Cull

A story about a serial killer who is otherwise insipid in character. William Fairbanks can only sleep once he kills someone.

Cull

“Jack Nathaniel”

On top of a lonely hill near the 101 there's a place called the Skyview Motel. The building constantly engages the viewer in a struggle to decide whether it was designed to be a retrospective jab at dirty motels from the 60s, or if it was sincere in its filth. Beyond the threshold and into the lobby the question of irony still dances clumsily with itself; it is a sophomore English class discussion preserved in architecture.

William Fairbanks walks up to the concierge, an old smoker. She is looking through a three year old magazine. Whether the establishment was her child, or the converse was true proved to be another nagging question. She struggled with her oversized nails, which were painted a shade of purple that the manufacturer probably called "Liberty" or something. She looked up, eyes bored beyond languidness.

"Welcome to Skyview Motel, do you have a reservation?"

Mr. Fairbanks was still figuring the haggard concierge into the puzzle of scenic irony. He bit his upper lip, and unbuttoned his austere grey suit. After a enduring a few more sarcastic blinks he spoke.

“No, I figured I would take my chances.”

The concierge’s fingernails became elephants on a keyboard, awkwardly trying not to be their size.

"Checking in today?"

"As soon as possible."

“How many Nights?”

“Just tonight.”

“Just tonight?”

“Just tonight.”

Again came the maladroit traversing of the QWERTY Serengeti.

“We got three rooms at the same price, but room 66 has the best view.”

Mr. Fairbanks cracked a lopsided smile as he looked over his shoulder. The window displayed a destitute parking lot that overlooked drought-ridden hills, peppered with the ever dead-looking California indigenous brush.

"Yes, thank you. That would be lovely."

“Fantastic. I’ll need a name, and half of the fee up front.”

The concierge’s green eyes were prisoners to a face aged prematurely by smoking, the feeble flames of an oxidized lamp. Her pink blouse and white taffeta skirt played into the same sad discourse as the rest of the building. Mr. Fairbanks relished in the storm of discomfort. For him it was a f*****g experience, a story he would never finish deciding how to tell to himself. He reached into his left breast pocket and slid fifty dollars across the counter.

“My name is Reginald Sweetwater.”

...

Two sixes that were either off-white or off-yellow were nailed above the blood red door that provided entrance to room 66. Mr. Fairbanks set down his briefcase and reached his hand into his pants pocket. He fondled the key furtively for a moment, and proceeded to open the door. Once inside, Mr. Fairbanks set his briefcase next to the radiator that was painted a cracked green. The faded paisley print carpeting gave the room an unsettling feeling, like something was moving. The room was an adolescent boy, too scared to speak to the girl next to him, beginning to sweat; a gaudy little cave with stalactites of stucco. It was perfect.

Mr. Fairbanks' black oxfords clacked across the linoleum tiles as he entered the bathroom. He cranked the faucet up and to the left for hot. The pipes began to complain. There was a loud whine and some stuttering. He moved the faucet slightly to the left and lukewarm water began to pour out. Mr. Fairbanks pushed his palms together under the water and let them slide past each other. Each hand took a turn caressing the other. He used no soap. The process continued for ten minutes. When Mr. Fairbanks exited the bathroom he picked up his briefcase and placed it on the bed. He removed his jacket and placed it next to the briefcase, carefully folded. The combination on his briefcase read 936 on the right side and 714 on the left side. Mr. Fairbanks moved each number one time so that both sides read 825, ran a hand through his white hair and opened the briefcase. He removed a single sheet of paper that was perforated into little squares with vaguely uplifting words on them. The kind of pseudoenlightened s**t you find on the stuff your mom buys because it’s painted on little rocks with Chinese characters below it. He tore off a “devotion” and placed it on the nightstand. He then took the bible out of the drawer in the nightstand, flipped through the pages and tore out proverbs 20:13.

Do not love sleep or you will grow poor; stay awake and you will have food to spare.

He crumpled the proverb into his left pocket and lay down on the bed with his hands behind his head, not bothering to get under the sheets. It began to grow dark.

...

When you lie motionless awake for several hours, you can start to convince yourself that you are sleeping. Sometimes you can look at something until it isn’t real, a jamais vous of the once tangible. Perhaps madness is just forgetting reality.

12:34. Mr. Fairbanks gets up and walks back to the bathroom. His shoes repeat their insipid duet with the tile. Again he washes his hands. This time he keeps his eyes locked on his reflection. There are dark circles under his eyes. They are no longer tired eyes, they are becoming ominous, accusatory, confrontational, developing a character that not even Mr. Fairbanks understands. The man in the mirror is looking at him, and Mr. Fairbanks finds himself meek in maintaining eye contact. He grumbles like he needs to clear his throat, but really he cannot hold the silence any longer; it is too heavy.

