Your legacy—I haven’t said your name and I won’t say it, no, not ever, not until you begin to understand why. Why? Why I do the things I do. Why I chose you instead of another serial killer. You’ve killed enough to count on one hand. Normally that’s nothing to brag about, and yet, have you listened? Have you heard?
The media has begun to pick up on what you’re doing.
This is my work. You should understand that. And I know you do, and yet you resist. You toy with her, one of my assistants, because you’re frustrated.
You go against my wishes, my commands, like you think you’re the one that’s right. That’s confidence. It’s the fight, I get it. I’m able to understand what you’re doing.
My pet, my dear pet. . .
You’re young. You’re maybe concerned that you have no control in our relationship.
This, I also understand.
You can go ahead and say that you’re a part of me. We’re making the mystery possible, blurring the lines and letting the blood flow. So then why must you resist when I ask you about your reply?
Maybe it’s hard to stomach. You’re new, but you’re a natural.
You’ve listened and you’ve loved. They want to be like me, but that doesn’t mean you can.
You understand, don’t you?
Then why won’t you tell me why, why you didn’t follow my command?
You were so perfect. . .
Why did I just say that?
This troubles me.
We’re perfect for each other, and then you do something like this.
And make me say something like that.
Okay. Okay, I’ll be the first to admit it:
I’m concerned. I am. I’m frustrated. The moment when the first blemish appears, when a new and idyllic love begins to age, and with age you start to see the wrinkles, it’s the moment reality strikes.
Gravity—and you know what, me and my two assistants, we’re beautiful.
We know what we want. They want what I want. They talk like I talk.
And they’re going to hear about this, my disappointment in you.
And I also don’t want to talk about it. But I also do.
And I want to just forget it all.
I want to feel something else.
I’m at once insulted and indifferent. I want to tell you, but I also don’t want to tell you.
I want you to be everything you can be, yet this little blemish makes me reconsider the entire thing. Your training, this study. I couldn’t care less about anyone else but myself. Then why am I so upset? So conflicted?
This is so uncharacteristic of me. . .
I’m ditching the SUV. I’m getting a different car. You won’t even know. You won’t know where we are, only where you need to go. I’m tired of talking about this.
We’re going to get lost for a while.
The only people that’ll know are those that bother to listen and watch.
But I won’t be able to really be myself. I’ll be preoccupied with the thought. The one thought. The one thing that keeps me from being able to forgive you.
A master disappointed with her pet is not much of a master at all.
Fuck it. I’m not going to think about this.
I think it’s time for some fun.
2.
We were always listening, you know.
I heard him running back to the front counter as we left the back room of the quick stop. He had listened. Of course he listened. Look at him, he’s just like my pet: so curious, so willing, so horny, and yet so oblivious to command.
Might he be a replacement?
I’m walking up to him and doing exactly what I usually do to make it clear to him that I might, and I’m willing, but only if he’s my type.
What I’m saying is, are you my type?
They walk the other aisles while I’m walking right to him. In this moment, he’s the only thing that matters to me. He’s not you, and I let the camera capture everything in such a way that you’ll know, my pet, that you can be replaced. You are being replaced.
How does that make you feel?
You’re mine.
I’ll say when it’s over.
I’ll also say that I’m not bothered about it at all. No—you’ll soon feel everything I’ve felt.
Right ladies?
“He’s going to hurt so bad,” says Claire, brushing a strand of her dark brown hair over her left ear. “Mmhmm,” says Claire, who has her blonde hair still in a mess, makeup smudged, from our little confrontation. That’s the past and I’m thinking my pet might soon want to remedy what’s already happening.
Someone else might say that this is just an argument.
People in relationships have arguments.
I’m thinking that’s too general of a statement. If there’s an argument, something must have happened. Guess what? Something has definitely happened. I tried to let it go, but in trying to do that, to give him the benefit of the doubt, I’ve lost sight of why I did that.
And now I don’t understand.
I’ve given him everything. There was one condition and one condition only, but if you look back at the data, it went well until it all went wrong.
Maybe you’re watching and thinking I’m exaggerating.
To that I’m going to ask: Have you ever really given yourself to someone, not just your affection and your body and your loyalty, but also your wisdom, your life, sharing your entire existence with someone else? Did you say yes?
Fine, then I ask: Has that person ever stolen what you gave them without a second’s thought? Yes? No? If you answered yes, you understand why I’m doing this.
Why, we’re going to have a little fun with the kid.
I don’t want to think about him.
So the kid is easy, easy enough to render him vulnerable.
Easy enough. He thinks I find him attractive.
I’m thinking about nobody at all. I’m thinking about only wanting to have fun. I want to feel something else. Fuck the study; fuck what I’m feeling.
