by Strand, Jeff
"Don't take that as a big compliment, though," Frank continued. "I'm morally reprehensible. Most people are better people than me. Not Hitler, and not Saddam, but I like to think that I'm around the Jeffrey Dahmer level. Did you know that he was trying to make people into zombies? Seriously. He wasn't trying to create an army of zombies or anything like that, but he did want to make a couple of them to do his bidding. If I was going to let you live, you could look it up."
He slashed again. Damn. That wasn't quite where he was supposed to cut. It was hard to stay on the lines. Oh well. Close enough.
"You never really answered the baby question," he said. "You told me to go to hell, but that's not a definitive answer. That was basically expressing your disapproval of the idea while leaving the option open. I think you'd do it."
"I wouldn't stab a doll for you."
"Is that so? You just said that you'd do anything."
"Changed my mind."
"My, my, my, well, well, well, look who's all rebellious now! I'm gonna have to siphon out some of that testosterone or you might just kick my ass. Where did this sudden courage come from? I like it. Make you a deal: I'll let you go right now if you wet your pants. Ready . . . set . . . wet 'em!"
"I'm not doing anything for you."
"It's not for me. You'd be wetting your pants for yourself. You can leave that part out when you talk to the press if you think it might interfere with you getting a movie or book deal."
"Go to hell."
"You've already said that. I still think you're being kind of politician-y about it. Go on and wet them. Wet them or I'll stab you in the chest."
"You'll stab me anyway."
"No, I won't. Not in the chest. Do it."
"Never."
"Never? That's kind of melodramatic. You sound like a superhero. Maybe you're counting on your chest of steel to deflect my knife. Do it."
"No."
"I'm not asking for number two. It's no big deal."
"I'm not doing it."
"A few drops."
"No."
"C'mon, only a few . . ." Frank frowned. "You just made me act whiny. None of my victims have ever made me act whiny before. How the hell did you do that?"
The man didn't answer.
"I'm serious. It's really kind of upsetting that you drew that out of me. You're supposed to be the whiny one. I can't believe this happened. Damn."
Actually, Frank had behaved in a faux-whiny manner with at least three of his former victims, and it amused him that the man's eyes seemed to light up with the thought of somehow having obtained the upper hand.
"I'm kidding, of course," he said. "If you'd really wet your pants I would have scolded you then stabbed you."
The light went out of the man's eyes. It was a glorious sight. But he didn't start crying again.
"You're not going to be alive much longer," said Frank. "I'd say five minutes and counting. Do you want to say a prayer? I'd be more than happy to point and giggle while you do that."
"No."
Frank sliced his cheek. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Any final requests?"
"Want to hear a joke?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I asked if you wanted to hear a joke. Have you heard the slop joke?"
"I don't think so."
"Really? It's the funniest joke ever."
"I might have heard it, but I don't know it as the slop joke. How does it go?"
"So three men, a son, a father, and a grandfather, run out of gas. They walk for miles, and it's scorching hot out, and they're dying of thirst, and finally just as the sun is setting they reach a small farm."
"Okay."
"The farmer comes out of his house, and he says, I'm happy to give you some gas, but my night vision is terrible, so I can't drive you back to your car until the morning. However, you're more than welcome to sleep here. There's just one condition: stay away from my beautiful sixteen-year-old daughter."
"Ah, yes, the farmer's daughter. Always a classic."
"The son can't sleep, so he wanders around the house, and when he walks into the kitchen, who does he see but the farmer's daughter, standing there completely naked. And she says, I've never been with a man; do you think you could be quiet? Well, the son says, of course, I can be as quiet as you want, and they go at it like rabbits."
Frank lowered his scalpel and wiped the blood off on his sleeve.
"The son goes back to sleep, happy as you can imagine. And then the father wakes up, and he can't sleep, so he starts to wander around, and he finds the farmer's daughter right there in the kitchen. And she says, I've never been with a man; do you think you could be quiet? The father says, hell yeah I can be quiet, and they screw like it's the end of the world."
