My Pet Serial Killer

by Michael J Seidlinger

  Again, she agrees.

  “Someone’s got to stay interested,” she says as she begins to remove her clothes. My other assistant films the undressing, capturing the urgency alongside the quick look at her curves. Is the audience interested? That shouldn’t be in question.

  Not to worry: The camera will never cease to be a part of this.

  Leave the worry to me.

  She puts on something else, a dress, something that I hadn’t planned on wearing.

  I speed up in order to pass the car to my right.

  Once I’m in the right lane, I’m looking at her. She seems so calm.

  I’ll give her a moment, or two. But eventually it’ll have to happen. She’ll take the wheel. She’ll drop us off at the next rest stop. My one remaining assistant and I will go inside, seeking food despite having no appetite. I’ll walk back outside the moment she pulls out of the parking space, the convertible visible as it rejoins the momentum of the interstate.

  I’ll see the car, the one that followed me, taking the bait.

  This will happen so smoothly, it’ll seem like it was scripted.

  My assistant will ask the one question on the audience’s mind:

  “Aren’t you worried she’ll say something?”

  To that I’ll say with ease, “She’s not going to get far.”

  She has less than a fourth left in the tank and she’ll drive approximately a mile and a half down the interstate before finding the right sacrificial vehicle.

  Doesn’t take a whole lot to flip the convertible at that speed. Danger drives easy and well at 95MPH. She’ll angle in on the turn just enough. She’ll lead them to a dead end, and what they’ll end up with is another mess to clean up. You would have seen it if you’d been there.

  She did it for me. She did it for us.

  Down and out, we’re aiming for the aftermath. I can almost see it.

  This’ll end how I want it to end. You’ll see.

  Maybe she’ll talk about it later.

  3.

  This is the part where my pet takes to the back roads so that he can visit the Villain. Phone with him at all times. Even though I can’t be there, I’m listening.

  I’m listening as we pick up speed, renting a car that’ll never be returned. I’m listening as we buy another camera, one that uses the same tapes. I’m listening as we plot out an alternate path to where we need to be a few hours from now.

  I’m listening the entire time.

  Without a camera, the scene takes on a different sort of atmosphere. Instead of visual cues, I have his voice. Everything he tells me is his choice. He sculpts the scene with my pleasures in mind. So when he’s finally with the Villain of the Carolinas, I pictured it as a scene I had designed on my own. He told me what I needed to know and, much like the mystery, everything left out is mine to explore. Let my imagination run wild.

  The Villain deserves a little pity.

  I had known him as a childhood friend, of sorts. A man that was meek but loyal, he’d do pretty much anything if it meant upholding a friend’s dignity. He was my pet long before I knew what I was looking for. Early, sure, but he was kind of always there. I did my best to relate to his problems, his interests. Sometimes I’d get the feeling that he directed attention away from himself because he lacked the most basic of needs, the self-image, to function with true cause. He’d do anything yet he wouldn’t know why. It’s why he did everything I said. And I really do mean that: He did everything.

  But he never lost the confusion.

  The Villain operated under the concept of cages. I came up with the idea because I wasn’t really very creative back then, probably saw the idea in some horror flick, and I was all about seeing what he would do. The Villain caged people for weeks. He fed them like they were rats. He treated the living like they didn’t deserve to live. . .but didn’t deserve to die either.

  It was the one kid that changed it. For six kills, he had done well, real well. I tried to make sense of it; I’d explain why he was feeling the way he was feeling (or wasn’t) but I was young. I hadn’t figured it out either. But when he started liking kids, I lost interest.

  I’m not about the nubile. I’m not at all interested in the exploitation of the naïve. The naïve provide no sort of affection; they are merely childish and lost, right to the final gasp.

  The Villain wasn’t my name. He earned it all on his own.

  Yeah, that’s him, pitiful and pathetic.

  I’m listening when my pet wants some guidance.

  Wants to know how best to deal with the Villain.

  I’m not saying anything. Instead, I direct him to vacancy, the act of letting the Villain kill himself. Because he truly can, it might be the best means of pulling out from this world.

  I’m not saying anything when my pet humiliates him, muffled sounds and sobbing can be heard clearly above everything else.

  I’m not saying anything even though I’m curious about where they are, where my pet decided to do the deed.

  I’m not saying anything as I hear a more familiar sound and then nothing.

  Previous sounds followed by clear and plain coughing, lungs grasping for air.

  I’m not saying anything when I hear him talking, saying the words I couldn’t have fed him, louder and louder until I imagine the Villain licking up his own tears with his tongue, a mouthful of dust and dirt licked from the floorboards. One nail pierces through the Villain’s tongue.

  A little torture goes a long way.

  I’m not saying anything when my pet delivers the command once, twice, a third time.

  For a brief moment I feel pity for the Villain, how oblivious and fearful must be facing him, alone in whatever place they’re in, faced with death, the only person to share these dying moments being the one being he cannot fully comprehend.

