I’m getting excited enough to drive faster. By now we’re sharing the same patch of road; by now I’m swerving in and out of lanes, frightening the truckers, RVs, and other vehicles. Black SUV swerving across three lanes of traffic. This isn’t exhaustion; it is enticing.
So when it’s all so exciting and hopeful, the pet at my side drives with me. He swerves with me. He speeds up. I slow down. We take to lanes, playing that kind of game.
And when I start chasing him, he is quick to flee.
Like a good pet, he is the one being chased. He keeps the coupe at 95MPH. The SUV can go much faster than his used Japanese coupe, but when we’re expressing ourselves, 95MPH will have to do. He gets behind a pickup truck but manages to ride the grassy side of the road until the pickup truck switches lanes.
The SUV gets right up on the pickup truck’s rear. I’m going to make the pickup truck move. This vehicle does not change lanes for anyone.
In this game we’re playing, it’s about master and pet. It’s not about them. They are merely in the way. Now leave. Give the truck the high beams and it happens.
And I’m right up on my pet, close enough to see the back of his head slightly hidden by the headrest. I’m noticing that he’s taped up the camera to the dashboard.
“He’s filming 24/7 now. . . ” I’m saying to myself.
I’m hearing from the back, the blonde, “So clever.”
I’m telling the both of them—they should have been asleep—that they have no part in this. This is between him and me.
If they don’t close their eyes, duct tape their mouths and ears; I’m going to have to do something else. Quick with the duct tape. So they’ve learned something.
I’m whispering, “I love you,” as I nudge his bumper.
He’s swerving, but oh, you know he’s enjoying it.
He’s enjoying it so much that he’s nudging me back.
We each take turns. Love taps.
And I’m loving every tap. In this game we’re playing, we’re sleepless and together. We’re continually being lost and found. And together we’re laughing as we both switch to the left lane, a semi-truck inches from being the one that takes us down.
I’m enjoying the thought—my pet melded with the back of the trailer, master and the love of his life melded between twisted metal and other dark fluids into one big wreck.
That would be where we’d be fully found. If it had to end that way, no one would be able to tell us apart. Our bodies wouldn’t be found between the explosions, fires, chassis damage, and body contortions. It would be the perfect vehicular expression, if I’d imagine it correctly in any way.
What’s the camera seeing?
Are you getting any of this?
Held back, resting by the strap, the footage isn’t at all like his; his would be far more precise; from my end the shakiness of the footage matches my heartbeat.
But there’s more to be had, so hold on.
Your nausea may be another form of attraction for someone else.
I’m riding towards the exit until he changes his mind and swerves last-minute back into the right lane. The SUV doesn’t take the collision perfectly and for what feels like one breathless forever, the vehicle spins before I’m able to regain control.
He’s watching it happen long before it’s happened.
I’m watching the next frame and the frames after that where we are on the median, where he’s blacking out as the car goes in the wrong direction.
We go against traffic for a half mile.
The few vehicles heading our way are nowhere near as in love as we are.
This is perfect, so perfect I have only those three words to say.
But at the last second I decide not to say them. He knows, and so I’m looking away from the road to the camera. This is where the observer gets to provide commentary.
Hear other people’s voices.
The cars might crash but it’ll be for the sake of how my pet and I feel.
For one blacked out moment, we’re going in reverse before we’re, once again, heading in the right direction. And then we’re back to position one, him being chased and me, the chaser.
I’m asking the assistants how they feel.
Nothing, hear nothing, while I press down on the gas, speeding past 95MPH, to catch up to him. Slamming on the breaks when a sedan of some sort slowly switches lanes, obstructing my path.
Speak with the sound other horn, telling the driver that she doesn’t belong.
I’m asking the assistants how they feel.
Me, I’ve felt so much it’s difficult to feel much of anything exact, but it’s all rushing through my veins, my nerves tense, my skin damp with sweat, my eyeliner running just enough to create a streak down my cheeks. In the darkness of this late night, this is a chase between two similar minds.
And everyone’s clearly along for the ride.
It becomes a scene that jumps from one to the next with no clear order.
He’s winning. He’s winning and I’m satisfied.
He’s winning and maybe I’m letting him win. For him to win means I’ve gotten the payoff I wanted. One last grand altercation begins when two passing cars choose to get involved, attempting to switch into my lane. When I attempt to switch lanes, one car speeds up. When I try to slow down and try to outmaneuver them, they slow down too.
There’s nothing else to be done and so, as I ask the assistants how they feel, I ram into the side one car and then the next, the SUV taking most of the damage, nothing wrong with a little dent.
I’m observing how, at this speed, it feels so much like we’re standing still.
Momentum this great, I can only quantify it in breaths held. I go from holding my breath for a second to holding my breath for thirty seconds as I’m pushing through those that simply do not understand. Exhaling, I’m asking the assistants how they feel.
If they’re saying anything, I can’t hear them over the thudding of my heartbeat.
