Meet Your Favorite Serial Killer

by Spencer,Alan

  "With the help of our media sources, and our local police connections, we've...well, concocted a story about you, Mr. Smith. It'll be an easy story to follow. You won't do any media interviews.

  "You were kidnapped not by the Blooms, but by international terrorists. You were taken to a secret location. You were drugged and kept confused about where and why you were taken. You somehow escaped them, and you were found wandering on a highway confused. You were held under observation at a hospital. You began to regain your memory. You will tell your loved ones you weren't aware of what was happening to you. You were lucky. That's what you'll say. 'I'm lucky to not have been conscious of what they did to me.'

  "Please, Mr. Smith, we want you to live your life. But you have to swear, not only in legalities, but man to man, to me, that you won't speak a word of this to anyone. You understand the consequences if you do. Nobody can know of hell's true potential.

  "I hate to be harsh, but this is what will happen if we discover you've told anyone about The Event. You will be permanently locked up in prison. The government will bury you beneath the system. You'll die in a cell, forgotten. You get me?"

  He was horrified by the notion.

  "Jesus, yes! I won't speak a word. I'll take it to my grave, if you don't send me there with the shit you're saying to me."

  "Okay, Mr. Smith, relax. I think we're on the same page. Are you ready to see your girlfriend now?"

  Charlie was waiting for him two blocks away at Angel of Mercy Hospital. Doctors looked him over and cleared him for release. He stayed with the story Agent Kelsey provided him when talking to his girlfriend. He was happy to be alive. He was happy to be home. He kept it that simple for the sake of his sanity.

  After recovering physically, he was referred to a counselor who was actually a trained FBI agent who specialized in post-traumatic stress disorder, and at the same time, checked in on him to make sure he was keeping his silence about The Event.

  Weeks turned into months, and months turned into three years, and David looked back on that time and was surprised by how easy it was not to speak of the atrocities he had survived. The hardest part was not saying a word about the mysterious disappearance of his daughter. The FBI told him she would have to remain missing forever for the sake of public safety. She would later be determined legally dead. That broke his heart. There was no fixing that pain.

  What he chose to focus on wasn't the pain, or the memories, or the scars, but his new life. He married Charlie, and she gave birth to his child who they named Lindsey. That was his life now. Being a father, and a provider, and a burier of secrets.

  It was for the best.

  He knew this to be true.

  The FBI had their job to do, and David Smith had his duty to protect the world of the true horrors that lurked in the world.

  Today, David Smith had a job interview.

  He triple checked he had the right location and the right job, and that he was the correct David Smith, and that he wouldn't be kidnapped by crafty Satanists.

  That was one mistake he was never going to make ever again.

  Epilogue

  Red Devil.

  Necro man.

  Serial slaughterer.

  Leader of the new way.

  If you asked Kent Dodge himself, he preferred to be called Leader of the New Way. He had a great legacy to one-up. The McAllister family. The Leeds. The Johanssons. The Blooms. They were all families who had continued the centuries old tradition of The Event.

  Things had changed ever since David Smith. They couldn't touch David. FBI were watching him like hungry hawks. The son-of-a-bitch didn't even know he was being used as bait to draw them out. The FBI had another thing coming. They were dealing with Kent Dodge now. The Leader of the New Way. He was smarter and craftier than any federal institution.

  Tonight's fun was five years in the coming.

  Kent had followers, and they wanted an extra special event. They didn't want to watch killers kill through a pane of glass while they ate fine foods and drank expensive liquor. Kent's followers were different than the Blooms' followers. For one, Kent's followers weren't dead. Another, his followers weren't content with letting someone else set up the show. They wanted to participate, and for what Kent had planned, group participation wasn't only vital, it was required.

  Kent checked his watch.

  Five minutes until midnight.

  Five minutes until the new event.

