Car horns are perfect alarm clocks.
“Yeah, wake up,” I need you to retrieve the tape.
I force the brunette to dig through a dumpster topless even though it seems to be the worst I’ve made her do based on how much she resists.
I dangle the treat in front of her:
“Do you want to be part of this landmark study or not?”
It wasn’t a question and she doesn’t answer.
The blonde seems satisfied that she didn’t have to be the one to dig through the dumpster. I see her smile and for a brief moment I like what I see.
But then I also know what that means so I tell her to get out of the car. I tell her to start walking. I force her to walk back to the interstate. Her nudity brandishes her shame.
These assistants are so entitled.
They are part of my study.
Like you, watching, they are privy to what is being shown to them; if the cameras were to go dead, there wouldn’t be anything you could do. If I killed the assistants now, they wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Not that they’d be able to do something later.
But the point is—I’m master of this.
I’m director. I’m the star.
I’m confident, but don’t think I’m an egomaniac. I’m not. I just believe in what I believe in.
And I’m really fucking hungry.
When I’m hungry, I get irritable.
The smell of garbage turns me on more; I get hungrier. I like that he’s chosen to hide his tape in the garbage. What must he show me that required a whole tape?
The brunette hands me the tape but it’s still in the plastic bag.
I push it away, “Take it out, come on!”
I hand the brunette a shirt, “Here.”
I drive back towards the interstate, pick up the blonde, who didn’t even make it a mile, and quickly readjust my expectations for the next visit.
Giles, I wonder what’s become of you. Have your tattoos faded?
But long before that, I need to get off. I need to eat.
A few exits down, I see a sign. It’s one of those franchise restaurants. This one looks like a log cabin on the outside; has a store full of candy and trinkets that you have to go through to get to the cafeteria-style seating arrangement. Southern cooking is what they sell.
Sure—I tell them to go get a table.
Before anything else can happen, I need to watch the tape.
I see him, and only him.
He has with him a gun.
I don’t know where he got the gun.
“That’s interesting,” I say to myself.
He says the words, “I love you,” as he holds the gun to his head.
“I love you,” again as he pulls the trigger. The gun, not loaded, makes a loud clicking sound.
“I love you,” as he sets down the gun, looks around the inside of the coupe, holds up a new tape, picks up the phone and speaks to his family.
I didn’t tell him to talk to his family.
He says the words, same words we’ve shared, to the person on the other line.
Who is it? Who is it?
Dad, Mom, sister? Or someone else?
My face feels hot. I clench my jaw. What is this? Are you taunting me?
My pet takes the phone and lets it fall from his hands. It disappears from the shot. He turns to me, holds the gun, looks into the camera, nods twice, and places his hands together.
Then I understand.
He wants my approval. Will this be how he wants to get off?
Right here? Holding the gun?
Surely he does. He’s already erect when he pulls down his pants.
He presses his penis against the gun. I remove my panties.
I imagine the barrel of the gun as my fingers.
I look out the passenger window, seeing a couple looking in my direction as they walk towards their car. I moan louder.
He aims the lens down at his groin.
He lets it splatter all over the lens when he’s done.
My pet. . .I moan.
I feel everything right before I feel, once again, nothing.
He is not here and will not be here until he’s exactly what I want him to be.
My pet.
I will never be fully satisfied until then.
We can explore every inch of our bodies; we film it all so that we can save the memory, so that we can express to you what it means to say “I love you.” We say those words right before we shove a gun in our mouths; we say those words before we continue building his legacy.
We say those words before and after we climax.
But it’s only the beginning. It isn’t satisfying.
It can’t be the complete expression. Not yet.
Until then, this is all we can really have.
Masturbation.
To love anyone you must first love yourself.
1.
My pet was here. He ate and spoke to me from behind a camera lens.
We may have crossed paths but it’s not on camera, not on film, so you don’t know that.
You only know what we show, and if we’re showing you everything, what does it mean when it isn’t in any frame? It might be that it never happened.
Maybe it can happen later.
Have a piece of this pancake, or how about some hash browns?
I hear their mashed potatoes are lovely.
My assistants both seem to enjoy the food. Everything is eaten, but how much of the food did they really taste?
I ask.
I’m not getting a definitive answer.
This cannot do—people made that food. They cooked it so that you’d enjoy it.
“Wrong,” I’m telling them.
I order another round of the same. They’ll get this right.
A list of commands, instructions if you will.
I’m showing them how to properly eat with a fork and knife, spoon when needed. Just enough syrup to increase the flavor of the pancakes; just enough salt and pepper on their hash browns; just enough to increase the meal.
Unsatisfied, I’m sighing, head tilted down. Nothing to see here, eyes closed.
Even when they do it right, they’re still doing it wrong.
Sip of coffee. Look what they’ve done now.
Now they’re not eating. I’ve nearly had enough of this.
