My Pet Serial Killer

by Michael J Seidlinger

  Liquor and specialty drugs fluctuate between attendees in hopes of facilitating the forgetting. It’s the same at every club; it’s the same at every party. The only difference is in theme, and this club’s theme is all about getting lost in a previous generation, even if you weren’t a part of that generation. By the looks of it, the majority here would fail to qualify.

  I’m watching them, whispering to myself, “I could pick any of you up and I’d be your perfect match. Just your type.”

  I’m a social chameleon. Always been.

  I change hairstyles and speech based on the demands of the social setting.

  The big problem for me is how fickle the pickup game really is. I can pick any of them up, sure, but none of them are what I’m looking for. I need someone that’ll need me, want me, covet me, consume me, captivate me, just as much as I do all those things and more to them.

  I’m selective in that way.

  But really, how can you not be?

  I wander over to the edge of the bar, getting a drink because you have to in order to

  fit in. Right now I need to fit in. I need to wait it out, find the right guys, find him, wait for him to finish his part. I’m taking my first sip of my martini as I spot him, and I’m instantly relieved because he’s looking, acting in precisely the same manner as when I first spotted him that night dozens of girls ago. I’m watching him eye women, gaining their attention only to ditch them on the way to one of the private booths in the back of the club.

  It’s always worth a laugh to see how the competition—other males looking to pick someone up—react to those that seemingly rise above the rest. Few understand what’s going on when you go to these clubs, these parties, and mingle, flirt, fuck around.

  They’re clueless.

  They know so little. To get with the pickup game, it’s all about grasping the basics. The rules, and there are definitely rules. Get it straight. Get caught up with reality. The pickup may be like a game but this is as much a measurement of your worth as it is a measurement of one’s primal urges. Display the inner fight because, think about it: That girl, that guy, doesn’t need you. They’ll get what they want. If they are being picked up, it’s because they are not the aggressors, the players; they aren’t capable of putting up a fight. They know they don’t have any fight in them so they wait it out, hoping to be found by other fighters, the ones capable of getting anything they want be it one hour or the rest of your life.

  There are standards. There are expectations.

  You’ll see a pattern if you’re wanting to be seen at all.

  A pickup isn’t over until they ask you where you want to go. Only then are you in control. When you’re in control, you have been given access to both body and mind.

  Don’t be foolish and think it’s an access to their heart.

  That’s not what any of this is about.

  Never was. It’s about possession and being a part of the possession.

  Knowing all this, I’m watching with enthusiasm as he puts it into practice like a professional. After seeing him for his true self, I’ve forgotten how he looks from afar, where he only shows a little glimmer, a small shred, of himself.

  It’s commendable, watching him pick up women only to leave them wanting. The other players believing they have whatever it takes to make it work.

  Yet they cannot fathom how my pet can and will do whatever it takes to possess them.

  He’s known thirty-six of them. Sure enough, he had my help, but he channeled the fight in order to make it possible at all.

  The game of pickup operates on the basics, yet it’s open to interpretation.

  I finish my first drink, watching as two overdressed guys desperately wave my pet over. First off, he’s going to tell them about the club dynamic, just to gain their confidence. He’ll be a little more confident than needed because in such a scenario, it’ll get the other guys hanging on his every word.

  He’ll say something like, “Take a look at everything that’s offered. Choose a popular and crowded club. It needs to be a popular club because I’m not going to be there to collect on used goods and other slut-bags. The girl needs to be fresh, new, attractive, but not a perfect ten. Look for realistic charm and beauty, not synthetic silicon brides. Prospects need to be casual looking to have fun tonight because tomorrow they’ll be going to class and studying for their midterms.”

  The two guys are laughing, doing some kind handshake with each other, and he’s just waiting patiently as they finish.

  “Make sure you know your competition. Don’t get caught in arguments. You blow your cool and that’s it. No good, no go.”

  They agree. He tries to leave but they both call after, proof that he’s got them right where we want them. Now it’s my turn to pick him up.

  Time save my pet.

  I’m quickly taking my position, a perfect distance between him and the guys sitting at the table and me. This is a good searching distance.

  They don’t seem to want him to leave, so, of course, they follow his every step.

  He pretends to spot me; he reacts naturally.

  He’s saying stuff like, “Need pointers? Watch me.”

  Pointers include:

  “Survey the floor. Mark potentials as targets. Figure out their situation. Don’t try to move in other players’ territories if you don’t need to.”

  He’s in my face now, preaching the lines that he usually pulls on the other girls.

  I’m forcing to play along as he elbows them, pretending that I’m the example, just another girl that’s ditsy and/or drunk, receptive to his amazing charm.

  He’s shouting over the music. I can hear them but I’m pretending not to, pretending to dance. I’m pretending to be oblivious.

  “No pickup lines. A pickup taunt is more like it. Focus on the art of touch and poise and you’ll never have to say anything other than a little prototypical hello.”

