Meet Your Favorite Serial Killer

by Spencer,Alan

  "Freeze!"

  "Stop!"

  "Hands over your head now!"

  "Stay where you are!"

  "Identify yourself!"

  Before anything else happened, the figure in the robe broke into pieces. A head, two arms, a pair of legs, a torso, every part of the body started to fly across the room as if catapulted by a rocket launcher. The pieces burst through a nearby window.

  The cops were firing their guns at the evading limbs. Arnold rushed to the broken window. He looked out and saw the body parts fly across the street and continue downtown. They were traveling at least fifty miles an hour, if not faster. People in the streets screamed and gasped at the flying anatomical show.

  "What the fuck was that?" He demanded to anyone who would listen. "Did you see that? I mean, Goddamn."

  Pollard was worked up to another level of hysteria. "Oh God, no!"

  "What now?" Larkin was the only worker in the hallway keeping his cool. Everybody kept peering out the windows with awe and terror playing on their faces. "You know something about that crazy fucker?"

  "No, but my gun, it's got a stamp on the side. You see it? It says: Every Bullet Fired From This Gun Will Go Through Your Wife's Head. You notice how our guns sounded like they were firing bullets, but nothing actually came out of the barrels?"

  Pollard dialed his cell phone in a hurry.

  Larkin was confused. "Who are you calling?"

  "My wife, of course. Everybody should be calling their wives."

  "Everybody stay calm," Larkin shouted. His words were drowned out by everyone's panic. "We're professionals here! Stay calm. That's an order!"

  Pollard's face was mortified when someone answered his call. "Stacy, honey, where's Mommy? Oh no. Oh God. Stay where you are, Stacy. I'm coming to get you."

  Pollard addressed the cops. He was on the verge of a breakdown, the way he could barely stand up straight. "Stacy, my poor little girl, she's only twelve, and she saw it happen. My daughter said my wife was shot in the head. She said the bullet came from out of nowhere. The words on the gun are real! Something evil is going on here. I'm sorry, I have to get home."

  Pollard ran for the emergency exit. The other cops were right behind him. They too had called their wives. It would be later be confirmed that all their wives had all been shot in the head and killed.

  Larkin was begging for everybody to calm down. It wasn't working. The cops had forgotten about Arnold. He followed after the cops who were rushing the emergency exit stairs to leave the building.

  Arnold was the last in line. He abruptly halted when he saw the bold words appear on the emergency exit door's metal bar: ENTER THE PIT OF DEATH.

  "Don't go in there!"

  The last five cops, including Larkin, tried to stop themselves. Once that door was open, a vacuum of air sucked them in. Arnold was knocked to the ground. Ice cold air acted as hands to drag him down the hallway towards the emergency exit door. Reaching for anything to hold onto, everything happened so fast. Drawn out shrieks of terror echoed from the stairway. Arnold couldn't wrap his mind around the events. The force of the suction was getting worse by the second. The air hoisted him off of his feet and tossed him towards the open emergency exit door.

  Flung helplessly forward, Arnold awaited an insane death.

  Stairway Massacre

  Arnold was airborne one moment, and then the next, his body was locked in an awkward position in the doorway. Lodged in place, he used every muscle to keep himself from being pitched down the emergency exit's stairway. Looking forward, there was no longer a stairway. What remained of it was a long drop without a bottom. That would be Arnold's future if he let go.

  The cops had befallen brutal deaths. From random machines and archaic contraptions installed into the walls, sledge hammers smashed open heads, spikes thrust themselves out of walls to impale torsos, and mechanical arms performed brain surgeries, lobotomies, and out one hose, fire ants were poured over a man's body. The cop was de-fleshed in seconds.

  Other cops were caught in the hanging barbed mesh that slowed down their falls. Many were slowly dismembered by the sharpness of the steel and the power of gravity. Infernal moaning and agony echoed from the bottom of the pit. Arnold could only imagine what suffering was inflicted on those from every floor of the building who had chosen to take the emergency exit stairs.

  Arnold braced himself.