Frank couldn't help but smile. He loved jokes.
"So the father goes back to sleep and has the best dreams of his life. And then the grandfather wakes up, and he can't sleep either, so he wanders around, and, yes, he walks into the kitchen and she's still there, still naked. And she says, I've never been with a man; do you think you could be quiet? And the grandfather says . . ."
The man trailed off.
"What did he say?" asked Frank.
"Go to hell. I'm not finishing the joke."
"Really?"
"Nope."
"That's your big master plan, huh? Leave off the punchline and hope it haunts me for the rest of my life."
"Yep."
"Pretty weak."
"Maybe."
"You're really not going to finish the joke?"
"Not even if you cut off my penis."
It turned out that he was not bluffing. Frank had no idea where all of this willpower came from. Maybe it was some sort of inner peace that came from knowing you were going to die and accepting that fact, but it was annoying as crap.
Finally he just stabbed the man to death.
His victim had failed. This wasn't going to haunt Frank forever. At best, it would mildly bug him.
Mildly bug him for the rest of his life.
Mildly bug him for eternity.
Dammit.
He made the last couple of cuts and then pulled off the trace paper. "What the hell?" he asked. "That doesn't look anything like Homer Simpson."
PUSH THE BUTTON
Ladies and gentlemen reading this book, you are now about to witness two people sharing a moral quandary. Will it bring them all of the happiness they could ever want . . . or will it destroy them?
We are in a house. A living room, specifically. A living room owned, along with the rest of the house, by Tom and Esmerelda. They are seated on the couch, watching television. The show they are watching is unimportant, though if it upsets you to have that detail omitted, we shall say that they were watching America's Next Top Model. Rest assured that the content of the show is unimportant.
As they watch, a being known as The Viewer gazes upon them. It is time for him to test Tom and Esmerelda as they have never been tested before.
He appears in their living room.
Under normal circumstances, having a middle-aged man in a tuxedo suddenly materialize in front of them would cause Tom and Esmerelda some anxiety. But it is part of the power of The Viewer that they do not freak out, and in fact are curious as to why this stranger has appeared before them.
"Tom and Esmerelda, I come bearing a gift," he says, holding a small metal box with a red button on the top. "If you press the button on this box, you will be given the sum of one million dollars . . . but somebody you do not know will die!"
"Oh, hell yeah! Hand it over!" Tom reaches for the box.
"You must carefully consider the moral implications of this action," says The Viewer. "Can you sleep at night, knowing the great price that came with your newfound wealth?"
"Sure, I don't even know the dude."
"This is not a decision to take lightly," The Viewer warns him. "You must fully consider —"
"Stop talking and just give me the
kill box!" Tom stands up and snatches the box out of The Viewer's hand. "Wow. I've always wanted one of these boxes that kills people you don't know for a million dollars!"
Tom sits down next to Esmerelda. She looks uncomfortable.
"Are you sure we shouldn't make a list of pros and cons before we do this?"
"That's sissy talk."
"But what if it comes with an ironic twist?"
"Look, honey, if you waste time worrying about ironic twists, you'll never get ahead in life. For all we know, the person we don't know could be a serial killer, who could kill even more people, and the people he kills could get up and kill, and the people they kill could get up and kill!"
"Well, we don't want that."
And then Esmerelda presses the button. What did you think, dear reader? Did you think she would make that decision, or did you think she would make a different decision? Discuss this in your own mind.
"You have made your choice!" says The Viewer. "Check your PayPal account." The Viewer, though he has lived for thousands of years, appreciates the convenience of modern technology.
And then The Viewer disappears. But he is still watching. Oh, yes, he is still watching.
"We're rich!" Tom declares. "We can buy anything in the world that costs a million dollars or less!"
"Let's go on a cruise!" Esmerelda suggests.