  He’s turning to me, showcasing what he just said. I’m playing along, more than a little angry, wondering if this is some kind of revenge. Afterwards he leans over to them and says, “Playing with their senses gets them going. The perfect combination of cologne, cigar smoke, taste in clothing, behavior and voice gets the girl interested. Picture yourself as a ghost dropping in, changing her life. You are changing their lives.”

  I’m playing out revenge scenarios in my head when he starts encouraging them to do the same to other women. The two guys disappear into the crowd, so easily influenced.

  He’s looking over to me, straight faced, as if he’s trying to hide something from me.

  I grab his arm and we turn to leave the club. On the way out, a woman barely able to stand up straight grabs him and pulls him close, but I can still hear her ask, “Have we met?”

  And I’m a great observer, so I remember her as one of the women from a previous night, one of the decoy girls, someone he picked up only to leave midway so as to get in the clear with the one he really wanted. And what he should have said was, “No,” but instead he said, “We have.” It’s something a killer should never say, and so I’m forced to take over. Just a little glare, letting the drunk chick get a glimpse of the fight I hide inside.

  She pushes him toward me and stumbles away.

  I’m escorting him to my car and I’m telling him to wait there, saying something like, “We’ll talk about what you did later,” in a tone that’s a mixture between angry and tired.

  He watches me from the passenger side window. I walk back into the club. I’m not about to let her get away with that. She’s not too far from where we left her. I have found her.

  Maybe she isn’t the best candidate but I see potential. More so than that, I want revenge.

  I find her near one of the bar-backs, trying to order another drink.

  Hello Miss Number 37.

  2.

  Right about now those two guys are being linked to dozens of dead women.

  I’m with him—with the only one I’d want to be—in the
cage where thirty-seven is being examined. He’s more like himself now, and that sends a shrill little spark up my spine.

  It feels a lot like what we used to do before.

  “Look what you’ve done.”

  I’m getting comfortable as master.

  What has he done?

  He’s giving up, giving in completely to me, my pet.

  Number thirty-seven is a naked body, unconscious, on the cold steel of his operating table. Since our agreement, he’s transformed this cage into his own. Not to say much has changed. In fact, it’s practically the same except for the smells, the sensation I’m getting when I have a look. Tonight we’re both here, in his comfort zone, and I’m getting to watch him piece together what will become his thirty-seventh sensory experience.

  “The skin is a sheath. The sooner you get it off, the sooner we can do something about it.”

  He’s petting her stomach, the mons venus, and I’m annoyed because he shouldn’t be wasting time on such things. Have a taste and get on with it.

  I’m watching and finding myself getting more and more involved.

  He doesn’t want instruction but, as master, I’m feeling like I need to show him how it’s supposed to be done.

  He’s too lenient on method.

  No wonder we find ourselves needing to find patsies, covering our tracks every few girls. I’m willing to show him how it’s done, but he’s shoving his face between her legs, pretending he can’t (and won’t) hear me.

  I’m saying, “You can’t just covet that body. Take the surgical knife and carve.”

  He’s coming up for air and saying, “She tastes like strawberries!”

  I’m shaking my head, wanting to move things forward.

  “You’ve gotten your taste. Now what are we going to do now?”

  He’s sighing a loud sigh and I’m hearing it, raspy and apprehensive.

  I’m asking him, “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”

  He’s not telling me.

  Enough is enough. I can’t have him acting up like this.

  “What does a pet do, hmm?”

  He’s ignoring me as he grabs the knife resting next to a series of utensils and starts carving, violently cutting through sinew and bone. She’s waking up.

  I’m shouting, “You didn’t drug her?!”

  Apparently he didn’t. This girl, this Andrea, Miss Number 37, had blacked out on all the booze. He was supposed to send a dosage up her bloodstream on the car ride home.

  Clearly he did not.

  “You. . . how can you be so. . .” I’m seeing the next segment from the future, grabbing him and shaking him. My pleas, my repeated queries about what’s going wrong. His resistance, pulling away from my grip. Slapping him, kicking him in the stomach. Coughing, his dry heaves, an intended vomit.

  His breathy shout, his confession, how my support has drained the thrill out of the game, out of his craft, and my disappointment, a complete and total disappointment, as thirty-seven is bleeding into her hands and falling off the operating table.

  “Killer must kill,” I’m saying, much to his dismay.

  Thirty-seven bites him, teeth digging hard. I back away saying, “If you want to do it alone, fine.”

  I sit in the corner of the cage, watching him struggle.

  She’s bleeding all over his expensive suit. He’s going to have to figure out how to get bloodstains out of a tan suit.

  Good luck. If it were me, I’d know which combination of cleaners and stain-removers to use for the most effective result. But he thinks it’s all boring, what we’re doing, so I’m backing away. Fine. Fine. . .

  I’m taking it harder than expected.

  Fine.

  He’s really struggling now and I’m laughing, “Oh, she’s more than I expected.”

  I really know how to pick them. He disappoints me, really saddens me. I thought we had something special. Now I’m not so sure. I’ve been in other relationships before, but the person I pick up has never been this willing to comply and be mine.