  My pet is confusion.

  My pet is the reason there’s no longer a place for him.

  I’d say something, say something like goodbye, but it doesn’t feel like the right time and place for it. What’s a childhood friend when you haven’t seen each other in over a decade?

  We were young then I’m thinking as I listen to my pet explaining how to properly take the bullet. We were young and curious I’m realizing as I hear my pet telling him how quick it’ll be, how painless, no more painful than the nail through his tongue.

  I’m listening to the Villain gag on his own blood.

  I’m listening to the gun being loaded.

  I’m listening to the gun being given.

  I’m listening to the gun being placed in his mouth.

  I’m listening to the solemn shivers of a confused, mentally underdeveloped man, someone I used to know, someone that I might have kept around but, well, fuck it, I didn’t and this is how things happen. Things fall in line or fall away from the limelight. We do what we need to do to stay in the light. I’m fine either way. So the sound of the gun isn’t all that spectacular. I’ve heard it before and I’ll hear it again. It’s the silence afterwards, the gentle and oh, so satisfying ringing that I enjoy.

  I’m on the line the entire time, listening.

  I drive the interstate inconspicuously. Headed for the one and the only, the man that might have made me, but instead I made it so that every waking moment is bled-through wonder about why, why I did what I did to him. Why did I do that to any of them? My exes didn’t deserve it, did they? Create a dialogue. See if others agree.

  I’m not so sure they’d choose differently if they had a second chance.

  I’m pretty sure they’d still choose to be my pet.

  Who could resist this beautiful voice?

  Hear me sing, my pet.

  Hear me sing.

  4.

  This is where she’ll turn herself in. It’s her idea, not entirely mine. I had her set to end her part of the study shortly before the Florida state line, but she told me she had enough.

  “I’ve had enough.”

  See? That’s proof that she said it.


  She cowered under the idea of what they’ll try to do, and because I said that, you’re probably wondering about the authorities. The authorities are an entirely different brand of fetishism.

  If you let them, their nightsticks and firearms would take on a manifold of seductions.

  Give them an inch and they’ll try to stick it all the way in.

  Just because they wear a uniform, it doesn’t mean they aren’t curious. They’ll bite; they’ll bite right through if you let them. I’d never make an officer my pet; there wouldn’t be any fun in it. They’d do anything to make me happy. Making me happy would make them ecstatic. They’d be turned on by the approval. They’d desire my full approval. I’d grow tired of them and leave them tied up in some basement somewhere.

  But she’ll be okay.

  I know it.

  She’ll confess.

  She’ll tell them everything which will only make it easier for them to let her go.

  Doesn’t sound real. Sounds like something imagined.

  Something stupid and unbelievable.

  They said the same thing about every single killer before they found enough evidence to turn the tale into something personal and very real.

  But this is where she wants to be let off. Her part of the study ends.

  Leaves only you and me. My pet and I. And the camera.

  You’ll be here to the end, won’t you?

  You’ll watch as long as there’s a show to watch.

  You’ll never leave.

  5.

  This is the part where I’d say something like, Long time no see. Not that I’d say something like that; who says that while being serious? I mean really?

  Busy room. Inmates get a taste of the world outside these walls. I sit down and wait for him to arrive. I place the camera to my side, lens adjusted so that it’ll capture him, and only him. You’ll only need to hear my voice. He walks in like he’s a different person. It wouldn’t take a whole lot to convince me. That look, what I see his face turn into when he sees me, it’s clear that I’m the same.

  I am who I am and I just want to say hello.

  He sits down.

  I lean forward.

  Take it all in.

  He’s staring back at me.

  If he were a true gentleman, he’d initiate the conversation. You get where we’re at, I say the line, the one that started this all, and that would have sent him over the edge if there was anything left. There isn’t so we’ll just talk. Talk like this is exactly what it seems: a visit.

  “When’s your date?”

  He tells me, “Next April.”

  “What’s the holdup?”

  He doesn’t say.

  He doesn’t ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “We had some good times.”

  Doesn’t say anything.

  “No use mentioning why.”

  “Yeah,” he nods, once.

  “I had never been with someone like you. . .”

  “And never will,” he finishes my sentence.

  I’d have to agree. There’s no one else.

  “Who is he?” he asks me.

  “He’s sweet, charming, from the same department. He wants to be a criminologist.”

  “Just like you.” I can almost tell that he’s happy for me.

  That’s just for show, you see. I’m saying that it seems amicable, our discussion, but really he’s tired. He’s tired and nervous. Most of all he’s waiting; everyone knows what’s next.

  “You don’t think you’ll get tired of him?”

  I shake my head.

  “You get tired of everybody.”

  “Not true,” I make a pouty face “It’s not that I get tired; it’s that the people I’m with never ended up being who I thought they were. Every single time, something was discovered as missing.”

  He shuts his eyes, “What was I missing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What was I missing?”