  He had rented an apartment in downtown Minneapolis. He was on the fifteenth story of the building. He was in the very metropolis of the city. This was where the most people would be at a given period of time. Nighttime would provide a wonderful backdrop to the special festivities. The coming dawn would reveal the evening's bloody reaping. It would be magnificent. Legendary, a better word.

  The apartment wasn't his domicile.

  He used it for one thing.

  Body storage.

  One body in particular.

  This person didn't matter. His name, his occupation, personality, and what he'd be leaving behind when he died, Kent didn't give a damn.

  What did matter was how this man had been strung up on the verge of death for three months straight. The trick was simple. Kent created a hanging device. It was a small wooden platform where his victim stood on. A long piece of plastic coated twine formed a noose. That noose was pulled back on by a mechanical device for approximately long enough to almost kill his subject. Then the device would let up, and the metal the man stood on barefooted would give him an electric shock and bring him back to consciousness. No strangulation. Only near strangulation.

  So close to death twelve times a day for three months straight, and Kent could feel the energy building in the room. The pentagram he drew in blood on the walls glowed constantly. The rats that once occupied his apartment had long since cannibalized each other. They remained spread out as chewed up carcasses on the floor. The plumbing was often clogged up with foreign black substances. Plumbers were in and out of the apartment complex trying to get to the root of the problem. Four people had committed suicide in the building who were known to be happy, healthy individuals. Two girls, five and nine, had somehow stuck themselves in their dishwashing machine, turned it on, and scalded themselves dead. Bums that frequented the block outside the building were begging for fingers and flesh instead of money. Stories of hookers cannibalizing their johns also created widespread unease in this crime-ridden section of the city.

  He knew his efforts were working.

  Satan was taking serious notice of his work.

  That meant a reward was coming.

  Kent wasn't the only one within the city limits who was keeping people on the brink of death for three months. One hundred and twenty loyal followers were doing the same thing with their victims. Three months, and so many gradual deaths, and tonight was the night.

  Kent's one hundred and twenty followers had painted up the rooms their victims suffered in with pentagrams of blood. And tonight, each of his followers were going to finally murder their captives at midnight.

  He stood in front of the man he was currently hanging, and this time, he let that noose constrict his throat until those eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he finally died.

  Kent addressed Satan, begging him to give them what him and his followers worked so hard to obtain.

  "Satan, we have honored you by this show of mass death. We have tortured, tormented, and turned good into evil. Your gifts, we praise thee o' master, bless us, shower us, rain upon us your generosity--"

  The pentagrams didn't only turn neon. Thick red fog sprayed from the bloody star. He had a hard time reaching the nearest window, being blinded. When he opened the window, he could see the red fog pouring forth from various buildings about the city.

  The plan had worked.

  They had honored Satan, and now, Satan would honor them.

  He couldn't wait to see who would show up to this evening's party.

  Unlike other events, h
e would get to join in with their fellow serial killers. He rushed out of the apartment, cutting through the thick reds of spreading fog. Screams pierced the night air. The serial killers were coming from blocks away. Soon, they would be lurking from everywhere in the city's limits.

  Kent was ready for battle. He already had a twelve gauge strapped to his back, and in a carry case strapped to his leg, special surgical tools that would carve and cut into any flesh to his desires and specifications. Running out into the street outside the apartment building, he searched for anybody he might recognize.

  He prayed to Satan he would get to meet his favorite serial killer.

  He always had a crush on Maggot Girl.

  Die Products

  Part One

  Got Hemorrhoids?

  "Brett, what's slowing you down?"

  "I'm just tired, Hank."

  "I can tell it's more than fatigue. We're both in our forties, and we're not getting any younger. Have you been taking care of yourself?"

  "Yes, but it's just..."

  "You got hemorrhoids, don't you?"

  "Hey, how did you know?"

  "You're not the only one who suffers from hemorrhoids, old buddy."

  "You mean you get hemorrhoids too?"