  Every limb was trembling.

  Any moment, his muscles could give out.

  The air kept suctioning him, compelling his limbs to give in and let go.

  Keep holding on!

  Saw blades were shot from steel boxes. One spinning blade cut Larkin in half through the middle. Both ends landed on a flat steel sheet that materialized out of thin air beneath him. The steel made a sizzle noise. The bastard was being cooked alive like a piece of hamburger.

  Hold slipping, he used every ounce of strength to stay strong. The air kept pulling him in. He almost tipped forward and lost control of himself until he saw the line of small hammers pounding fifty plucked out eyeballs laid out on a hanging platter into pureed matter.

  Digging his fingers into the wood, bracing his body even more, he struggled to maintain purchase. But he couldn't any longer. He was suspended for five long minutes, and he simply couldn't do it any longer. His hands released themselves. Arnold pleaded to the air for mercy.

  When nothing happened, he opened his eyes. He had landed in a heaping pile of guts with a shiny officer's badge on top of it.

  The stairway had returned. Down four flights, chopped up, ruined bodies were sprawled out everywhere. Intestines hung from stairways like long deflated snakes. Arnold got up, disgusted by his surroundings.

  He turned around and returned to the main hallway. Arnold didn't know what the hell to do with himself now. A trail of blood was running out of the chief's office. The jars containing two persons were gone. Two bodies were on the floor. They were liquefied and in hundreds of compressed pieces. Whatever force had allowed this to happen had ended. The results remained the same: morbid, hideous death.

  He wanted to call somebody, but he feared using a phone. The words stamped on random objects, Arnold reasoned, were causing the horrible deaths to occur.

  He heard the bend and breaking of wood. Arnold studied the chief's door. The words: Upon Entry, This Room Will Pickle Your Ass started to mildew and rot. The rot chewed through the wood until there was a gaping hole where the words used to be.

  The words on the emergency exit door: Enter The Pit of Death also began to pucker and turn into black mold.

  Arnold heard violent screams echo from outside the building. Everybody in Pittsburg was being attacked by this unreal situation. Who could he call for help? He was already at the police station. The cops were dead. They couldn't stop this even if they were alive.

  Who did that leave to help?

  The military?

  It would take time for the executive order to be delivered and executed. That left Arnold, and the rest of the human race, on their own for the time being.

  He was thrown from one extreme to the next. The windows on the right side of the building shattered. Glass was hurtled everywhere. Arnold ducked, covering his head with his arms. He didn't dare move. What he saw happen only had seconds to register in his brain. Hundreds of body parts had smashed through the windows. Those parts came together with the clicking of bone and the wet fastening of muscle tissue.

  There they were standing, a small legion of thirty bodies. They were naked male and female humans, except for two big changes. Their veins were on the outside of their bodies. Blue-black veins were twisted and crisscrossed across their pale milky shapes. The other change, their eyes were solid white. In front of the group stood the caped man from moments ago. Arnold couldn't see the figure's face through the hood. The others had maniacal faces. They were eager for disaster and dismemberment.

  One survived, Arnold read the thoughts on their faces, so how do we kill this one?

  "Y
ou're not laying a hand on me. Stay the fuck away from me!"

  He didn't have to think. The hideous monsters reeked of torture and sadism. He wasn't going to die by their hands.

  Arnold crawled through one of the broken windows and jumped.

  Part 2

  GPS

  Chuck Schulnick was late to his best friend's wedding. Was Chuck mad he wasn't allowed to be the best man? Fuck yeah, he was upset. They had only been best friends since the first grade, right? So why wasn't he the best man? The answer, James had made new friends ever since he made partner at that law firm. That's why he wasn't the best man. Money and bullshit and status.

  It's a bunch of crap. I've seen James through thick and thin. James is a fucking yuppie ambulance chaser, and here I am going to watch him marry the girl he stole from me. I'm not even a groomsman.

  He didn't care. James could suck a dick. Heather was who mattered. He loved her. That would never change. Chuck had the plan mapped out in his head. James would speak his vows, and Chuck would leap out of his seat and deliver the caliber of vows that would melt the panties off the entire city of Pittsburgh. He would torch their bloomers with his crafty tongue.