I’m slamming the fork down onto the table.
“Get up.” They’ll have to make up for this. Wonder what the cook’s interested in sampling. . .everyone’s got a craving. Everyone’s has their own taste.
What’s his?
I know mine. My pet, did you finish your plate or did you seek out a proper dessert? Did you clean your palate? The best way to fully enjoy every flavor is to wash it with its exact opposite.
Blonde goes first.
“Do it,” I tell her.
We’ll stay right here, won’t we? I look at the brunette.
Wait our turn.
I’m handing the camera to the blonde. If she’s smart she’ll go ahead and do it; if she’s stupid. . .well then the odds are definitely against her.
“Go.” Way I say it—can’t be any more firm than that. She may think her rack is firmer but—ha—yeah right.
Brunette and I sit back down.
I’m staring at her. She’s having trouble staring back.
You see, this part isn’t on film so you’ll have to bear with me. Nothing will be bared: All you’ll know is what I tell you.
I can already tell what’s going on.
“You can’t replace me,” I warn her.
She won’t be able to really be Claire. But the blonde’s going to try.
Wonder what she’s saying? My pet gets first dibs. He’ll watch it and if it’s worth anything, I’ll see it on the blonde’s face. If it’s as good it can be, we’ll hear it from the kitchen.
The full view—that’s left for a different show. Too busy watching the main event to be busy with any offshoots, huh?
> Then I hear it, and I’m more than pleased.
Seems blonde turned the camera into a weapon.
“What part of the camera did you use?”
Don’t tell me it’s the damn lens. But it was. Good to know I’ve budgeted for this. Creativity means casualties, lots of casualties. Put the camera to bed and you’re bound to take its life.
Manager had it coming hmm?
Blonde gains a few brownie points.
“Are we still hungry?”
Blonde shakes her head.
We should probably pay the bill. Waitress looks concerned.
I’m shaking my head, pouty face, “Thought we weren’t going to leave you a tip?”
How’s a few $20 bills, hmm? You think that’s one hell of a tip?
My, my—no one is surprised anymore, huh? Waitress might even be glad that blonde did away with her boss. Had it coming.
Brunette’s going to have to show me something.
I can’t have my assistants playing victim. In the convertible, I let the blonde drive.
Arm around the brunette in the backseat.
I’m look down her shirt, “That pushup bra isn’t cutting it.”
But then she wants to be me, or at least is pretending to be me.
For the cover story to work, they need to believe that they’re me. They must love themselves before they can begin to love anyone else. A victim feels sorry for itself. A victim wants to be saved; someone that needs saving has little self-worth. If they had any self-worth, they’d learn to save themselves. “Where’s the fight? Hmm?”
Brunette looks away. I’m telling the blonde, “I’m going to need the both of you. . .”
I have his tape in my hand, new camera in the other.
Catch the blonde looking back at me.
So ask, “What happens when one is valued greater than the other?”
Look who’s on camera?
“They’re all watching. They want to be entertained. What do you do?”
Brunette looks away.
Panning shot of the sunset.
2.
Wave to the studio audience!
—Hey all!
It’s been an intense few episodes huh?
—You can say that [laughter]
We’re capturing some really great stuff. I’m just amazed at what you’ve already been subjected to. . .were you expecting anything at all like this?
—No! Definitely not. . .and I’m still kind of shocked. I don’t know what’s going to happen but it really does feel like this is it, you know? There’s nothing after this if it keeps getting worse. “No way out” kind of thing. I’m afraid, but I am also stunned to find that, you know, I’m quickly getting used to this.
What’s it like working for the woman?
—Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve always been intrigued by deviant behavior, always been addicted to, you know, all sorts of crime dramas, serial killer books, stuff like that. It was what made me choose Criminology as my major. She’s intense, really intense. . .but everyone in the department knows that. I knew that when I signed up for this. I mean, well. . .[long pause] she’s become infamous among all the criminologists. Every paper she’s published has given her instant attention. I guess I had no choice. . .
How did you hear about the study?
—I didn’t actually. That’s something to talk about. Yeah, see I was approached by her. I got this text message from a friend of a friend that basically said “this woman was looking for you. . .” and it’s really weird to explain it now, but at the time, I already knew who it was. And what it was for. Yeah, doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense. . .
It makes some kind of sense. Given the nature of the program, we have to ask: What are your limits? Where do you draw the line?
—I don’t know. Guess that’s kind of why I’m in this to begin with. If I had limits, I wouldn’t have signed up for this. You could feel the heaviness of it, how it wasn’t going to be anything even remotely understandable, you know? Going on the road with her and someone else, undercover, draped with cameras, hunting down serial killers, interrogating them. . .it’s all so insane. . .
And then the murders started.
—Murder followed us from the very beginning. He’s out there, you know?
What do you mean “out there?”