Tom shakes his head. "No! I'm going to take that million dollars and buy an army of pugs! An entire army. Oh, they may look harmless, but my army of pugs will take down the entire city!"
"Please, Tom, no! Maybe we should invest the money.
"Never! Death and destruction is the way to go! All prepare for the pug apocalypse!" Tom cackles, fully exposing the evil that has permeated his soul.
Esmerelda weeps. "Oh, Tom, it's like I don't even know you anymore!"
Tom considers that statement for an extremely brief moment, and then drops dead.
Yes, reader, the choice made by Tom and Esmerelda came with an ironic twist. For when Esmerelda checked her account . . . PayPal had taken out a substantial service fee!
And The Viewer laughed and laughed, the sound of his laughter echoing throughout the farthest reaches of the universe.
MY KNIFE COLLECTION
Aren't they pretty? Each one has a story.
The one you're looking at, the one on the left — that's sterling silver. Got it for six bucks at a flea market. The guy wanted ten. I used it on a college girl who wanted a ride home for Thanksgiving. Trivia: that was the first kill where I ever got to spend more than an hour. The blade held up, though. Well worth the six bucks.
That one? It wasn't rusty when I used it. I wish it had been. There's something appealingly raw about that idea. But, no, I left it outside after rinsing it off and it succumbed to the elements. That's the only one I don't like to touch, because I'm worried that the blade will fall off.
The one on the left really wasn't sharp enough for what I needed. And not only was the blade dull, but I had to do the job quickly. I knew I had maybe two minutes of cutting time, tops, before somebody came to investigate. I felt kind of unfulfilled afterward — I hate to rush. But it's not like you can hang a "Do Not Disturb" sign outside of a dark alley, right? Sometimes you just don't get the luxury of savoring your work.
Now that knife is awesome, my friend. Cuts through bone like it's cutting through an eyeball. I have a very strict one-victim-per-blade rule, but let me tell you, I'm very tempted to bring this one back for an encore. This thing can slice.
Yep, that is indeed the handle of a plastic butter knife. I just wanted to see if it would work. It didn't — the blade snapped off as soon as it hit her stomach. Of course, I'd brought along a backup tool, that one with the turquoise handle, and it worked fine.
All in all, not a bad collection. Fourteen knives. It's not a complete set, since two are missing, but sometimes you have to get rid of the evidence right away. I wish I'd kept the ones from back when I was doing animals, but back then I wasn't thinking about souvenirs. Anyway, I'd have to buy a bigger display case.
So, see, I'm just like you. I understand you. Your actions make perfect sense to me . . . which is why you shouldn't kill me. You don't kill the one person who understands, right? That would be insane.
I'm not suggesting that you're insane, sir. I just think it's crazy — I mean, unwise — to kill a potential soulmate.
Yes, I can see where you might think I was making this up to save my life. I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. As nervous as I am, do you really think I could make all of that stuff up on the spot? It's the complete truth; hand on my heart. Why else would I have such an eclectic knife collection?
Quiz me. Ask me about my crimes, and I'll convince you that I'm being honest. Go on ask me anything.
My first victim? We're not counting ants or butterflies, right? Do you mean human or just mammal?
It was a squirrel, when I was twelve. My dad shot it out of a tree. He got it in the leg. I lied to Dad and said that it was dead, and when he went inside I grabbed a medium-sized rock to finish the job. It took me three blows. What's funny is that Dad saw me through the window. He was absolutely furious and told me to never, ever tell anybody what I'd done. Guess I just broke that promise, didn't I?
I don't think squirrels count, either. That's why I asked you if you were talking about humans or just mammals.
My first human was ten years later. Her name was — why are you laughing at that? Waiting ten years does not make me a chickenshit. I was resisting the urges! If I'd wanted to, I could've started before I was even a teenager. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I've racked up sixteen bodies in five years. What's your count?
I see.
