My Pet Serial Killer

by Michael J Seidlinger

  So I’ll go ahead and continue my lecture then.

  You see, Scott earned the “Slaughter” part via the way he dismantled his victim’s bodies with surgical precision. He’d cut each and remove them like a surgeon. He was training to be one, after all, and it became his gimmick (and later his obsession) exploring how much can be removed before crossing the line and seeing the victim die.

  It was more for effect until, well yeah, he started doing it less for the game, the thrill, and more for some far off idea that I couldn’t understand.

  But who had to clean up the bodies?

  Who had to make it so that we were invisible?

  Who explained how crime works, how anything criminal can be more popular and memorable than anything civil?

  He wanted to be invisible.

  Too bad he didn’t think clearly enough to understand what that meant.

  Invisible.

  If you’re invisible, you are alone.

  You can’t be invisible without expecting to leave me, and I’m kind of wondering if he ever figured out why what we had ended. It wasn’t because he lost interest in me, became less loyal; it was because I became a source, something to rely on, and nothing more. He did what I wanted him to do, but he no longer wanted to do it. When I commanded him, he was obedient but dead.

  The fight had faltered.

  Shit, it’s getting hot in here.

  “Turn up the air conditioning,” I’m telling one of the assistants.

  Knives up.

  I tell him to make the first incision.

  “Cut where you think it’ll make me happy.”

  4.

  This here, I’m lecturing, holding the scalpel over Scott’s forehead, cutting thin lines, just enough to draw blood. You cut here and he won’t be able to blink anymore.

  My pet went for the stomach, and that’s fine, but I warned him: It’s a sweet spot.

  The whole midsection of the human body is where you have to be extra careful.

  We want Scott to feel this.

  This is his physical.

  His last hurrah: As a victim he must be completely and wholly victimized according to the manner in which he dispatched his own. During his time.

  We must do him some justice, you know?

  Sure as hell can’t stand the guy, not anymore. His smell is enough to annoy but you see, you’re here with me, my pet, and so what we do is what we have to do to make it better for you.

  Your legacy.

  So cutting here, good. Cut evenly. Good.

  You’ve got a steady hand. That’s good.

  Cutting there and also here, I’m pointing at the upper eyelid; will make it impossible for him to see for any longer than it takes for his eyeballs to dry out.

  It’ll be pain and discomfort before things get worse enough to have him focus his attention on something else. Cut right there to make it seem worse than it actually is.

  Good.

  There was never any doubt, huh girls?

  “Not at all,” says one.

  “No Claire, no doubt about it,” says the other.

  Sometimes you really got to use the girls to make a point.

  Control the blood flow. Make sure to have it splatter across the sides, not on the body or else it’ll be a pain in the ass as we start cutting deeper.

  There we go.

  Now over there, yeah, you see it? Right there.

  Lift the skin. Careful now.

  Okay. . .umm.

  Here, let me do it. Just watch.

  See how the skin doesn’t quite separate from the muscle? When you do this, you’ll have to pull everything up from the skull.

  You get used to hearing them scream.

  I’m sure you haven’t gotten to that point yet, huh?

  Didn’t think so. I can tell. You wince when they get loud and you react when they beg. That should all be white noise while you enjoy the act.

  The act is what matters most.

  With that removed—here you can go ahead and place it on the table over there—you’ll notice that his eyes are unfocused. Don’t be deterred, we’re not done with the face yet.

  I’ll let you cut where I’ve drawn the lines.

  I’m going to work on another area of the body.

  No, that’s correct, cut that line. Don’t worry about how deep you go. You’ll know when you’ve gone too far. You’ll hit bone. You’ll probably see him wince.

  Yeah, just have at it.

  Fun, huh?

  That’s my pet.

  5.

  Oh, it looks like he’s starting to pass out. Inject this into the muscle of his arm, any muscle will do, bicep is best, to keep him awake. We want him awake for this. Got it all cut?

  Great—go ahead and remove it.

  You can see his jawbone.

  Now we’re going to start removing extremities.

  Scott used to break an arm or leg before removal.

  Do you want to break or cut?

  You want to do both?

  You know just the right thing to say, don’t you?

  Mmm, fine. “Ladies, the sledgehammers.”

  “Scotty, this is going to hurt a bit, okay?”

  I’ll target the right leg; you go for the left.

  We’ll do this on three, okay?

  One.

  Two. . .

  Three—ouch, close but we need a bit more.

  “Poor Scotty. Just think of your number. How many did you dispose of, wasn’t it—oh I don’t know—thirty? So yours won’t be nearly as big of a deal. Everything we’re doing, we’re doing in your image. So Scotty, why not enjoy it, hmm? Enjoy the pain. Not everybody gets to be immortalized in someone’s legacy.”

  Again, on three.

  One.

  Two. . .

  Three—there we go. Now looks like they’re both broken. Shattered, actually. So what happens next needs to be precise. We can’t make any mistakes.

  “Someone get me the bone saw.”