  Chuck's plans to win over Heather didn't matter now, because his GPS was taking him God knew where.

  He was lost.

  "Take another u-turn at the next stop."

  "Go left on Highway 8."

  "Head 18 miles and stay left."

  "Keep going straight and arrive at destination. Up your mother's ass."

  "Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?"

  Every concern about his best friend and the girl he loved vanished. Chuck swore he heard wrong. The GPS woman with the British accent didn't just say "Up your mother's ass." Either his ears were screwy, or someone had tweaked the technology for a good laugh. That had to be it, he kept thinking. Geeks were doing that nowadays. You're clever, he thought, now go back to whacking off to Spock and neutrons.

  He kept on driving like nothing had happened.

  "Arrive at Destination."

  "Up your mother's ass."

  Chuck hit a bump. The car changed direction. The car was driving upwards like his vehicle was a rocket about to shoot off into space. The way grew pitch black. He couldn't see anything for two seconds. He shouted in horror at the darkness. He struggled to make sense of what was happening. Then something changed. There was a circle of light up ahead. The car revved up its engine on its own. He was pumping the brakes and doing everything he could to stop the vehicle. Nothing was working.

  Both ends of the light ahead stretched both ways. The walls of the tunnel were pink. He saw teeth, and was that a tongue?

  He was so confused. The next thing he knew, he heard a loud POP. A metal walker was flung across the hood of the car. Sunlight poured over Chuck and the vehicle. Windshield wipers were cleaning away blood and chunky bits of...God, he didn't know!

  The car surged upwards and landed with a bounce onto a residential street. Chuck was suddenly in Kansas City driving in his mother's neighborhood. He hit the brakes. He turned around and saw the gory mess splattered in the nearby trees, porches, rooftops, and the sidewalks.

  Chuck had indeed arrived at his destination.

  Up his mother's ass.

  Blowing Bubbles

  What else did Katie Bug have going on alone at home? Nothing. That's why she skipped down to the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. That's where the older neighborhood boys and her other girlfriends played in the street while their parents were away at work. Hide-and-seek, tag, capture the flag, and sneak into the abandoned house were the games they normally played.

  Katie was the newest kid on the block. She had only lived here three months. The oldest kid, a sixth grader, was named Eric. He was the leader of the group. Eric said what games they played, and who could play them, and who couldn't. There was ten kids on the block, and Katie was easily outnumbered. If Katie wanted to play with them, Eric insisted, she had to pay up.

  She had stolen dollar bills from her mother's purse, snuck a can of beer from her father's stash, and even smuggled two cigarettes for the cause. Today, she ran short on offerings.

  She stole the only thing in the house worth bringing.

  A pack of bubble gum.

  She hoped the gum was enough to earn her the right to tag along with the group. Otherwise, it was lonely playing with her poodle in the backyard by herself.

  She approached the collection of ten kids in front of Eric's house. George was doing wheelies on his bicycle. Victoria and Calvin were playing tug-of-war with a random rope they had found on the street. Jenna and Allison were playing patty cake. Soon Eric approached Katie with his smug bully's expression.

  "You want to play with us, Ka-tie?" Eric rolled up his sleeves and pounded one fist into his palm. "Pay up, or scram."

  Today's offering of bubble gum paled in comparison to cigarettes, beer, a K-bar knife, and a nudie magazine which Eric hoarded to himself. Nobody saw Eric for the rest of that day. She remembered that very clearly.

  "So what're you holding behind your back, Katie Slug?"

  Eric always called her Katie Slug.

  She showed him the pack of bubble gum.

  "What's this crap? Bubble gum?"

  Eric swiped the "Mango Juicy" flavor of bubble gum and shoved Katie backwards onto the ground.

  "This the best you can do? Go play by yourself. Next time, bring me something better, Katie Slug. Another Hustler would be nice. Otherwise, don't waste my time, you stupid kid."