—Nothing really. He’s another car driving around. He’s her new fling.
Do you find him attractive?
—Not really. I mean maybe a little. I don’t know.
Do you find it weird that we’re asking?
—No.
And?
—What else? You’re all watching so I imagine that you’re trying to make sense of the mystery.
About that—the mystery—what exactly is it? In your own definition?
—It’s you guys. The camera. The show. The study at large. That’s what I’d say. I mean, right? It’s entertainment; it’s the attention span. I feel like I might be getting this wrong. . .
No-no, it’s a good answer.
—Really?
Yes.
—Can I ask why?
Why not? It’s your answer. How can it not be good?
—Aww thanks [blushes]
[To audience] Would you like anything else to ask the lovely assistant?
Someone has a question.
—Sure.
Why do you look so much like her?
—Isn’t. . .that the point?
The point? Could you elaborate?
—Oh right, I’m so sorry. Not sure if I’m supposed to tell you this but, yeah, it’s not a coincidence that I’m acting and looking like her. My peer is the same way. We’re supposed to look like this, act like this, that kind of thing. And we can’t even use our real names. We have to use hers.
Is this part of the study?
—Sure? Why not.
The audience would like to know more.
—I’m not sure I’m supposed to be telling you this.
Ruining the mystery?
—Maybe, I guess.
One last question from the audience.
—Okay.
Do you think she’ll get what she wants? I.e. do you think it’ll turn out the way she wants?
—Yeah, I think so. It’s a scary thought but looks that way. I wouldn’t doubt it. Not ever.
Not at all?
—Nope. No doubt about it. And even if there was some doubt, I refuse to be the person to say it.
Thank you for your time.
—Thanks.
[Audience applause]
3.
After paying the guard with funds from the brunette’s checking account, I’ve had enough with this. Driving. The momentum’s way ahead of us, no worry about that. I have another thing in mind. This can’t stay lopsided. She’s got to learn a thing or two.
I deny the blonde’s offer to take over driving duties.
We are stopping here. Side of the road. Watch other cars pass us by.
Watch the hitchhiker, see what I see.
I’m looking at the brunette.
If this were the blonde, she’d understand what’s about to happen.
Let me elaborate, hmm?
I’m telling her that she’s nothing like what I expected and that she’s too meek, too much like her true self. I’m telling her that he needs to be more like me. I’m telling her that she needs to perk up, shoulders up, voice confident and true. I’m telling her that she needs to be more like the blonde. She needs to say my name. Say my name!
“Claire. . .”
Again.
“Claire.”
Again!
“Claire!”
Not good enough—she’s going to have to pick someone up if she’s got any chance of picking the pieces of herself crapped out on the floor of the convertible.
Brunette’s a wreck and I’m starting to feel ashamed.
To the blonde, “Camera,” and to the brunette, “Get out.”
“Off.” She starts ta
king her top off.
“All of it.”
She’s embarrassed, arms not at her sides, instead covering the areas that the meek would be too nervous to let the camera see. What’s the use, hmm? Here’s what I see:
Me.
I see everything I am, minus the fight, the confidence, the good taste.
She doesn’t tie the rope tight enough so it begins to chafe against her hips as we put the convertible in neutral. See what I mean?
I’m having to show her what it means to be tight enough. She’s not even wet.
Rope around her waist, I let the blonde have a little fun. Neutral at 10-15MPH causes the brunette to stumble forward, forced to keep up given the situation.
Ever wonder what a nude woman tied to the bumper of a moving vehicle looks like?
Taillights drape her body in red.
When we pass the hitchhiker, I motion for him to keep up.
He walks with her. A lesser man would have gone right for it but, lucky for the brunette, he’s at least talking to her. No touching, only the narrowest of glances at her body.
She shouldn’t be ashamed. He’s the one that’s worthless. He can’t help himself. There’s a difference between shame and sexuality, there’s a difference between taste and torture.
Seems few get this. I’m trying to teach my assistants a thing or two.
If we’re going to keep at this, I need carbon copies of myself.
I’m repeating myself. . .
But that’s what teaching is:
Repetition.
My assistants, you must leave everything at the door.
But after a half-mile, we’re making progress. The camera captures seduction.
Brunette fends for what she might imagine as safety by saying the right kind of thing, just enough to turn potential assailant into a whipped and salivating animal.
The hitchhiker’s yours, I’m telling her.
The blonde speeds up.
Now we’re really running.
“What do you want to say to the camera?!” I’m shouting to them.
“This is your scene!” I tell her. And in that moment, she’s a survivor.
In that moment, I’d liken it to her emulating me. I ask for nothing more from these two. They have to look like me if we’re going to ride the rest of the interstate.
We’re looking good. I exhale, satisfied to see that the rope is now on the hitchhiker’s waist. Brunette got him to do everything: Untie her, tie himself up.
My Pet Serial Killer Page 20