Well, it's not a contest. I'm competing with nobody but myself. And even there, it's not like I'm trying to beat any personal records or anything — I'm simply doing what I'm compelled to do. I've tripled Jack the Ripper's count, so I think my accomplishments speak for themselves.
Fine. Whatever you say. I'm a great big fraidy-cat late bloomer underachiever. Happy now?
No, no, no, no, put the hatchet down, I'll continue with my story!
Her name was Denise. She lived in the apartment next door and was always nice to me. She kept a very tight routine, which made it very easy to plan things out. Every Saturday night, around midnight, she did her laundry. She'd sit on the machine and read a book, usually something off the bestseller lists. We'd spoken many, many times, so she wasn't suspicious when I joined her in the laundry room and struck up a conversation. She didn't even get nervous when I started cleaning underneath my fingernails with my pocketknife — the blue one right there with my name engraved in the handle. I think it was, oh, about a quarter-second before the blade pierced her throat that she realized something was amiss.
What do you mean, how did I clean up the mess before I was discovered? We were in a laundry room! There were cleaning supplies everywhere! Who else do you know who does their laundry at midnight on Saturday? That was the quirk that led to her demise!
What's that? A body? A body . . . a body . . . a body . . . yeah, I can show you a body. Not Denise's, of course, but I can take you to my last one. The problem is that I don't hunt where I live — at least, not anymore — so it'll be a couple of hours' drive from here. She's in a not-so-shallow grave about a mile into the woods, but I think I can find it again without too much trouble.
Not interested? All right, fair enough.
Please, there's no reason for this! Even if we're not kindred spirits, we could at least share some professional courtesy! Maybe we could do one together!
Ah, you like that idea?
My usual modus operandi involves weeks of planning, but I'm flexible. We could try it out. This might work.
Well, of course I'm just trying to save my life. I wouldn't insult your intelligence by suggesting otherwise. The key factor here, though, is that I'm not planning to run away. You know where I live and you've seen my knife collection, so you
could make things very miserable for me with a quick call to the police, right? Believe me, I'd rather die from your hatchet than rot in prison for the rest of my life. I think we should give my idea a shot.
Wouldn't you like to have a confidant, somebody who knows what you're feeling? After a really spectacular stab, there's nothing I'd love more than to tell somebody all about it, let them share in my excitement and bloodlust, and yet I can't. It's frustrating as hell. Don't you feel the same way?
Then let's do this.
I do indeed have a pair of handcuffs. I'll go get them and be right back. No, I'm kidding — naturally I'll let you accompany me while I go get them.
See? Right here in the drawer. Do you want me to snap on my end first, or have you do yours first? Does it matter? I didn't think so; I'm just erring on the side of caution. Here we go. Kind of awkward, but not too bad. My car's in the garage if you're ready. I'm not going to disrespect you by asking if you want to keep your hatchet in the trunk. I guess as long as nobody can see it through the window we'll be fine. Ready? Good.
Let me know if the A/C is okay. It doesn't always work that well. Do you have a favorite radio station? I listen to pretty much anything but rap. I'm not even sure if they still make rap.
No, I don't have to talk all the time. Just let me know when you see a decent potential victim.
What about her? Yeah, she's my type; I'm making sure she's yours. I mean, obviously since you were going to kill me I know that I'm your type of prey, but I'm certainly not my type of prey, so I'm happy to go with whatever type you pick. Too old? That's fine. We'll keep driving.
Her? Ummmm . . . I don't know. I mean — I'm just — I'm not big on kids, okay? Not that young, anyway. You can laugh. I'm not offended.
Thanks. I appreciate that.
Her? I don't know . . . seems too risky. We should stick to back roads. If we just try to snatch somebody off this street, we'll get caught for sure. Let's pull in here and wait. This is a nice place to hang out, right? An appropriate victim will be by soon, I'll bet.
The cat would be okay, I suppose. I've moved past that era in my life, but it might be fun, for old time's sake. A little cat-killing nostalgia.