  "Do I ever! I have one right now, and you wouldn't even know it. Hemorrhoids won't stop me from climbing that mountain, because I use Benford's Hemorrhoid Cream. Here, try some. This one's on me, pal. Now let's go conquer that mountain!"

  "And cut!" Director Gus Lange dismissed the crew and the actors from the Sonar 1 filming studio. "That's a wrap. Great job everyone."

  Arnold Fast shook hands with his commercial co-star, Harris Salter, and told him good job. They were both dressed in heavy snow climbing gear. A fake green screen backdrop was hung up behind them. The director said there would be snowcapped Appalachian mountains in the background once the visual effects team were finished with their end of the job.

  As the crew members were taking down the set, Arnold took a moment to notice that hungry look in Harris's eyes. He sympathized with the newbie. This was the boulevard of broken dreams. Hollywood could swallow you up and eat you whole. New actors had to struggle to learn their craft and earn their paychecks. Nobody was safe from unemployment.

  But this wasn't Hollywood.

  This was Pittsburg.

  The city wasn't exclusively for aspiring filmmakers. Commercials were churned out at warp speed. A b-grade actor could make an honest living shooting commercials and infomercials in Pittsburg. Hemorrhoid commercials were way better than what Arnold used to do for less cash. He had worked in a factory that sprayed the flavoring on tortilla chips for eight years. Then he filled vending machines for VendCo for five. After that, he toiled on a construction crew pouring concrete and erecting office buildings.

  That's when his luck changed.

  That magical life changing moment.

  A crane accidentally dropped a hook on his foot from four stories high. Most of the bones in his left foot had been shattered. After having every operation in the surgeon's textbook performed to prevent amputation, he left the emergency room a changed man. Before he got into his car to leave the hospital, someone shouted after him: "Wait! Hey, hey you! Hold up a second. We really need to talk!"

  The man calling out to him was Morgan White.

  Morgan was an agent extraordinaire.

  "Have you ever done modeling? You've got that amicable look about you. This is what I'm seeing from you. Keen eyes. Real smile. Good teeth. Better skin. Your face, it's so striking. I caught it from across the parking lot. Man, if you're interested, I've got a gig for you."

  Before blue collar Arnold Fast could say easy payday, Morgan arranged for him to have a photo session with a local photographer for screen shots. Arnold had a working portfolio, and that portfolio took him places.

  "Cold Keester Light. This beer makes you get off your keester! "

  "Got gout? It doesn't mean you can't go out."

  "With a reverse mortgage, you can keep your home while investing in your future. Call now and receive a free magnifying glass with your consultation."

  "If you call now and say "I've fallen and I can't get up," you will receive ten percent off your Elder Alert order. Keep your parents safe through their golden years. Elder Alert, because when you can't be there, Elder Alert can."

  "I don't have problems with erectile dysfunction, but if I ever do, I want to be ready. Don't let erectile dysfunction keep you down. You don't have to live with ED. Take it from me, Arnold Fast."

  Remembering his start in the business, he couldn't help asking his present co-star this question: "So, is this your first commercial? If so, you did great. I mean that."

  "Yeah, it's my first commercial, Mr. Fast," Harris said eagerly. "I finally got a job after five months of auditioning. I don't know how you do it, Mr. Fast. You're in a new commercial every week. I have to wait tables to make ends meet. You're a full timer, Mr. Fast. You're the real deal."

  "Nobody's immune to the hardships of the business. One day you're bankable, the next you're yesterday's news. I'm cashing in while they're offering the jobs. I got lucky. After getting an agent, everything else fell into place."

  "You deserve it, Mr. Fast. You're good at what you do. You should be in more movies. It sucks about what happened to you, though, after The Late Show incident. Hollywood's so unfair."

  We were having a fine conversation, and this joker just had to mention the fucking Late Show!

  Arnold shuffled off the set in a huff.

  Harris realized his faux pas.

