Power of suggestion. One word can rival a thousand.
And now he’s left alone running after us.
Brunette gets a kiss on the cheek from me. I catch her grinning.
That’s more like it. I picked them both for a reason; they weren’t just the most charming, they both had some fight in them. They want what they want, just like me.
Hitchhiker can really run.
“Give him another 5MPH,” I’m telling the blonde.
Cast in the red light, the hitchhiker looks like he’s running after us, running away from the past. I just know my pet is going to love this. There’s a whole lot to get off on when you get creative enough. My, my—he’s really running. “We got a marathon runner,” I’m telling them.
I ask the brunette what she wants us to do.
“It’s yours,” I’m saying when she gives me that look, a look that says, ‘Really I get to choose?’ And of course she gets to choose.
What are her choices, hmm? What do you think?
She chooses the latter, the one that the audience wants but would never say. For this, I get the blonde to give me the wheel.
“Go ahead, get it all on camera. Enjoy yourself.”
Careful with this, you see—you can’t just slam on the gas. You can’t just speed up. Small increments spare him the fear that’ll leave him twisted, stumbling over his two feet. Small increments mean we’ll get more of a scene. More out of this.
3-5MPH increments. Perfect.
He’s starting to shout something.
Really can’t understand what it is but let’s go with something practical:
“HELP!”
Yeah that works.
Better yet, “Please, stop!”
Begs for his life. Makes sense.
“Are you getting this?” I’m asking. That’s a nod. She is.
He puts in enough, probably just because he’s got nothing but adrenaline flowing; when something like this happens, it’s doubtful that you’re thinking, I’m going to die. Really you’re functioning purely on gut reaction, basic survival instincts. The hitchhiker’s got just enough to last longer than I expected him to, but, really now, what did you think was going to happen?
We stop the car to get a closer look at what’s left.
I do it more for him. I’m sure it would make for a good lesson.
A good first-look at the possibilities. Proof that in anything there can be beauty.
What does he look like? Well, I’m kind of a liar when I’m this excited—I like to exaggerate and fill in the gaps with my own version—but I’ll say this:
I never knew a face could be this flat.
4.
Wave to the studio audience!
[She waves]
Talk about a hell of a time, huh?
—Yeah.
We’re really seeing some unexpected turns. It’s rendering us all pleasantly intrigued and just a little bit confused. But right at the top, we have to ask: Are you okay?
—I’m okay.
You don’t sound okay.
—No, I am. I’m a little frazzled, that’s all. It’s all happened so quickly. Kind of expected a slow start but then this happened.
Yeah, but that’s perhaps why we’re all so intrigued.
[She nods]
So that answers our first question, so we’ll be able to move—
—What was the first question?
Oh, it went along the lines of “were you expecting anything like this?”
—Yeah, I wasn’t, but now I don’t expect anything.
Nothing?
—The past is the past and with it, I begin to see that I wasn’t prepared for this.
Are you prepared now?
—No. But that won’t stop it from continuing.
Why not fight it?
—That won’t do anything.
No—it probably won’t. Moving on.
—Okay.
What’s it like working for the woman?
—It’s hell.
Wow, how succinct.
—It’s the truth. It’s hell because everything is going to get worse and I can’t stop it. It’s hell because I don’t want to stop it. I’m letting it go. I let myself go.
You really think you let yourself go?
—Not in a physical way. More in a moral way. I thought I understood boundaries but then I do something like this and I would be lying to the audience if I didn’t say that I’m enjoying it.
We’re getting a call-in.
Oh—would you be okay answering?
—Okay.
I will preface this by saying that it’s her.
—Okay what does she need?
She’s asking you why.
—Why?
Yes.
—Why what?
We’re. . .not sure. She wants clarification. She’s saying she wants proof.
—She’s asking. . .
She’s asking about something you previously. . .
—[Interrupts] I know what she’s asking! Why—why did I like what I did? Of course I can’t avoid it. I can’t avoid her. Why, why, why, why. . .
Why?
—Because.
That’s not good enough, apparently.
—Because I hated that he looked at me that way; I’ve never done anything like this before. Because I can’t help myself. Because I find myself more interested in why she’s attracted to this stuff, not just to criminology and deviant behavior, but more so to what has no name.
Obscenity?
—Love.
I don’t think we follow. . .
—You’re not supposed to. Part of the mystery.
[Audience silence]
—You’ll have to keep watching. You’re going to anyway. You all are just like me and we’re in too deep.
5.
I’m touching the tape like it’s part of him. I’m smelling it because there’s nothing to taste. I’m stroking it in the seconds before I insert it and begin. He’s been so busy, busy enough to have been left behind a good 30 minutes. Somewhere my pet wanted to please me.
He started and finished without any need of my presence.
The result is this tape. And you’re watching even though you have to blink. You’re watching even though you worry it might be worse.
I’m watching because he’s mine and no one else can have him.