  You can watch.

  Don’t look away now, my pet.

  If it isn’t a rule, it should be:

  Never censor the best part of the kill.

  Keep the camera right on the action. They always cut or fade when it comes time for the payoff. But not this time. We’ll watch. You’re already watching.

  I’ve always hated the sound of the bone saw.

  Such a shrill obnoxious kind of thing, buzzing in a way that you can’t ever imagine. It’s what still gives me goose bumps. But this thing really does a great job. See, I’m not going to cut where the fracture is; I’m cutting right above the fracture.

  Right where the bone is broken, but still attached.

  This will take a moment. . .

  There.

  He isn’t making a sound.

  “Hey girls, check to see if Scott’s conscious.”

  Watch as they both scramble to check his pulse.

  “Well?”

  He’s alive. Barely.

  “Good enough,” I’m saying as I hold up the bone saw.

  “Want to try?”

  Of course my pet says yes.

  That’s a good cut.

  I’m holding up the bone saw, “Someone take this,” and I’m moving on to show him how we’ll cut into his chest.

  Now most of the organs, if removed, will quickly result in failure.

  Scott will die.

  My question to you then is, which shall be removed?

  This? That? Scott removed the brain. That was his. He didn’t listen to me.

  If you ask me, I’d remove what he’d miss the most.

  These are the kinds of things I’m interested in teaching you. It’s the small things—not the broad strokes—that need to be taught. Subtlety not sanctity. You’ve got the basics down. You’re a natural. You never needed to be taught the basics. You’ve got a good stomach; no nausea or vertigo when it comes time to deliver the act. I’m impressed. I really am. There’s a whole city to explore, and we’ll explore it
together. My jealousy was out of my affection and loyalty for you. Master needs her pet, after all. I’m not going to be able to continue the way I’d like if I didn’t have you with me. What we have borders any body; what we do will be remembered as a whole.

  We look into each other’s eyes.

  I hand him the scalpel. “Ladies, give him some room.”

  We leave the room, tending to other aspects of the kill. What I’ve left him you’ll see. What he’ll do, is between you and him. I’ve let him mark it as his own.

  I ask him, which will you choose?

  The camera will spread the word.

  My pet, I’ll give you the option.

  Go ahead and choose.

  6.

  I can ask you, I can ask him, but I won’t. I already know what he chose.

  There’s only one way to truly express ourselves and it’s by marking what we, up until now, haven’t been able to find. So he removes what I had lived without until I found him, my perfect pet. He removes the heart, because I’m not quite sure I had one. I’m not quite sure I cared about much, save for the fight. For the fight to be more desirable, I needed to understand what it’s like to lose it all—to feel absolutely nothing—in order to appreciate a fighter.

  We get what we want, but we’re also the ones that keep us from getting there.

  It could be so easy. I could have found him right from the start.

  Truth is, he was just a teacher’s assistant.

  He was there, in my classes, and was there, as one of my own, but I hadn’t let it settle. I noticed but never bothered, favoring the established killer, the killer with a flavor, the ones that had begun to tap into the fight in order to be fully featured. I looked there instead of looking directly in front of me. And when I did, I had made so many mistakes.

  This is what we’re doing.

  We’re fixing what I did.

  My pet, there can only be one of you. No one can ever know what I gave them.

  My failures, my exes, cease to exist.

  I kept myself from being found.

  It took me this long to figure that out.

  We’ll wrap up the body parts and freeze them. We’ll tend to the mess that was once the feared serial killer, Scott the Slaughter.

  But one thing I will take with me is the heart.

  The authorities will not find the heart.

  7.

  You probably want to know, right?

  What it takes to kill?

  What it feels like to pull the trigger and see the body fall to the ground?

  Understandable, and honestly, for a long time, I couldn’t think of anything else. I imagined what it might feel like. I made love to the idea, made it more than it could ever be. There might be something in this, reason why it took so many to get to him, and why I need him so much more than I need myself.

  But, you know, it’s a mess.

  We could have avoided the mess; we would have killed him with little to no trouble. There is an art to manslaughter, and it’s often about quickness and efficiency.

  For instance, you can simply inject a poison. The stronger the better. It’s a silent killer. No one will suspect the seizure or other reactions to the poison to be yours. Sodium thiopental is the most effective, not that just anyone can get a hold of the chemical. But you get the idea.

  Another would be to enact a situation where the target explodes, typically not by way of just exploding, but rather in relation to something else around the body exploding and, as a result, the body is broken apart and rendered obsolete at the same time. This is expensive but utterly satisfying. Not very practical, sure, but it’ll be tough to find the body.

  I’m thinking the easiest is also the most “natural,” if murder is something you’d admit as a natural act. It’s been around since life began. Life’s sole counterpoint is death. Perhaps murder is the opposite of mystery. It’s obvious. It is final.

  A gun will deal the best results. It’s not as impactful and not as gruesome. You’re probably thinking that it’s a predictable answer, but fact of the matter is that it’s true.