He exits the bathroom and puts his jacket back on. He had never bothered to remove his shoes. He reaches into his left inside pocket, producing a drink menu for the motel bar and studies it for some time. After he is satisfied, Mr. Fairbanks picks up the “devotion” square off of the nightstand, puts it in the left inside pocket with the menu and proceeds to walk out of room 66. The couple two doors down from him are going at it, coitus that is. Or maybe the man’s girlfriend really doesn’t want him to stop testing the integrity of the bed frame. Either way, the performance ends prematurely with a “Did you really just...”

For Mr. Fairbanks, there isn’t much variety to the kind of people you find in a motel bar around 12:30 at night. It breaks down into two camps: the lucky ones, who will likely die conventionally of their liver problems, and one sad, unfortunate b*****d. He walks up to the barkeep and cracks a lopsided grin.

“How are you this evening?”

“Just fine. What are you havin’ old man?”

“What everyone else is having. I’m picking up the tab for the whole bar. And a glass of gin please.”

For the recent divorcee at the end of the bar this information has not yet processed. The fat bearded man in a flannel that has been manufactured to look like it was torn into a vest gives him a nod and orders another beer, and the man who appeared to be homeless and hopelessly drunk lets out a cackle that would make you think he had dust in his lungs.

“Well! Let’s have another f*****g drink then! Thomas! Jack Nathaniel!”

The barkeep is standing with arms crossed, and casts a cursory glance at Mr. Fairbanks, who reaches into his left inside pocket, furrows his lips and gives a quick nod.

“Alright Lars, One shot of Jack ‘Nathaniels’.”

Due to its local popularity, Jack Daniels Whiskey was the most expensive liquor at the bar. Mr. Fairbanks already knows this.

The barkeep places the glass onto the counter as Mr.Faribanks takes a seat next to Lars. As the barkeep turns to grab the whiskey, Mr. Fairbanks casually flicks the little paper square with the word “devotion” on it off of his hand as if it were lint. It lands soundly at the bottom of the glass. He’s done this before. The shot is poured. How the liquid makes it into Lars’ derelict and quivering mouth can only be explained by years of intense conditioning.

“Grrrrlleewghghgh! Tastes like high school!”

Again Lars cackles. The barkeep is shaking his head the same way the owner of a pet does when they see it do something ostensibly people-like.

“Lars, if you ever went to high school then I’m a magna cum f****n’ laude graduate. That’s all for you tonight too. God knows there’s not gonna be another stranger like Mr… uh”

“Sweetwater.”

“Like Mr. Sweetwater here to buy your miserable a*s another round so that means it’s bedtime you degenerate.”

“Yeah!? Well I bet you got your magna kermwhateverthefuck in being an a*****e!”

With that, Lars triumphantly made his best effort not to trip over his drooping and ragged pants as he half-walked, half-fell out of the bar. Mr. Fairbanks was surprised to see how efficiently the man was moving. He looked over his shoulder to see how far he thought Lars would actually get. He had some time.

“How much do I owe you?”

“$68.50 ought to cover it, very generous by the way.”

Mr. Fairbanks placed $80 on the table, stood up and stretched. As he rubbed his eyes he said

“Think nothing of it.”

Outside the day’s heat had not fully dissipated, but held little presence. There was no breeze. The darkness had ebbed at the warmth enough that you wouldn’t be able to figure out whether or not to wear your jacket. Mr. Fairbanks experimented with this dilemma for a few moments and opted to just wear the jacket. There was a little more bounce to his step now. He looked less rigid, more like a man that doesn’t just disappear from existence when he goes home. He had his own story that he could be the hero of, a hobby, interests or a secret.

As Mr. Fairbanks expected, Lars had not gotten far. He made it about 15 meters around the corner of the building and was staring half-horrified, half-fascinated at the wall. Lysergic Acid is known to do that to a person, in fact those with an interest in recreationally staring at objects call the substance LSD. When taken without prior knowledge, and in a dosage equivalent to 6 tabs, it can give a person quite a shock. Even for Lars, a man who had experienced LSD once or twice when trying to impress a girl in high school (not that either of them attended very often). Mr. Fairbanks stood patiently rocking on his heels with his hands clasped at his crotch. After it was clear that Lars would not be looking over anytime soon, Mr. Fairbanks gave a small cough. Lars slowly turned his head and met the gaze of Mr. Fairbanks. Lars’ mouth and eyes were in a competition to see who could open wider and his eyes were giving his mouth a run for its money.