I let the assistants watch in celebration of their recent efforts. I let them watch but I’m telling them that I don’t want them near me. I want them out of sight; I don’t want to hear them. And because of that they sit in the back of the convertible, duct taped mouths.
We can begin. Aren’t you excited:
Establishing shot of a handful of nails. Camera pulls back, establishing the first surprise: He did it in the jail cell. He didn’t opt for something a bit more secluded. There would be a lot of noise. Cut to Giles the Great looking exactly the same. I would still be attracted to him if it weren’t for his humiliating downfall. What killer cries, begs for his mommy, as they drag him away?
Giles the Great (more like Giles the Lesser) is roped up on a piece of plywood.
My pet enters the shot. He’s wearing a featureless black mask. Giles never did that.
This is new. I don’t know how to feel about it. Surprised, sure, but I’m more surprised because of my reaction. I’m not wholly pleased. I’ve given him some liberty, some license to express himself, but if he keeps doing this without my explicit instructions. . .well, I’m going to let it slide.
It’s no big deal. We’re still getting to know each other. I’m quite sure it was just because he wanted to please me. Anything I say, he’ll do.
I told him to act like a victim. That’s his best cover story.
I told him to embrace naivety. That’s his best cover story.
I told him to pretend that he’s on his own. That’s his best cover story.
He follows these things and for that, I’m pleased. I am.
Inmates are wat
ching too. The guards let them; everyone wants someone like Giles dead. Enough of a cash transfer and it doesn’t matter what is done; inmate will clean up the mess. The guards get to split the dough. Money, as they say, talks.
Giles in his “greatest moments” liked to peel back skin.
Skin peeled back looks a whole lot like the texture of undercooked chicken.
He liked to douse them with paint. He wanted to be a painter. For a time he was everything, as is the case when you decide to express yourself by taking lives.
Paint on fresh wounds creates a runny mess. The paint and blood don’t mix well.
My pet seems annoyed by it and rushes here. That’s an error—Giles took his time.
Throughout this, I am wondering, distantly, who’s filming him.
I don’t find out until the very end.
Split screen shot of footage I kept of Giles and that of what I’m now watching. My pet is, stroke-for-stroke, on target. But there’s something else missing.
When the paint doesn’t dry fast enough, he gets creative. Once again, the shot establishing shot of nails, but this time we get more than the three seconds from the start of the tape. We get his hand dipped in paint, the nails dripping in various colors.
A hammer doesn’t work that well when he tries, the nails only going halfway in before hitting bone. Screams of all sorts drown out the audio—inmates cheering, Giles sobbing.
My pet trades in the hammer for a nail gun. Each dipped and dripping nail goes in one after the other. Again, and again, and again:
Nailed. The nails are different colors but always end up looking the same.
When the first nail punctures Giles’s stomach, everything inside it comes out as vomit.
Another sort of response from the inmates, but my pet is vigilant.
He isn’t annoyed, disgusted: No expression.
I look at my assistants. They watch intently. Too intently.
But disregard—I don’t want to miss this. Various insertions in the shoulders, arms, thighs, and groin culminate with one last one, the one that’ll go through Giles’s forehead.
Again, Giles is begging.
Before I can muster up a true sense of anger, my pet does something about it; he nails Giles’s mouth shut. It only takes three nails shot through from the top lip down.
One of them tears when Giles makes a pained face.
My pet attempts to fix it but instead the nail cracks one of Giles’s front teeth.
Some of the inmates stop watching. They look away. Sounds, unsettling sounds.
My pet holds back a moment, appreciating his work.
Looks at the camera. Whoever’s filming it ruins our moment when he says, “This is fucked,” enthusiastically. This upsets him and he should know that it upsets me just as much, if not more.
But later—we will deal with this later.
He finishes the job. The nail through the forehead is almost enough but there’s still heartbeat. For that it takes a number of nails. Giles might still be alive; he’s a pest like that.
But my pet doesn’t seem interested. What’s done is done.
And I’m fairly satisfied. Thought just now, I should be fulfilled.
But I’m not. By the look of it, he isn’t either.
He looks into the camera, and here we have a moment.
And I understand. He wants to see me. More of me. He wants to catch up to me, all of me. And most of all, he wants to learn more. He needs more practice.
And yet, there’s something else I haven’t placed. It might just be me. . .
I could be adding more to this than there really is.
The tape ends with the sound of an inmate cheering. There we are, revealed: Looking into the camera, revealing the identity of who had, once upon a time, been a part of the mystery. That inmate—Eugene Carson, 25 years for embezzlement—will not survive this study.
The mystery will envelop him. One day he’ll just disappear.
Only a select few will know where he ended up. Everyone should know that he won’t be the first. When everyone’s talking about murder, it’s clear people want to be involved.
The more they watch, the more they are willing to talk about it.
Data recorded.
Trade in a walk in the park for a walk in the dark.
1.
By night, we walked the side of the interstate.