  "Mr. Fast! Wait, Mr. Fast! Please don't misunderstand me. I'm so sorry. Mr. Fast? Mr. Fast, come back! I respect you!"

  He said don't worry about it and wished the guy good luck with his career. He rushed out of the studio, changed his clothes in wardrobe, and headed towards the parking lot to his car.

  Any hint of The Late Show and his failed movie career made him very uncomfortable. It reopened many old wounds and kept the fresh ones from healing. The past hit him like a punch in the throat. The memories came rushing in, and he couldn't dodge them.

  He was cast in one A-list movie called Colton's Will. A man in his middle age learns his estranged father dies, and he gets a will. The will states he must spend thirty days in the wilderness to earn his one million dollar inheritance. A woodsman, played by Arnold, accompanies this man in the woods, and they experience a wild journey of the spirit. Colton's Will flopped in the box office.

  The reason it flopped, and producers would blame Arnold Fast directly, was because of his talk show debacle. A single day didn't pass where somebody brought up that horrible incident. It also caused his divorce and the estrangement of his daughter. Even his parents distanced themselves from the failed actor. The paparazzi and media frenzy drove a mean wedge between Arnold and his loved ones. Worse yet, he had been in line to star in even more films. It evaporated instantly. Six figures downgraded back into five, and still plummeting.

  The Late Show debacle made his skin crawl.

  Stop thinking about it.

  It's over and done.

  Leave it alone.

  He knew the facts of his career. He was trapped in commercials and infomercials. He was riding these opportunities as a washed-up never-was for as long as he could before those gigs would also dry up. Reality TV was even passing him up.

  Today, after the hemorrhoids commercial, he would go home to his apartment and wait for Morgan White to call him up with another job. But he would linger on his movie career failure all day.

  The Late Show.

  The fucking Late Show.

  How long before he had to go back to physical labor? He had alimony to pay, child support, and he had to keep himself fed. And that foot injury made it hard to be on his feet for longer than three hours at a time without experiencing serious pain.

  Another problem, once he had a taste of the easy work, how could he put his back into anything for less than forty grand a year? And
he was forty-nine years old. He wasn't the young man who could work eighty hours a week and still have time to raise his kids anymore.

  All because of The Late Show.

  Arnold was almost in his car when his cell phone rang. It was Morgan White. He wanted Arnold to meet him at his office downtown. Morgan had some news to share. The agent refused to be specific about that news.

  This can't be good.

  He hung up the phone and drove to Morgan's office worried.

  Bad News

  Morgan's office was on the fifth floor of a skyscraper in downtown Pittsburg. American Talent Corporation represented hundreds of clients, Arnold being one of those clients. The actor greeted the receptionist at the front and then entered the agent's office. Morgan was sitting behind his desk typing away at his computer. He was in his late forties, with long black hair, a goatee, and clear thick-framed glasses. Morgan said he didn't really need the glasses. He claimed they made him look "Hollywood" and "current". The man was bordering on being a used car salesman. He didn't care as long as the jobs kept coming.

  "Sit down, Arnold. Sounds like you just finished the 'roids commercial?"

  "Sure did."

  "You're doing the assholes of the world proud. Hemorrhoids won't keep you down, says Arnold Fast. No more buttons on your butt. No, sir."

  Talking and joking around the main issue was Morgan's foreplay to bad news.

  After dealing with Harris Felter, he wasn't in the mood for jovial conversation. He wanted to go home and watch the baseball game on TV and drink a tall beer.

  "Why did you call me down here?"

  The agent wasn't sure how to break the news. He put his fingertips together and hummed to himself for ten seconds.

  "I like you, Arnold. You're a straight shooter. You're not these artsy idiots who take acting too seriously. You want a paycheck, and that's the end of the matter. You're not a drama queen. You go into auditions with your lines memorized, and you just do it. Being honest, I think you've milked this for as long as you can. This was a lucky fluke, me randomly spotting you in a hospital parking lot. We've done a lot with you.