I just want to feel something.
I want to feel good.
So then I’ve got the fireworks.
They know what I’m thinking, starting with the silly string, draping the entire quick stop with different colors. In no time, the camera captures the kind of scene you probably wanted.
There are explosions. Fireworks detonated in microwaves, in cash registers, and wrapped around propane tanks will do that. But then he had to get involved, didn’t he?
Walking in like nothing’s happened.
My pet, deep in that fantasy of his, asking for water, asking for gas, “I want to fill this, with that, gasoline, okay?” He acts like it’s not his fault, coupe going bad and having to walk the entire way. He acts like he is the victim in all this. I’m about to jump up from behind the counter where we’re hiding, but I don’t. Instead, we’re filming. Instead I fixate on stuffing the kid’s pants with fireworks while stroking his erect penis. I’m doing this because it’s hilarious. In this moment, I’m all compulsion. I fixate on now, forgetting what I’ll have to think about later.
My pet’s asking for a cab to be called.
My pet’s lingering around like he’s mocking me.
Like he’s trying to punish me. Punish me.
And when he walks around and waits for the cab to arrive, I begin to wonder if he even knows I’m here. Got it all on camera.
You see it right? Does he look like he’s aware or not?
Didn’t think so. So then I’m starting to get excited. I really might be overreacting.
The excitement makes me stroke the kid faster, he can barely contain himself. Didn’t expect the kid to be anything more than another one, someone without a single ounce of fight in him. An erection is just an erection. This is all face-value to him; kid’s got no understanding of subtlety, of the undertones being cast across the entire scene.
He’s got a big part in this.
Lucky for him, we’re going to put him out of h
is misery.
When my pet finally leaves, there’ll be fireworks.
We’ll call it a robbery, yes.
But really, we do this because I want to.
I do this because I can.
Wasn’t part of the study. There’s no data to record.
But for the moment I’m happy and it has everything to do with the fact that I don’t know.
We’re just having a little fun, filling holes with a few explosions.
Letting fireworks fill the sky at daylight.
Nothing wrong with that, huh?
Got to let the mystery roam free a little bit.
3.
Hi Claire.
Hey Claire.
How’s it going?
I’ve been better.
Do you want to talk about it?
What do you think?
Sure, I understand.
Do you?
Of course I do. I feel like I’m partly responsible. I mean, I did try to. . .you know.
Well, that was beside the point. It had been bubbling under the surface for the last fifty miles or so.
Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?
Talked to the audience already. Got it all in the form of a confessional.
He probably has no clue that anything’s wrong.
Maybe.
He means well. I really think he does.
I’m not so sure.
Why?
What do you care?
I’m Claire.
I’m Claire.
Well I’m Claire too.
That’s right. Yeah, yeah, you’re Claire.
I want to apologize.
Apology accepted.
Umm. . .
What?
Do you want to go somewhere?
Huh?
It’s just. . .I’m getting a weird vibe from all this.
Me too. This isn’t going the way I initially expected.
Maybe he just wants to impress you.
Yeah, that’s what they’re all saying.
The audience is right, you know. I think he’s trying to be the gimmick.
What gimmick?
See, I was going to say the same thing. I don’t understand what he’s supposed to be. I mean fully, as a serial killer to remember.
Well, he’s not there yet. I’m not ready to tell him of his true potential.
Maybe it’s because he hasn’t been given enough guidance that he’s acting this way. . .I mean, I’m just saying. Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not getting you wrong.
But hey—that was fun now, right?
Yes, it was fun.
I can’t stand to see you this way, Claire.
I’m thinking it’s because you feel what I feel.
Yeah. We’re both broken up inside.
I get it. Hmm. . .
Does it get any easier?
You’ll give, and then right when you think they appreciate you, something like this happens.
Yeah. . .
Hey Claire?
Yeah?
Let’s get out of here.
Sure.
Get Claire. We’re going for a ride. . .
4.
The taste of something sweet can help wipe away what you can’t help but see.
Person that could have been an eight but is instead a six because his nose is too big, his penis is too small, and/or he has a lack of confidence that makes it hard to even talk to the guy. Look at this employee, she’s straight out of some talent agency. Think: Teenage female working at yogurt store to save up for summer vacation and you’ll get an image. Stick to that image.
It’s better than what the camera’s seeing.
We’re in the middle somewhere—where are we again? Maryland?—and we want something sweet. So I’m doing my best to think of anything but what’s really happening here.
To that you’ll probably think: What do you mean? You’re at a yogurt shop, place where you weigh the yogurt after you custom fix it with your own toppings. That kind of useless diversion that works for areas like these, where there’s nothing to do and everyone’s looking to get away from their thoughts, their problems, their relationships, for at least fifteen minutes.