  Katie was in tears. She had scraped her elbow when she hit the ground. What hurt worse was watching her friends stare at her. They refused to leave Eric and his older friends behind so they could play on their own.

  None of them were her real friends.

  "Go ahead cry, you big baby!" Eric teased. "Play with your dog and leave us alone."

  She was already running home. Before she reached her front porch, Katie turned around one more time. Eric and four other friends had torn open the pack of bubble gum. They were chewing away. Eric flipped Katie off and gave her that evil smile. Eric's other friends flipped her off too.

  They were laughing at her, and then suddenly they weren't laughing at all. Each of their mouths appeared to be forced open. A big pink bubble sprouted from their lips. The bubble became so big, each of their heads were forced backwards. Their bodies were floating up off of the ground. Eric and his buddies were already above the treetops. They were far up into the sky, higher than many of the taller skyscrapers in the city. Then without reason, the pink bubbles popped. The kids were sent hurtling head-first back down onto the street.

  Looking at their dead, mangled bodies on the street, it was Katie's turn to give her splattered friends the finger.

  Handy Tool

  Bruce Glazer knew killing. He had six dead bodies in his basement right now. He had built in a secret walk-in freezer in that room so the corpses wouldn't smell. That made it easy to fully enjoy the dead bodies. Some people collected baseballs cards, went out drinking with their buddies, or enjoyed recreational sports, but Bruce, he enjoyed watching odd tools part through flesh, shatter bones, and expose insides.

  Right now in his trusty basement, Bruce had a body splayed on a gurney under a huge light. The gurney, he purchased online from a retired embalmer. The corpse was a hooker with a pretty body but not such a pretty face. The face you couldn't see anymore. He had peeled the skin off and shoved it into her mouth.

  He was sadistic and morbid as they came.

  Who knew a pharmacist could be so vile?

  Bruce didn't care. The bodies were all that mattered. The art of destroying life and rearranging flesh was keen to his existence. Some people did jigsaw puzzles, compiled scrapbooks, and had children...and some, well, Bruce thought, to each his own, right?

  Bloody hands roved through his toolbox of implements. What could he use on this bitch to really rearrange her anatomy?

  Power saw?

  Naw.

  Meat tenderizer?
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  I used that last time on fat ass Moby Dick's skull.

  Cleaver?

  Needs sharpening. It's getting a bit dull, just like this recreational autopsy.

  Bruce's antsy hands chose a battery-operated power drill. He wanted to poke around in the hooker's skull and see if he could make her brains ooze out her fucking head. If he really jammed it in their and stirred things up, maybe her brains would drip out of her sinuses? That would be cool to watch, he thought. He imagined the consistencies and the possibilities as he bored hole after hole into the dumb bitch's dome.

  He was so caught up in his work, Bruce didn't see the words that had been stamped into his drill. It was too late to take it back. The woman's eyes sprang open. Bruce's throat was grabbed, and then he was thrown across the room. He hit the back of his head and passed out.

  When he came to on the floor, the walk-in freezer in his basement was wide open. Icy blue light poured forth from the door. Surrounding him in a semi-circle were the bodies he had killed during the past year. Each of them were clutching onto a dangerous power tool. Their malignant faces wouldn't leave Bruce.

  The faceless hooker was at the head of the group. She said, "Do your worst to the son-of-a-bitch." She raised up the drill for the other corpses to see. "We'll only bring him back again, and again, and again, and again."

  The corpses went to work on Bruce.

  Bruce couldn't see the words stamped into the side of the drill: CAUTION: USE OF DRILL WILL BRING THE DEAD BACK TO LIFE.

  A Good Night's Sleep

  Ralph Butterford couldn't sleep worth a damn. He invested in every kind of mattress in existence. When doing that didn't work, he tried sleeping pills, and still, he couldn't rest fitfully into the night. His mind kept on going, and going, and going. His mother thought he had coffee running in his veins. He was tested for ADD and every nervous disorder. The doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with the wiring in his brain. He was lucky to salvage two to three hours of sleep a night, at best.