My Pet Serial Killer

by Michael J Seidlinger

  “Hello Jeff, smile for the camera.”

  “What you filming?”

  Pointing to the assistants, “I’m filming for a study.”

  “You don’t look like a scientist,” Jeff’s saying with a laugh.

  Right out of some kind of cheesy horror flick, we have Jeff, dim witted and close-minded. He carries the same concepts of normalcy as the most conservative bunch you’ll find. Flip through a book of tropes and archetypes and he’d be in there:

  Typical small town/small minded slasher victim.

  Kind of makes you feel the opposite of sorry. He’s not putting much thought into any of this. He sees attractive females; he’s thinking with his dick, nothing else.

  I’m asking, “What’s your definition of a scientist?”

  The assistants are lost in thought, thinking two steps ahead. They know what they’ll have to do, so get the ChapStick out. Those chapped lips won’t do.

  I’m not interested in his response, and by the looks of it, neither is the audience.

  Skip over the meaningless talk, get right to the last few lines. In the case of getting as much as you give, Jeffy boy isn’t giving much.

  Gets interesting when this line is delivered:

  “Where’s your dad?”

  And then, “In the barn.”

  “And your mom?”

  “She’s bakin’ for breakfast. I dunno what I’m supposta do till breakfast.”

  And then, “How about helping your mom with the cooking?”

  “Dunno how to do that.”

  “Do you know how to do anything?”

  “I’m good at feeding the animals.”

  And then, “What kind of animals do you and your family have?”

  “All kinds.”

  Skip this part because it’s not worth mentioning. No hurting the animals unless the animals hurt you first. I’ve never found any worth in harming them. They know their boundaries better than, say, Jeffy boy here. They’ll leave you to your own business. They understand life and death. More so, an animal tends to their lives like it’s leaning towards the dark end. The big “D.” And no, I’m not talking about dick. I’m sure someone watching would think of it. Maybe it has more to do with you thinking it when you hear “big D” than what’s being said here. A lot can be understood from connotation and what you choose to imagine given the cues.

  I’m full of cues.

  I’m more about giving cues than giving due.

  What are you thinking right now?

  3.

  I’m tired of the heat. More so, I’m tired of how typical this is. Deserted road leads to run down farm leads to a family that’s stuck out of time. Family that might be pulled from some B-movie. They stick out and do nothing for the mystery. You don’t want to see the assistants the way they are now. So shameful. You call that a blowjob? You call that a blow to the head?

  You call that humiliation?

  Seems they’re the ones that are more humiliated. I’m beginning to think that they’re fucking with me. They’ve learned so much and then this happens. One minute they’re obedient and interested in what we’re doing, next minute they’re acting like I kidnapped them. Against their will.

  They want to be Claires don’t they?!

  See how they nod with certainty when I ask them?

  They’re fucking with me. Now it’s up to them to tend to the bodies.

  They’re going to have to try blowing Jeff a second time. They couldn’t even make archetypal dim-witted boy cum. How’s that for pathetic?

  The audience expects better.

  The audience wants to see something definitive.

  How is a dick that won’t get hard definitive?

  I’m ashamed of this. This is a scene that should be left on the cutting room floor. But see the floors covered with bodies and those that should be tending to their removal are too busy clamming up in front of the camera.

  Jeff seems to be completely indifferent to it.

  Forgets all about his dying family in the barn.

  Offers us food.

  I push them out of the way. Pan around the kitchen to see how stereotypical of a kitchen it is. I’ll give you a cue:

  Floral pattern wallpaper.

  It’s time for this to go somewhere.

  Cut to Jeff in the kitchen. Blank-faced. The opposite of someone aroused.

  Cut to us with the father. I’m talking to him like I’m the one bargaining. Really though, it’s the blonde that finally drives the knife into the father’s neck.

  Brunette sits back, holding the camera. Thinks she can get away with not doing much of anything because she’s operating the camera. But I’m aware. Oh, I’m aware.

  Cut to Jeff right as his face contorts in pain.

  Cut back to the barn, mother in tears over the dead father’s body.

  I’m taking the camera from the brunette. No more hiding. She’s right in the center of this.

  “Don’t you want to end her sorrow?” I’m saying, pointing at the mother.

  She’s in tears. She’s been dead a long time. As far as I’m seeing it, the desperation and loneliness got to her decades ago; it’s only now that anyone bothered to kill her.

  Camera zooms in on the mother’s face. Tired eyes and tears, hollow gasps, and the subtle inkling that this isn’t genuine. She’s crying because that’s what people do when someone close to them dies. Does she really feel anything?

  I’m sure if that were a question on some test it would be a no-brainer, a freebie.

  Not that I’d ever put something like that on one of my tests. They’d probably get it wrong, then I’d have to grade on a curve so that it looks like people actually learn something.

  Cut back to the brunette.

  “Yes you are,” I’m saying.

  She’s going to, or she’s going to be the one with the gun in her mouth.

  Cut back to Jeff, wincing in pain. A little bit of blood.