“You!”

Mr. Fairbanks smiled.

“Me.”

Lars shouted something unintelligible and began to shuffle away hurriedly. Mr. Fairbanks strode quickly behind him, took a glance over his shoulder and kicked Lars’ advancing leg. Lars fell too quickly for his fall to be broken, and his face absorbed most of the shock. He immediately rolled over and clutched his bleeding mouth. Mr. Fairbanks then realized he’d forgotten his briefcase. He chuckled to himself. He’d managed to remember all of his quirky little calling cards, but now he’d forgotten his murder instruments, how silly he’d been. Luckily, Mr. Fairbanks knew how to improvise; he had a trophy from a wilderness camp he’d attended at age 13 that said so. He gave Lars another kick, this time to the gut, which was sure to give him another few moments of writhing. Mr. Fairbanks bent down and began to pull the shoelaces out of Lars’ shoes. Lars began madly kicking his legs, and grazed Mr. Fairbanks’ cheek. Mr. Fairbanks recoiled his head, rubbed his cheek and frowned. He proceeded to sit on the back of a Lars trying to crawl away, removing the shoelaces proved to be much easier this way. Mr. Fairbanks’ tall, lithe frame provided just enough weight to impede the drunk and drugged Lars. He silently and joylessly tied each of Lars’ hands to his ankles like it was his nine to five job. He walked back towards the motel and left Lars there on the pavement, face-first next to the Skyview Motel. After Mr. Fairbanks rounded the corner, Lars realized he had an itch on his ear. He chuckled about how that always seems to happen when he cant use his hands.

Then Lars realized that this doesn’t always happen. Lars was afraid to die. He hadn’t actually told anyone, not except for a girl who used to live on his street when he was young. They were riding bikes and Lars fell and hit his head. He realized he was bleeding and being as he was at the bottom of the street, his 7 year old spatial-reasoning abilities placed him too far from medical attention to survive. The girl’s name was Heather. He told her she could have his bike, but she had to take really good care of it. She accepted, but told him she would run for help as fast as she could.

Lars reckoned that this was a little different than all of that. He tried to make his life flash before his eyes. He figured if he was going to go, he might as well have lived twice. He struggled to remember the first time he had gotten laid. A hazy memory, in no way aided by his LSD addled state. Was she pretty? Probably not. Testosterone is a hell of a drug. If only Mr. Fairbanks had given him Dimethyltryptamine, the drug associated with near death experience. Though, Lars didn’t know what Mr. Fairbanks had given him, or that he’d been given anything at all. All that Lars knew was that his face hurt and the ground felt like a very large marshmallow.

Inside, Mr. Fairbanks walked briskly past the unattended concierge desk. He was tired, but he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. The hall was silent. The couple from earlier was sleeping fitfully. The man wished his woman’s feet weren’t so cold. The woman wished her man were a better lover. Mr. Fairbanks patted his left back pocket for his wallet; it was there. It was always there. He pulled out his room key and entered his room. His briefcase was sitting on the right side of his bed in plain sight. How silly of him to forget. He pushed the door open as wide as it would go, hurried over toward the briefcase and left the room before the door had closed.

In the hall a prostitute was just leaving. Or at least Mr. Fairbanks thought she was a prostitute because of her excessive makeup that was smeared out of place and her bowlegged walk.

Outside, Lars had managed to get up to his knees after falling 3 times previously trying to make his escape. After realizing that his equilibrium in too great a disrepair for this endeavor, Lars began to reach around his torso. He was trying to get his hand deep enough into his front right pocket to reach his Swiss Army Knife, which he could hopefully unfold and use to cut through his shoelaces before Mr. Fairbanks returned. His quadriceps weren’t very flexible, so each attempt was difficult. He felt the knife with his finger. He twisted and pushed his body down and managed to get his finger in between the fabric of his pocket and the knife. Mr. Fairbanks was outside now. Lars pulled the knife out of his pocket. It fell to the ground. Mr. Fairbanks was opening his briefcase. Lars hurled himself to the ground and felt around for the knife on the ground. He had it. By the time Mr. Fairbanks was standing over Lars, he had managed to get through most of the shoelace, but only most. When Mr. Fairbanks saw the knife he was surprised. He reminded himself to be more cautious in the future. He said to Lars:

“Careful with that, you might hurt someone.”

Mr. Fairbanks injected a syringe into Lars’ neck. His body felt warm, but also very cold. He was trying to decide, but never got the chance. His vision tunneled and then faded to black.

Mr. Fairbanks slept 8 hours of beautiful, enviable, uninterrupted sleep that night.