Plyers?
“Don’t mind if I do,” he says.
One front tooth and two molars later and I think his father loses consciousness.
Thrilled, we stand there and watch blood drip from his mouth.
“Oh shit,” I remember.
We run back to his mother’s body, but it’s too late.
“Shit,” he says, covering his nose.
We poured enough chemical into his mother’s mouth to burn through her stomach lining, burn through her skin. It’s uncanny, the resemblance:
It looks a lot like how celluloid looks like when you set it on fire.
I have to get a close up shot of it. All for you. No need to thank me.
With only the father left, we take our time.
Cut this, cut that—he’s not going to regain consciousness.
Eventually there’s not much left of him to cut without disemboweling him or essentially cutting the cord—ending his life. We sense the conclusion of the scene fast approaching.
He looks at me. I nod.
He wraps the wire around his father’s neck twice and pulls.
Afterwards, there’s a lot to clean up but without black light, we don’t have to worry about anyone noticing. My pet and I make it look like nothing’s ever happened. Anything worth hiding, we file them away in the basement.
The basements of America are full of secrets and dead bodies. Lies will only get you so far; you need a place to stow away the loneliness, a place to be alone when you need to be invisible. You can’t be invisible without first losing the right to have another.
Dead bodies will soon become skeletons. With the skeletons file away the missing links and missing pieces, the doubt and the depression that may one day resurface. Keep the door locked. It’s like it’ll never again be a problem. I don’t look forward to spring-cleaning. But the tapes, we keep them on our shelves. Never know when we’ll crave another viewing.
Filed away, not for long: It feels like maybe it never happened.
But there, in the dark, dank forgotten corners of the basement, my heart will rest. I no longer need it. My pet and I only need the one. Together we beat to the same brutality; we hunger for the same chances, whatever that means.
Might as well imagine an epic soundtrack set to the entire thing, followed by a calming closer track, something that is more piano and foreboding than anything else.
My pet and I, we can take care of this without so much as a single sound outside. None will be any wiser. Outside it’s early morning, the only thing that can be heard are the sounds of screeching tires, rumbling engines, and churning gears, the garbage men making their rounds.
Data recorded.
3.
What we have is unbelievable, absurd. Absurdity is an excuse.
What I find to be interesting is what so many others deem impossible, ridiculous, downright obscene. I must say, we all have our perfect type. And in order to have a type, there must be more than one. The audience needs to be large enough to fund the operation.
And you see, I’m well-funded.
I don’t see why this is a problem.
Everyone’s got a Feature Presentation. Some just require more commitment, suspension of disbelief, in order to fully comprehend the mysteries of its reality.
It’s not that absurd when you think about it.
True love is worth whatever it takes to find it.
And when you find it, I’m going to say it just this once:
Don’t ever believe that you’ll be alone forever.
Don’t you ever let go. You heard it from me. You’ll never know how far you’ll go to find it until you’re already too far gone. The search will be the beginning and the end.
4.
So say it with me.
For there to be a worthwhile mystery, it ought to be truth. It ought to be so true it’s impossible to accept. You want it to be fabricated, turned upside down, inside out.
When, really, this is what we have, these are the facts that remain:
The mystery was a man.
The mystery was a woman.
The mystery included you.
The mystery revolved around me.
We told no stories. We spoke in measured lies.
The element of mystery made sure that we were never telling a story. We revealed shades of reality, shades of ourselves. And now, more than ever, it’s clear:
The mystery consumed us all.
Let’s skip right to the honeymoon.
1.
One night in many, they were a couple, two sharing the same bed, huddled underneath a thick blanket, their warm bodies sharing the warmth. Perhaps there’s only the one light, a little lamp setting the mood. It might be apt to pan out to show the house as a whole. The same house that had been his parents has now become his. The aftermath of senseless peril glazed over yet another cover story. Stephen as victim, he appeared as awestruck and emotionally broken by the news. His family brutally murdered, the killer(s) have yet to be neither named nor apprehended. Under such a cover story, one Stephen Chonrei is turned into yet another one of the countless faces affected by senseless tragedy. With his girlfriend, Claire, they are merely two people grieving, two people attempting to pick up after what the media branded as a life ruined.
They hold each other close, like they can’t bear to be apart.
“When are you going to go back to your natural hair color?”
She nestles her chin into the curve of his arm, “I thought you liked it red.”
“I do,” he runs one long strand through his fingers, “I just figured you’d get tired of it.”
“I’m fine if you’re fine.”
She turns to face him. He leans in for a kiss. She bites his lower lip, drawing blood.
He grins as she lets go, a single droplet hitting the white of the bed sheets.
They enjoy what they share; it keeps them one step ahead. It keeps their relationship fresh. Every moment of their lives shared, much like the information that’ll never be made viewable to the public. He wipes the blood on the back of his hand and looks out the window.
After a while, she reopens her eyes and looks up at him, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
She sits up, her bare chest visible, “Tell me.”
The forcefulness of the command rouses him to speak.
“What do you think our children will be like?”
With little debate she says, “If it’s a boy, he’ll be just like his father.”