  Apparently he bit his lip. No—no one’s hurt him yet. Kind of expected it to be something else, didn’t you? I’m all about making it more interesting. More interesting means more fun. My pet likes to be fully engrossed in the scene. You like seeing how it works, shot for shot, don’t you?

  Cut back to the brunette, gun in hand.

  I’m saying, “If you don’t do it now I’m going to take that gun and if I take that gun you know exactly where it’s going.”

  So what else is she going to do?

  She pulls the trigger. It makes a loud enough sound to mess with the audio levels of the camera, a crackling muted sound, before it fades.

  I’m standing there, looking.

  Brunette is standing there, frozen in place, gun still aimed at the now useless sight.

  Blonde is looking away, mostly out of boredom. I catch her holding something but we’re cutting to the next shot before I can have a look.

  Cut back to the kitchen. Jeff eating.

  Someone under the table.

  Make that two.

  “It’s not a popsicle.”

  Jeff is amused.

  4.

  So audience, what shall we call him, hmm?

  Speak up! I can’t hear you!

  That’s better. Our man here is privy to a number of things he hasn’t yet done. But with the help of my assistants, he will get off. He will feel what it feels like to blow his load.

  Our man here, you want to be a man don’t you?

  [Jeff response]

  He says he doesn’t know. What’s that supposed to mean?

  The audience wants to know!

  Okay—here’s what we’re going to do, Jeffy boy.

  First—don’t move.

  Good. The audience is watching and they know what they want. Don’t fuck up.

  Second—You’re going to meet a man. He’s going to seem pretty normal. He will need help.

  You will help him.

  Understand? Good.

  Hey audience, which would you prefer:

  a) My p
et sees what’s inside the barn

  b) My pet doesn’t see what’s inside the barn

  [Audience poll]

  Looks like it’s done.

  Three—you aren’t going to show him the barn.

  Hear me?

  Good.

  Four—you are going to act like everything’s okay. Everything is okay.

  If you don’t, we’re just around the corner.

  You don’t agree? I’ll make them bite. They’ve got you inside their mouths; all it takes is one bite and. . .

  [Audience gasps]

  Hey audience, what do you think?

  a) I stick around and film my pet interacting with Jeffy boy

  b) We leave and tend to my pet’s broken coupe

  c) We go get some candy somewhere. Or some yogurt. Maybe both

  Looks like we have a tie between (b) and (c).

  Well, this is interesting. I’m sure there’s no reason why we can’t do both.

  Five—We’re watching you, so I expect you to extend the same level of hospitality to him as you did to me. Just because he doesn’t have tits and a vagina doesn’t mean you can’t be civil to the guy.

  Six—You’re going to help him. I can’t stress that enough. For the mystery to work, you need to be yourself. Our presence here mustn’t change a single thing.

  Got me?

  Good.

  Do all this and I won’t chop it off.

  It’s engorged right now. If I were to say, use these hedgers here. . .

  [Audience gasp]

  It’ll be less manhood and more a spout.

  Ever been completely embarrassed in public?

  Didn’t think so.

  You’ll want to be a good boy.

  Or else you’ll be like your brother.

  Didn’t know?

  [Audience laughter]

  Your brother and I were close.

  Didn’t work out but we’ve got a past.

  You could say he’s nothing but the past now.

  [Audience applause]

  [To the blonde] Cover his ears.

  They covered? Okay, before the next scene, I want to share how I’ve designed it.

  See, The Candy Man got his gimmick from how he dealt with his victim’s bodies, not the other way around. He didn’t sell candy and he didn’t have an ice cream truck. I found most of his victims. I’d leave them tied up and gagged and he’d walk in when he’s interested. He’d treat them like friends, playing videogames with them, that kind of thing. But eventually, when he worked himself up, the anticipation killing him, he’d have his meal.

  He wasn’t a cannibal. That’s not really it. He just liked the warmth.

  He liked to use their fingers to scoop up fudge and chocolate pudding.

  He liked how it tasted when you mixed honey and little bit of blood.

  Towards the end, he started eating out of parts of the victim’s body. He drank urine.

  He started exploring without any adherence to the rules I’ve assigned.

  You see, my pet’s going to do just that: He will take Jeff and effortlessly do away with his life.

  Simple shot to the head. The kill itself won’t be interesting.

  He’ll drench Jeff in syrup and eat breakfast using his body as the plate.

  Some of the body will be eaten. But my pet does this because it’s what the Candy Man did.

  I’m seeing what he’s capable of, and perhaps what he’ll fully embody.

  But not yet. We will be patient. For the mystery to work, I can’t just give him a name and show him how he’ll treat each of his victims. He has to learn, and a lot of learning is done by doing.

  I’ll show him right from wrong later.

  Jeffy boy here—you can let go of his ears now—will play an important role!

  Let’s give him a hand!

  [Audience applause]

  Close up shot on Jeff grinning before dissolving into the next shot.

  5.

  We’re somewhere near the gas station when I watch the tape.

  Inhale and exhale, I’d like to push away all assumptions. I’ll watch it while waiting for him to catch up. He’s going to have to walk the entire dirt road and a good few miles on the interstate before he gets here. For it to work, timing is everything.

  So I waited to watch the tape.

  I wanted to have something to look forward to.

