Gutter Ball

They call me Gutter Ball.

Not exactly my title of choice but it definitely gets the message out there. One big news station decided to use it and, soon enough, all the media was using it. The modern age, gotta love it.

I actually watched the broadcast live that first used the name. The reporter stood with mic in hand and the camera centered on her. Behind her, you could see the yellow caution tape outlining a perimeter. She was going off and about how this the seventh or eight "vicious killing in a string of murders that the cops have associated to the Gutter Ball Killer." And like that, the name stuck.

I doubted that the cops would use such a stupid name as that but the report went on to talk about how all the victims had been methodically gutted in the middle of the night. The coroner deducted that the victims were also alive at the time of said gutting. I'm glad they got some facts straight. Pretty smart guys working over there. Still, I would've preferred a better name. Like Bobby Fisher. Without the "c" and all. A fisher is a skilled hunter going after an easy prey and not to mention that Bobby Fischer was a brilliant chess player and strategist. Gutter balls are accidents. Flukes. Nobody wants them. I don't even bowl much and I've already learned to hate the retched gutter ball. But, the names grown on me. It's a part of me. Like moss on a rock. They can call me whatever they want to; it won't change what I do.

A funny thing about that original news segment is that after the reporter at the scenes talked about the crime, she warned viewers that the following images would be disturbing and so commenced a slideshow my victims. Fortunately for my clothing and surrounding upholstery, there was a waste basket by my side and I proceeded to relinquish my microwaved dinner into it. The reporter kept talking about the victims' families' responses and yadayadayada while I started worrying about the waste basket not being big enough. Both endless streams of tasteless garb finally came to an end and I promptly turned off the TV for the night.

I've gotten use to the gore in the news now. It's different to see my work in the daylight. And I actually appreciate the media's focus on me because I've personally lost count of how many stomachs I've opened up. I turned on the TV earlier today and they announce that the death toll has reach a thirty. Thirty. The big three O. I actually considered leaving it at that and quitting the business altogether. I liked the sound of that number. It was simple yet significant. It was practically a milestone. But then the report said that the police had receive a call about the discovery of another body and I almost reached for the waste bin when they said the new number.

Thirty-one. Ugh. How could a beautiful number turn so hideous so fast? I force my stomach to control its contents and turned off the TV. I guess I'm  still in business.