I’m shouting to the assistants a bunch of things—can’t quite be sure what—I’m so excited. At this very moment, I’m not sure what I feel. At this exact moment, I’m pretty sure a person can’t expect anything greater than what I’m feeling.
And then he ducks behind another van, switches lanes into the far left before I can even get close enough. I’m mouthing goodbyes because I can’t talk I’m so out of breath.
Then he’s nowhere to be seen, two, three, four cars ahead.
I’m waving goodbye, slowing the SUV down, I’m asking you what you think. Who won and who lost? And really, would you be stupid enough to think that I did anything other than let my pet win? This isn’t merely for pleasure; I’m training my pet. And he’s doing oh, so well.
To the next juncture and lesson, my pet. I can only be satisfied when he’s doing exactly what I tell him. I’m looking in the backseat.
“Gross. You’re going to have to bleach the hell out of the upholstery.”
Bodily fluids rarely carry the kind of aroma you’d be fine with keeping around; most of it has to do with the acridness that carries the unconscious fact that it came from something living. It’s why bodily fluids are so curious; when ingested you are taking in something that belongs to another.
When it is shed, it’s someone marking it as theirs.
Whether they intend to or not, spilled fluid is a mark left with the scent of another.
It begins to rain softly, but I wait until exhaustion hits to switch on the windshield wipers.
The assistants are silent in the back. I’m reaching for the camera—don’t you want to see me one last time before the episode’s over? I’m hearing nothing the gentle press of a few piano keys, tracing the gentile music to its source. It’s coming from the SUV’s speakers.
Part of the transition. Music to accompany this episode’s ending credits.
This is the calm before the next storm. It fades to black with breathless ease.
Data recorded.
3.
What is this, what is that? Look at the camera.
Doesn’t she look familiar? It’s because today, we’ll be interviewing the star of the show, the center of the mystery, Claire Wilkinson! [Audience chatter] No, no—not the Clair,e but rather, we will speak to a number of individuals that claim to be Claire’s spitting image. They believe to carry the same characteristics, and, what’s more, they believe that they have done some of what Claire has done.
[More audience chatter] That’s right!
We’ll get a first-hand glimpse at Claire’s greatest fans.
We’ll get to ask the questions we’ve been wanting to ask.
We’ll peer into the boundless psyche of a mystery all its own.
All this and more after the commercial break!
[Commercial break] During the commercial break, glimpse a trailer for a surrealistic thriller, a commercial for another network television show, and a featured spot for the upcoming high definition season one release of the mystery, complete with the now infamous shot of Claire as its cover art.
[Back to show] [Audience applause]
And we’re back with four of the most unusual and captivating guests we’ve interviewed.
Say hello to our assortment of Claires!
[Audience greeting]
Who’d like to go first?
—I will.
Now there’s a courageous one.
—What are you getting at? We’re not courageous?
No, no—I’m not saying that.
—You were implying it.
—Yeah he was.
If there were any unintended implications, I apologize but, well, let’s just get right down to the interview.
—I’d like to interview you.
—Me too.
—I think it would be appropriate if all four of us ask this man some questions.
—My first one would be, why that suit and not any other suit? You chose the worst possible suit to wear and I’m beginning to think that maybe you’ve always worn the same shitty suits.
I. . .umm. . .wear what wardrobe provides.
—Seems a lot is wrong with the way the camera is being run.
—Someone’s got to clean the lens.
—Why are you talking like that?
I. . .I’m talking like I always talk.
—I’m thinking you’re talking like that because you have confidence issues. You don’t seem to be high up on the confidence chart.
—Yup.
—Not a single ounce of fight in the guy.
—Couldn’t even hold a knife right to save his life.
I. . .
—Who’s got a knife with them?
—Yeah, let’s see if he can.
—What’s he doing?
—Show’s off the air.
—Couldn’t take the heat?
—We’re just being ourselves.
—Can’t be anything but who we are.
—I’m sure of myself. Are you?
[Off air] View the static image that reads, “The show must go on, but ‘SORRY’—we’re currently experiencing technical difficulties. ‘STANDBY.’”]
—How long is a viewer expected to really “standby?”
—I’d switch channels.
—I’d go watch something else.
—I know we would, but they wouldn’t.
—They want to watch me.
—You mean me.
—No I’m talking about me.
—You’re both confused. The camera’s on me.
[Producer’s voice] Please, ladies, we can’t go back on air until there is some sense of order.
—Seems fine to me.
Please understand that you cannot verbally attack the host of this show.
—I’m not doing anything to the guy.
—He’s disgusting.
—Kind of guy I wouldn’t dare even look at much less talk to at a party.
—Parties are full of them.
—We’re in agreement there.
The show will not go on until I have unanimous agreement between the lot of you:
No heckling, no verbally attacking the host of this show!
[Camera flickers back on]
—I don’t think so.
[Producer’s voice] Who may I ask is speaking?