Walked barefoot, bare skin. Woke up the dozing drivers with a game of chicken, three lanes of traffic turning and evading at the sight of what they could only assume was us.
In the dark of night, we looked like ghost flashes across a damp windshield.
Rouse the driver into a new car crash and maybe he’ll thank me. I saved his life. He had been waiting for an accident to happen. Now he can cross it off. We do this less for you, the audience, and more for him, my pet. He went above and beyond what I had intended.
Those sounds are theirs to keep. Each blare of the horn only makes me run faster.
Again I rush through traffic.
Again I’m thinking this is fun.
These are the moments I’d imagine would be only possible after finding meaning for those words. My pet, I’m thinking about you. I’m saying the words to myself as I cup my breasts, mid-sprint, the feeling of them sway and jiggle sometimes discomforting.
I’m saying the words, and nobody but you can hear them over the sounds of screeching tires, car horns trying to tell me I’m beautiful.
“I love you,” in case you hadn’t known.
“You love me more,” because I know it’s true.
We know it’s true. The assistants know it’s true. When they run through traffic, they slow down as the vehicle nears; when they run through traffic, they believe they’re in danger. They might be hit. This is where I am the most different.
When I run, I’m heading towards something. Anything that might be in the way is merely that—in the way—and it will move. It will move on its own; if not, I will make them.
Either end of the interstate, we are still the same. See those rocks? Don’t you want to see how far they can travel before cracking in half, or cracking something? We’re as close to the state line as we need to be. On this night, I’m letting them vent their frustrations.
Give it a toss.
It feels good to be letting go of something.
The night is wearing thin, running long, and us Claires need to feel something more than what we’ve been feeling. I’m more interested in seeing you as you pass.
We’re waiting for cars to slow down.
We’re waiting for cars to speed up.
Closer angle on my ass as I lean down to pick up another rock. And you know the camera can do nothing but look. Really look. I don’t mind. I’m not ashamed.
In one long continuous shot, the following happens:
Rocks hitting windshields and windows. Cars swerving into each other, a near accident. Blonde trapped between two cars, jumping into a free lane, cutting the side of her leg. No worries, though; she doesn’t feel it and in no time it’ll be gone. Not even a scratch. Brunette has a fairly good arm, landing more than a few to the tires, which proves to be far worse than shattered glass.
In concert with each other, I leave them for a sign that you’ll see.
You’re almost here.
I need it to be written. On pieces of cardboard I write the words over and over again. When you’ll see them you’ll know. It’ll be so obvious; it would be embarrassing to have seen it at all. I’m pretending it’s not, but it is. . .and really if you’re my pet, you’ll be too far into the fantasy to separate the two. If I called you, you’d act like you were someone else. We have to if we’re going to be invisible to the authorities. I’ve seen three pass by since we’ve disrobed, and not even one has noticed. Shot-for-shot, I’m not slowing down. Into the camera, I’m letting you have a good look. The audience will think it’s for them but we know what’s true.
After placing the signs, I’m waiting for you to pa
ss by. I’m looking around. See what I see: Blonde picking up sticks and trying to light them on fire. Brunette squatting to urinate. And in front of us, the vehicle that’ll take us from here. We’ve walked this far. They’ve probably found the convertible by now. It starts to rain—feels good on my skin.
Cool before getting warm, I’m tilting my neck back and opening my mouth. Tasteless, but oh, so satisfying, like most things. And when you do finally pass, I’m not there to see your car. But I know it was then because this is how we agreed for it to happen.
Between blinks, it’s like you were never here.
And when I’m behind the wheel of the SUV, the same could be said for us.
2.
I’m here because he’s perfect, which really means I’m training him to be more. With every tape, I’m giving him exactly what he needs to hear. These are lessons, but they aren’t lectures; these are “I love yous,” but they aren’t formal expressions. We save that for murder. I’ve taught so many, all it takes is the brush of a strand of hair over the ear, a little blush of the cheek, a giggle, and/or maybe a blink of an eye. The chances are good that neither assistant will make it in the end. The chances are even greater that we won’t find some of my exes, but I’m willing to look, and that’s why I have the back of the SUV full of weapons of all sorts. I’ll never be sure when I’ll need them, but when I do, my pet, you’ll be well equipped. As well-equipped as I’m sure you are well-endowed.
Size isn’t everything—it’s all about what I see beyond the murderous sparkle of your eyes.
People are born for this. . .and if not, well they’re just another tired driver on this interstate at 1AM on a weekday. That’s to say, they’re lost, and got nothing in them worth being more than anyone else. They’ll maybe drive some more to figure it out, whereas we’re driving to finish having already figured out who we are.
My beloved pet has driven so many miles.
Seeing the sign:
Maryland Welcomes You
Does nothing but increase the itch to keep going. So true, isn’t it?
My heart beats faster thinking of the possibilities.
Tell time via the mile markers and the amount of tape we have left to record. What will the next ten minutes bring? The next twenty?
My Pet Serial Killer Page 21