement overtook my actions and threw me overboard. No doubt one day I will pass over to a point of complete lunacy. That is how I will fall. 

By my own hand I will put myself up against unbeatable odds and all my “services” to this world will have been for nothing. If I plan to make the world a better place I have to live to be around for a long long time. And that means killing a whole lot of people which is completely within my grasp. What with the tens of bunches of detectives, fire fighters, businessmen, clerks, homeless people, even a bitchy soccer mom every now and again. 

The world is better without all the people that don’t play their roles correctly. I’ll find them all one day. Every single last one, and on the day I die the world will look to the skies, declare my name and remember me as the one who moved society forward, the one who controlled the population and the one who allowed the children of tomorrow to live in a world free of ‘clogs’.

Until that day I’m a humble janitor at the Cresto Vallu’ French Restaurant and an associate of the SONN Co. Computer Repair, both located in the heart of Manhattan. My jobs aren’t too fulfilling, unlike my off time. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t dwell on them too much. The focus of all my attention is on the people who's lives I take. A new job, a new face. I still go on, as usual.