  Killing a person swiftly means aiming for the head and pulling the trigger.

  More effective than shooting them in the head is hitting them in the heart. Hit them with a shot right where it matters most, the one organ that makes any of this possible, and they’re dead before their body can hit the ground.

  Even more effective is not listing out effective ways to kill. Manslaughter is an act with reason, a motivation underneath. I’m sure as hell that few would bother to go through with it if they didn’t have something imbedded, something that enforces reason or defies it. There needs to be a pulse, a prospect, behind the act.

  And that’s why I’m a believer in the slaughter.

  It’s nothing without creativity.

  The creativity is what renders a crime scene worth taking extensive footage of for all to see. Not just those assigned to the case; not just the eleven-o-clock news.

  The scene that defies all other scenes. . .now that’s beautiful. What we have is beautiful.

  And I’m thinking I still want more.

  We always want more. You probably want me to say something else. . .

  This is another confessional. Hmm.

  Well, I’m probably going to step down. Let all you have a chance to watch and react. It’s going to be a great season. Lots will happen in a short amount of time.

  It’s an important season.

  It’s the one that’ll provide a real ending.

  I’m sure they’ll get someone else to speak for the mystery.

  I’m going back to living it.

  Thanks again for continuing to watch.

  “Say it. Speak up.”

  I want you to hear his voice.

  I want the camera to finally catch it, mark it as a moment.

  This is the moment he finally says, “Yes master.”

  And that, my, my—it’s enough for me to climax right here.

  Data recorded.

  We were close once.

  1.

  I drove through the night.

  I drove through an entire day.

  We couldn’t stop. Not even for the tapes we were supposed to leave for each other. We hold onto ours in hopes of getting to watch them later.

  It was because of the house. I had rented it on a whim, forgetting that it would lead the authorities on our tracks. And now, they are four or five cars back, the threat of being spotted so very real. It didn’t stop us then—I drove faster—and it won’t stop us now—I’m driving fast enough to create distance. We’ll get to him in time. My pet and I will need to keep track of our turns, but other than that, what’s one chase, one wrong move when we’re moving so quickly?

  My pet, my perfect little pet, don’t you worry.

  The road might be lengthy and tiring, but we’re almost there.

  Into the phone that becomes our only link, I’m hearing myself say, “We’re almost there.”

  Soon we won’t have anywhere else to go.

  2.

  This is the part where she takes the fall.

  She had blonde hair and I wanted her to keep it the same. No need to change the color. No need to change anything that wasn’t her. All I asked was that she be as close to me as possible.

  Understandably, she tried to replace me, thinking it would be her only escape. I forgave her, and this is why she will do what needs to be done to keep this convertible running.

  I have my pet on the phone, the tapes running thin; the line clear and there for good. Don’t hang up. Don’t pick up any other calls. “We’ll be okay,” is all I have to say to him and he’ll do what needs to be done. And we’ll be okay. There’s never been any doubt.

  He’s not the one being followed.

  This convertible has been marked.

  When the number of squad cars littering the interstate became one too many, I started to get nervous. Both of them, they of course know. They can sense that somethin
g’s about to go wrong.

  I’ll keep driving. That’s what I’ll do.

  I turn up the music—let it drown out any and all potential deceit.

  I won’t have them thinking lesser of me.

  My pet’s not in question here. He’s safe and sound and that’s about as important as anything else. I’m not going to be lost, downed on the side of the fucking road.

  I refuse.

  So listen to this music.

  Nothing’s wrong at all.

  Nope. I’m getting them to sing along.

  “Sing,” why don’t you sing?

  That’s not enough. I’m telling them to dance, “Do it!” We need to look like we’re just any other car, the wrong convertible. Oh, hey officer, guess you got the wrong red convertible. Us? We’re headed for tropical waters. We’re all about getting tanned.

  Maybe I’ll show some skin.

  Pale, porcelain skin. Show him and say something like—don’t you think I need a tan?

  Then have the girls echo my thoughts, what I’m implying, and the officer would forget all about pulling us over. He’ll treat us nice, like he’s at fault, and we’ll continue down the interstate.

  And if not that, I’ve got the cover story.

  Always had the cover story.

  It’ll work, yes—we’re criminologists. The camera? It’s part of the study. Got to gather data somehow. Be more elegant about it. Elegant, seductive—something like that.

  Ugh, I hate this song.

  With the radio off, it’s kind of obvious. It’s left out there, for the three of us to comprehend.

  I guess I’m concerned because I don’t want to have to do what I know needs to be done.

  “You know,” she starts, “we managed to have our clothes match the entire time.”

  I’m nodding. My other assistant replies, “Wardrobe without any malfunctions.”

  Them I’m saying, “I’m not taking the credit on that one. Sometimes the scene falls into place perfectly, and all we have to do is take off the clothes. Never have to put them on.”

  But by the time we reach the next sign, it’s clear, and I’m not telling her because she’s already agreed. I’m saying, “Are you sure?”