  I think about this. Need a minute. And then I decide that he wasn’t missing anything in particular; it’s that he didn’t keep up. Couldn’t keep up. A lack of trust.

  “A lack of trust,” I tell him.

  A moment passes until he says, “You should be in here.”

  I shrug, “What did I do wrong?”

  He could have said something, but he chose to remain silent.

  He looks at what I’m wearing.

  I explain, “Independent study.”

  “I see. And when’s my turn?”

  “Soon.” I click my tongue, “Sooner than April.”

  We sit facing each other, two people, two pieces of a very particular past, not sizing each other up, nowhere near any sort of collision. We’re two pieces that didn’t quite fit, but could have, and because we didn’t, it’s at least my duty to make sure that he fits in somewhere else.

  My gentleman killer and I, we were close once.

  We spend this time like we spent so much time watching each other on camera. We look past the flesh into what we see underneath. I imagine he’s not worried about me. Things have worked out. Things will continue to work out. He hasn’t done well. I see nothing past the façade he maintains. I see a man that has already taken stock of his life. He’s ready to get lost. Won’t even look, not ever; there’s nothing left after this. He has no interest, no need, to find anyone else. There’ll be no one there as he is erased. It’s then that I know it was right to speak to him. I could have let my pet handle it. I wasn’t sure whether or not it would be worth the risk, given the lingering interest, the threat of authority, but then again, I’m okay. We’ll all be okay. And this gentleman, the Gentleman Killer from a different phase of my life, it’s here that I understand that it was an important phase. It’s a phase worth remembering. The mystery took shape then, and quickly became the reason to keep on going, keep searching, finding the pet perfect for my needs.

  Consider it done. I’ve decided it’ll be the least I can do.

  I give him one last kiss before leaving. My pet will be there, and I will be watching and listening. He won’t have to die alone. Before being nobody, he’ll know that he meant a whole lot more to me than most others. My pet and I, we’ll take his life, but in turn we’ll also take his legacy.

  A true gentleman would have preferred to remain anonymous. Invisible.

  With a fleeting kiss, I bid you goodbye.

  Data erased.

  6.

  Greetings, and thank you for letting us speak today. It isn’t customary for national airtime to be set aside so that we can completely break the fourth wall, potentially ruining the mystery, but we were given the opportunity by the network and, well, we felt it was necessary to speak today.

  Indeed, we’re here today to speak about the issue, not the substance; the theory of the mystery rather than the material at play. We’re wearing these masks for an explicit reason. Not to confuse. Not to abstract our identities. Rather, it’s because we want to remain objective.

  You know who we are. We were close to her, and as such too close to say anything about her, or him, or anything at all about the cover story, the so-called study.

  That’ll resolve itself without any hinting on our part.

  Yes—we want to talk about the root issue, what both of us noted throughout every episode.

  To put it simply, we want to talk about sex.

  And violence.

  We want to talk about sex and violence. The concern for what the camera captures is rendered as less concerning than the fact that through the continual participation of a large audience throughout the entirety of the mystery, it was their preference to omit the abstract.

  The viewing public actively preferred the explicit portrayal of physical and often dire acts over the scenes that may or may not involve characterization and context.

  As her assistants, we both quickly understood and abided by using anomalous yet vivid depictions of sex combined with violence.

  Yes—we both noticed this.<
br />
  We’re both invested in the act so normally there’s no difference—no separation—between context and portrayal. We are who we are and that’s all there is.

  We are not implying that the mystery conformed completely to the audience’s demands.

  Not at all.

  Rather, we are here today to make note of the pattern.

  A very important pattern.

  For you see, nine times out of ten, when the scene exhibited received critical acclaim, it involved the merging of both seemly acts.

  Sex and violence.

  When a scene had one, it wasn’t nearly as highly received.

  When sex and violence merged—became two essential underlying nuances of the delivered scene—the rating skyrocketed. The data studied, or rather the theoretical data as per the “study” of the show, exhibits a fascinating similarity.

  The average audience member fails to discern a difference between sex and violence. With both extremes imbedded, the extremity takes on strangely seductive properties no matter how violent, no matter how sexual the scene.

  Sex at its most extreme is violence. Violence at its most extreme becomes sex.

  The average audience member is compelled, but they don’t know why.

  Use of both extremes fuels any mystery that’s unsolved.

  Use of a mystery fuels the need to continue watching.

  It produces a reaction not unlike commitment in another individual.

  When an audience member is committed, it’s not unlike developing an intimate relationship with the material.

  We find it both compelling and alarming.

  What we want to leave you with today is the information we’ve gathered.

  We want to leave you with the notice, the understanding that it’s seldom as simple as dividing the viewing material by fact and fiction. What you see is not always what you get. In fact, you should assume that what you’re watching has additional properties. Always seek out what doesn’t seem to be there.

  We did and found a pattern.

  If you choose to look, you just might find a mystery all your own.