They turn to sugar long before they turn to alcohol and other substances.
I want to taste something sweet.
But in order for this to work for me, I’m getting my assistants to create the story.
For the mystery to work, here’s the backdrop. Forget all about the fact that we’re nowhere and I’m doing this to try to forget about him for an hour or two.
Forget all that. This is a scene that’s all about impact.
It’ll be enjoyable as long as the facts are clear:
We’re here to buy something sweet.
Think beyond the lines, under the belt. Lick of the finger, giggle, moan, etc.
I’m thinking we’ve got the entire audience on my level.
Right?
“Right, Claire.”
“You’re so right, Claire.”
That’s what I thought.
Here’s what I’m imagining:
It’s a frozen yogurt chain, sure, but the owner has a backdoor operation.
Every archetypal employee at these places are young females. It’s not odd until you let the mystery have its way.
So I’m thinking it’s a prostitution ring.
And the girls are involved too.
They are willing.
They’re willing because they want to be able to pay for vacations, for Spring Break, whatever. Fickle, but immediately realized motivations.
So then, when we’re doing what we’re doing and my pet walks in, he’s as clueless as ever and I’m enjoying every damned moment.
It’s all such bullshit but it’s a beautiful pile of dirt.
I’m laughing, so they’re laughing too.
And when he says what he says, he’s suddenly mine again.
Mine because he didn’t mean to say it but somehow, I’m in his head as much as he wanted to be in mine. This is all about favor, all about control.
He says: “I’d like my snack with a blowjob on the side, please.”
It’s absurd and absolutely part of the mystery.
He’s clueless and even ashamed. I caught him in the moment of his own fantasy.
And I’m delighted.
This proves something but I don’t know what, exactly.
The scene’s my counter for his arrogance. I’m wanting to break it open, the entire scene, and walk right down the middle, slap him across the face and say:
“What were you thinking?”
He’s young. He’s stupid. He’s a genius.
I’m different but he’s capable of so much more.
Really?
Would you really think it’s true? Threatened by my pet? Pet threatens master?
I’m laughing, so they’re laughing too.
We’re laughing at the gossip.
Has nothing at all to do with that. I’m not going to lose him.
No way. He thinks I’m perfect; he thinks we’re perfect. We’re masters, and serial killers like him need masters if they’re going to make anything of their legacy.
Fuck it—I don’t have to explain it to you!
Jump cut to when the employees start screaming because, you fill in the blank:
a) They’re being gutted.
b) They’re being raped.
c) They’re being gutted and raped. Or vice versa (one’s more typical, the other is more necrophilia.)
d) You’re a part of this: You’ve already conjured up your own conclusions.
I’ve got mine and to that one idea that’s starting to get around. . .
No, nothing’s changed.
5.
Riddles and rhymes, I’ve got nothing but time.
Sticks and stones may break my bones. . .
But your threats are nothing but whispers.
Cock a doodle do. . .
&
nbsp; The camera sees you.
Roses are red and violets are blue. . .
The mystery’s a murder that might just include you.
Okay fuck this too. Waste of time. None of them work.
Just shows you how stupid these things really are.
Nothing’s really honest if they aren’t your own words. What am I getting at?
I’m saying quit the rumors and keep watching.
Nothing’s lost when you begin to understand that this, everything that’s happening, scene for scene, is because of me. It’s mine. And, you know what, because you’re watching and truly invested, it’s probably right to say that you’re mine too.
So don’t make those kinds of assumptions.
Don’t spread those kinds of lies.
Just because you can’t remember when, doesn’t mean I can’t.
With no effort at all, I’d prove it to every single one of you.
And then you’d be the one who’s torn up, seeing what I’ve always seen:
I’m capable. I could have done this all on my own.
You’d realize that I’m right. You really are mine.
I’ve seen as much of you as you’ve seen of me.
Wave to the camera.
Now sit down and shut up.
I’ve had better days. Way better scenes.
Why can’t a girl have a bad day?
Data erased.
You’ll believe anything as long as it makes you feel better.
1.
I’m my own person. Always have been and always will. I’m able to turn off the camera and not need to turn it on again moments later. A master can be without a pet. I’m sure of it. I’m not loading in another tape and I’m not going to save the live stream. So then it’s all about this moment; it’s all about the candidness of a live broadcast. To watch this live, you had to pay. But I’m beginning to think you already paid for all-access, didn’t you?
This is the stuff that he won’t get to see.
That’s how it works.
“Yeah, that’s how it works.”
“Mmhmm.”
Thanks girls. They’re there for me when I need them.
What I’m asking you is—
Are you watching?
Are you still in doubt of what I can do?
Are you still thinking there can’t be anything better than this?
My Pet Serial Killer Page 25