He looks into her eyes, “And if it’s a girl?”
Her face forms a grin, “She’ll be just like her mother.”
In the next few moments, we’re left with what’s been implied just now. But then, without too much observation, it would be right to assume that they could be anybody.
The illusion of safety would offer enough.
Nothing like that could ever happen, right? The mystery is a thing of the past. Life moves on. With time it’s something people learn to accept.
Eventually it’ll be our turn. We will put our hearts on the line.
2.
Things are the same. Not much is different, really.
This is exactly what you’d like to hear.
With every kill we grow older.
I’m not above the thought of sagging skin and dimming sight. Much to my delight, we’ll grow old, but the legacy, and every attraction we’ve had, will continue as new and fresh as the day the first victim was slayed.
As professor, a master role in and of itself, I share some of the responsibility; I study and explain his legacy. I provided the data that derived his name. I produced the study to end all studies about the state of deviant behavior in this age and the next.
I sit on the other side of the table at department meetings.
I am one of the cushy and the comfortable with tenure, sipping her latte, wasting time like there’s plenty. But you see, beyond all that, nothing’s really changed.
&n
bsp; I’m the same person. I’m Claire and I was there from the beginning. After awhile, the middle portion fades in favor of the first and the last, what is and will always be.
I will attend the class.
I will lecture and, if anyone’s willing to learn, I will teach.
My pet, my perfect pet.
0.
The Judge (also known as The Patron; or, The Patron Saint of Poetic Justice) is a serial killer said to have operated on the east coast during the summer of 20. The killer’s identity remains unknown despite the efforts of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) as well as the activities of a devoted community consisting of both professional and amateur members. The Judge reportedly murdered incarcerated serial killers in Maryland, Virginia, North and South Carolina, among others. A lack of evidence has resulted in a lot of hearsay and conjecture, stories and myths. In recent months, though, the authorities have confirmed that the murders belong to the same killer. Due to the nature of the killer’s victims, as well as the killer’s method, the associated press quickly coined the name, “The Patron.” Not long after, the namesake evolved to “Patron Saint” and “The Patron & Judge.” In recent weeks, the FBI listed the killer as “The Judge” in all federal files; as of this writing, it is considered the accepted namesake (citation needed). The killer’s method has produced its own share of media attention. Victims were reported to have been highly brutalized and disfigured, extensive torture and trauma in nearly all reported victims. Investigation revealed a pattern in the killer’s preferred method. The killer adhered to the victim’s own methods to torture.
A lack of suspects and conclusive evidence has resulted in the FBI marking the case “inactive” while keeping the file open for further investigation. The status of the case as unsolved has drawn attention from academia, with prominent social scientists studying the proposed killer.
A film produced, by , will be inspired by the Judge.
Confirmed victims (needs citation):
Malcolm Ames (“The Demon”)
Giles Keller (“Giles the Great”)
Derrick Matthew McPherson (“Derrick Muse”)
Henry Borski (“The Bystander”)
Macy Calmshores (“The Sweet Damsel”)
Scott McCarthy (“Scott the Slaughter”)
Edgar James Andrews (“The Villain”)
Victor Hent (“The Gentleman Killer”)
The killer has generated interest in Hollywood and a film inspired by the killer has been announced. Filming is scheduled to begin in the spring of 20. Rights have been secured and sold for a television series under the same franchise to begin airing shortly after the film’s release.
A community of conspiracy theorists called into question the lack of conclusive evidence, suggesting the serial killer as a government cover-up attempt to “personify media attention the wrong direction while entities worked to clean death row.”
The Maryland Police Department reportedly tried to corroborate the murder of a young male in conjunction with the killer. A lack of evidence and its contrariness to FBI profile led to the dismissal a connection.
In a recent university lecture, popular philosopher Stanford Bilbek spoke about the “metaphorical nature” of the Judge’s method and his explanation helped give rise to another name for the killer, “The Patron Saint of Poetic Justice.” The following is from the lecture:
“The killer killing killers, it’s worth the baffling effect it has produced in our culture. We are not ashamed to be so captivated. Its metaphorical nature pleases me. I see in the Judge the exact replica of our cultural habits. We consume. We are consumed. We are consuming—we see only suggestion and we create myth due to our bafflement. We are inadvertently suicidal in our need to be satiated. It is to no fault of the serial killer, as symbol, to set him or herself out there. Because they are out there, it is quickly obvious that someone else may be interested. The interest may be us, and one of us may be interested in taking the killer’s life. This not far removed from the ruthless modern dating environment. We set ourselves out there. What becomes of us? We are consumed. We are consuming. We are the ones consuming others. There is poetic justice in this. We are killers, though we do not pick up a weapon; killers, though we do not take lives. We take emotions; we break hearts. We consume as much as we can though we haven’t a clue why we like what we consume. We don’t know why; we merely do. Perhaps there is a killer that knows what s/he wants. If so, s/he is the killer that shall exceed consumption and be that oft-used but wholly impossible emotional state: Happy. The majority of us are being served through a mystery we’ll surely be unable to solve. We consume that and in turn justice is served.”
My Pet Serial Killer Page 32