  I guess it was too good to be true.

  He’s calling to me for help.

  I’m watching, not as much as a single twitch. I’m not going anywhere.

  “Master. . .help!”

  I should enjoy his pleas, but you know I’m not.

  I’m saying, “You’re the killer, do what you do best.”

  He isn’t able to wrestle free from thirty-seven’s locked legs around his chest, pushing the air out of his lungs. His face is a stain of dark red and thirty-seven, I’m watching her breasts hang, her hair knotted with blood, her eyes a dark black when I had thought they were green.

  It’s a pathetic sight, my pet unable to function on his own.

  He needs me.

  He’s realizing how much he needs me.

  I feel like nothing will ever be the same again.

  I stand up and leave the cage.

  He’s shouting, “Master! Master!”

  I’m going to take care of this but only because it’s too late to undo what has already been done. His shouts are way too loud. The cage might be soundproofed but you can’t ever trap 100% of the sound. Somewhere, through a tiny crack, people are hearing his cries and thinking it’s some really kinky sex.

  In the kitchen I put the kettle on and sit, listening patiently.

  I’m still in the future, seeing 37’s burned body, a killer begging to its master, asking for a second chance, and worst of all, my inability to go back to the way things were.

  I’m saying to myself, “They’re all the same. You can’t tame them.”

  And I’m starting to believe it.

  I’m also believing that he’s ruined and I’m the one that ruined him. If I let him go free, we’d hear of the Gentleman Killer caught by day’s end.

  The kettle’s piercing squeal breaks my thread of thought.

  I’m picking it up and walking back into the cage.

  I’m kicking thirty-seven in the kidney and she’s buckling, letting go of him. He’s crawling toward me, gripping my legs, hiding behind me. I’m disgusted, but the heat of the handle sends notices of increasing pain from the tips of my fingers, nerves sending out that warning, so I’m pouring the scalding water all over her bare side, chest, and back.

  I enjoy a scream only killers get to enjoy firsthand.

  Her skin bubbles and peels and I’m mocking her as I tell her, “Don’t move. It’ll hurt less if you don’t move.”

  Yeah, but she can’t help it so the skin peels off with ease as she twitches and rolls to one side of the cage and stays there.

  I kick him free, “There, now you’ve got a new challenge.” I leave him in the cage to tend to a partially dead version of what should have been a glorious celebration.

  He won’t taste her now unless he likes the flavor of burnt flesh.

  3.

  The only thing you’re capable of killing is your legacy.

  I hate to say it but. . .you’re not so much a mystery as you are a mistake.

  The killer calls every morning.

  1.

  I went to class.

  I let my pet have the apartment.

  I spent most of my days on campus, working and studying, formulating this thesis of mine. If I wasn’t on campus, I was getting food or staying at a nearby motel.

  Room 201.

  My pet wanted freedom so I let him, knowing how much it would hurt.

  He called me every day.

  I ignored his calls.

  Knew why he was calling.

  2.

  I picked up once. This is what was said.

  And it didn’t matter who said what.

  I think it’s obvious who said what.

  “There was a body here but now it’s gone.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “What do you mean ‘how do I figure?’”

  “There was a dead girl’s body in the cage but it’s gone now.”

  “Oh.”

  “Look, okay—how lon
g have we been doing this?”

  “A long time.”

  “Four months. For me, it’s been four months. And it’s been a little over a month since you became a supporter of my craft.”

  “Okay. What’s your point?”

  “My point is, the both of us, we might not be as safe as we thought.”

  “Duh. Someone’s probably tapped the phones and cameras.”

  “What?”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh? But, if the bodies are disappearing, what’s happening to them? Where are they going? Other guys aren’t meeting women so that they can’t sleep with them.”

  “Don’t forget that someone must be breaking into the apartment and stealing the bodies.”

  “You have to help me.”

  “What’s your number?”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Last time I checked it was forty-one, but only thirty-six, maybe thirty-seven of them are really yours. The rest are uncalled for. Poof, disappearing act.”

  “I’m not using the cameras and computers. I never open the front door.”

  “The door opened all by itself. There was a body here.”

  “Now it’s gone. . .”

  “The body was of a girl you picked up twenty minutes ago.”

  Every time he leaves the apartment, I sneak back in and take the bodies. Through a hole in the wall, I hang out with our next door neighbor, a guy who’s high most of the day and selling most of the night. Convenient for me, I get to use his apartment to spy on my pet.

  I am punishing my pet.

  This is what I tell myself. This is what I’m doing.

  He must learn how to appreciate his master. Honestly, I am already noticing a change.

  It’s working.

  3.

  And another time I reacted to a voicemail with a one-sided conversation where I asked him questions while ignoring his answers. He wanted advice.

  I gave him open-ended queries of the killer inside:

  Does a killer decide or choose?

  He rambles.

  What about a killer derives confidence?

  He asks for forgiveness.