—You know who.
[Producer into headset] Get her on camera. Who needs these fakes if we’ve got the real deal!
[Host chimes in] Everyone, please give a round of applause for our surprise gues—
—Save it. I don’t approve of what’s going on here.
I. . .apologize. [Host looks more than a little anxious from the pressure, practiced cool gone]
—No, I think I’ll be paying more attention at what goes on behind the camera.
[Producer chimes in] Excuse me?
—[To the host] You’ve been written out of the narrative. Before you can say anything, save it.
This is no longer the place for it.
I’m going to have you disappear. There’s got to be a mystery or else no one would be watching. From this point on, audience, speak up. If you expect to understand reality, you’ve got to embrace the mystery. No more letting transcripts and audience-cues give you the blues.
You’re involved. Speak up. Your involvement helps make me beautiful.
4.
The camera captures everything but the feel of night air against skin, the smell of burning rubber, the bloodcurdling screams of my nubile assistants here. The not-quite Claires.
Come as you are. We’re merely getting to know each other. I’m sure you, yes you, watching would like to think you know a thing or two about me. If I gave you my body, what would you stimulate first? Do you think I like my nipples bitten, my asshole licked? What’s your fetish? The camera sees all. And if it doesn’t, it’ll be the most patient one of all. Eventually you’ll start to treat me as your own; I’ll play a part in your own fantasy. I’ll feel real to the touch in the context of your wet dream. I’ll make you young again. Boys and girls, we’ll need no bedsheets.
We keep the lights on.
For all to see. No reason to be ashamed.
And as night becomes day, I want you to understand something.
You’ve been watching the entire time.
Lives aren’t shared, they’re stolen.
1.
I drove down a narrow dirt road by daylight.
Couldn’t see due to the glare, but the real world was on my side.
He wasn’t there, you see. He wasn’t there.
Second time it’s happened. Death row doesn’t last forever.
So we had to make up for it.
My pet needs someone else to kill. And I can’t let all my exes die by other hands.
Down this road and a right turn, we’ll see a house. We’ll see a barn.
We’ll see a man. The Candy Man’s brother. Not much of anything, frankly.
But he’ll have to do.
The executioner can take Candy Man’s life.
Only I can take a legacy.
2.
I’m quickly finding out that just because you’re related to a killer, it doesn’t mean you have it in you to do the same. He’s a stutterer. When he sees us, he can’t get a word out.
I already know his name.
I already know what we’re doing here.
I already know how it’ll all play out.
A few basic facts: His name is Jeff. He’s the older of the two. The Candy Man, as he was called, his younger brother, I started him after his second kill. He always had a sweet tooth and I sweetened him up so that he couldn’t have a lick without taking a life too.
Weren’t really lives to him though.
I’m thinking Candy Man thought of this as a sugar-coated dream.
He came from a lackluster lineage. Lineage with generations of schizophrenia.
I’m thinking I stayed with Candy Man because he was just so fucking funny.
He knew how to make me laugh. O
h, the things he’d do to them. I’d laugh for hours.
One time I laughed for days.
I’m thinking I should be ashamed of my time with Candy Man, but I wasn’t. I’d still watch the footage I’ve kept of him. Back then he was unquenchable.
He’d lick just to lick. Didn’t matter how dirty of a situation it was, he’d lick.
I fell for humor. I’m not proud of it.
Another fact to add: Jeff will be the last of the family to go.
I won’t even do much of anything. It’s the assistants that’ll be combing the haystacks for the mother hiding, fighting off the father with a pitchfork.
We have the weapons in the SUV.
Might as well use them. It’s why we walk the way we walk. It’s why the assistants don’t talk when Jeff shows up, intrigued to see us. Don’t be fooled: He acts like he knows us but really he’s never seen us before. He doesn’t look very much like his brother. That’s a shame.
But not like it would have made a difference. It’ll still end the way it’s supposed to end. I would have liked to have Jeff be a bit more representative of his sibling. That way the mystery could have been upheld. Oh well. Hear me now:
It’s going to happen and that’s all there is to it.
So get on with it. I’m walking faster.
“Keep up,” I’m shouting to the assistants.
“You’ve got a lot to do,” I’m also saying that they shouldn’t be wearing so many clothes. I’m down to my underwear. My pale skin’s going to tan a little bit. Would you like to see darker skin?
Leave it to the mystery to be blunt when you least expect it.
So we’re beginning to realize how hot it can get this far away from the interstate.
So I’m already getting tired of Jeff.
Things are said.
I’m not saying them.
I’m walking. Doing nothing more than that.
It’s worth feeling a little sorry for Jeff.
Jeff’s oblivious, and more than a little naïve. Do you feel sorry for the guy?
No? I’m thinking we need a little more camera time before things heat up. Enough of bright light on bare skin, look at the victim. Dossier on victimization and what it means to watch as a victim completes his part.
My Pet Serial Killer Page 22