  But when I start the tape, it doesn’t begin the way I wanted it to. It doesn’t start with the two of them at the table. It starts with a dirt road.

  It doesn’t have the two of them talking.

  My pet killed Jeff and dragged him in the dirt.

  I say the words like they’re in reaction to something that I’ll never hear again.

  “I love you. . .” I look around and see that the assistants are watching too.

  The blonde seems amused.

  I slap her across the face and tell her to get in the back with the brunette.

  Duct tape. They forced me to do it.

  My pet ruined the kill. Fumbled the entire kill.

  What is this, huh?

  What is this that I’m watching?

  Instead of syrup, there’s just a few close-up shots of a caved in skull, blood caked over the eyes in a sickly dark concoction, looking more like grease than blood.

  My pet walks dragging the body, camera pointed down at the ground.

  I’m watching but I’ve already understood why.

  The reason he did what he did. But no, I’m unwilling to accept it; the ruin is far greater than the reason. Freeze frame on my pet with his one free hand over his face. Every shot is disgust.

  Where’s the rest of the kill?

  This is it?

  This isn’t data.

  I cannot label this “Data Recorded!”

  I pause the tape.

  I play the tape.

  I pause it again.

  I’m looking for something.

  I’m searching for something other than why.

  But the tape is more of the same.

  My pet walking the dirt road alone.

  My pet dragging a body until it is caked in layers of dust and dirt.

  My pet leaving the body like it’ll be there when he gets back.

  My pet clearly aware that I’ll get to the body first.

  And then the camera in his hands makes for a clearer shot.

  What you see: A man fending the heat, the sunlight.

  What I see: My pet knew that the Candy Man shouldn’t have been; he knows that it was my mistake. My mistake to have ever been involved with the Candy Man. My mistake that I let him laugh his way into my life. My mistake that I cultivated such an unmemorable legacy.

  So what does my pet do?

  He treats Jeff like he’s just some guy in the way.

  A bystander that saw what he shouldn’t have seen.

  And what does this tape have anything to do with his training?

  With our relationship? It disgusts me. More so, it shows that he is willing to fight me on this. So egotistical after so few kills. What does this mean?

  I catch her watching from the backseat.

  “What did I tell you to do?!”

  She’s there so I take out the confusion on her.

  When I regain my calm, her face is bruised.

  Her nose bloody. I tell her, “You made me do this!”

  I saw something in her eyes.

  She thinks I made a mistake. And maybe I did. I’d be the first to admit it.

  But not to her. I’m feeling inadequate so I speed up.

  We’re going to get some candy.

  That’s exactly what we’re going to get.

  Candy.

  Yes.

  6.

  Data erased.

  You want what you cannot have.

  1.

  The mystery is a man.

  The mystery is a woman.

  The mystery is you.

  The mystery is that my pet can become anything I’
d like him to become.

  I know him better than anyone else. He is capable, fully capable, of anything you might like to see. More so, I’m quick to point out that he’ll do just about everything to make you uncomfortable. You won’t want to watch, but you won’t be able to look away.

  He won’t be here.

  He’s busy. He’ll always be busy.

  But I’m here, so ask me. If it pleases you, go ahead and ask.

  What would you like to know about him?

  [Audience participation]

  That’s right. It’s your chance to speak.

  So speak up.

  I’m all ears and waiting. Just don’t make me wait for long.

  Answer: He’s smart. Smart as can be. He’s good at adapting. One second he’s innocent and wouldn’t hurt a fly, next second he’s all blades and bullets and ready to go down on me for hours. He doesn’t need to come up for air. Answer: He’s capable of that too, yes. He can rig up bombs. Even if he doesn’t, he can learn and I can teach him. Don’t confuse the lack of explosions as a lack of intensity. We simply prefer intimacy.

  Answer: He’s always been a student, like me. No minimum wage shit. That’s not for us. It would numb me out so much that the fight would be all I’d care for. I had an ex that I supported fully but couldn’t kill. Turns out he only hated his job. He only hated people. Hating people and the act of serial killing are opposites. They don’t need to be involved. In fact, I’d say that to be one of the best, a legacy worth a damn, you’ve got to believe that everyone’s already dead. Nothing, no value to them; just bodies still moving around. It’s how I’ve gotten to see people and it’s how I’m training my pet to think. That way, there’s no preoccupation, no direct hate, or disgust. Save all that for what we share: our bodies, our thoughts, his legacy.

  Answer: He’s got a family like you’ve got a family. And I’ve got one too. What else is there to say? They didn’t do shit about my decisions and I’m sure as hell my pet’s family does nothing but hope that he’ll fit right in and be lost in the crowd like everybody else.

  Answer: No there’s no hope in that regard. I’m thinking it’s kind of a wash actually. The concept of having enough to be okay is absurd. Getting comfortable is impossible. Getting comfortable sucks the fight right out of you. If you’re a fighter, you won’t be able to do the five-day-a-week grind. It’s barely enough for me to do this academia garbage. But I’m going with it, the bare minimum, always the bare minimum; no one deserves any better except for those that keep you fighting. Moment you fucking give in is the moment you start dying.