Happy Little Horrors

by Reuben, David

  I, ENUCLEATOR

  (‘Eye’ of the Serial Killer)

  By David Reuben Aslin

  Enucleator: One who by intention gouges out, or removes by surgical method, in part or whole, the eye(s) from their orbital cavity/socket.

  Kneeling, he began to admire his black plastic-bagged game. He was about to take from it what rightfully belonged to him. Later he would feel no remorse … never remorse.

  Time I get out of this shit-hole of a town. Been sticking ‘round these parts way too long. Can’t get careless. Even those ‘Keystone’ shit-for-brains cops ‘round here are bound to find something I missed. Yep. Nobody’s perfect. Ya always miss something. Trick is to keep it to a minimum. Can’t get too careless. That’s how they caught Bundy, Berkowitz, and Albright. And all them other … amateurs.

  Albright. He had it right … was just too stupid to know it. Too bad he was a dumb fucker like all the rest. Ya gotta keep on the move. Can’t over-hunt any area. Ya gotta be flexible and go where the game is.

  He thinks to himself as he carefully inserts his scalpel into the second still-ocularly-occupied eye socket of his latest female victim.

  Yep, Albright had one thing right. It’s all about the eyes. Like they say … they’re the windows to the soul. And a soul can be snatched right out. And taken possession just like boost’n a car.

  This one’s so young and pretty. I just might have to skull fuck her to tears. Wait … that ain’t gonna happen … not after I cut out ‘er fucking eyes and eat ‘em. Christ … I hope I didn’t forget the salt shaker again. Ah, what the hell … either way, they’re mighty tasty when they’re fresh.

  After one more slurp-pop sound the second eye was out. He dropped it in a zip-lock baggy alongside the first eyeball that he’d extracted moments earlier. He then zip-sealed the baggy and put it in his denim jacket’s inside breast pocket. It was a particularly frigid evening, even for this time of the year around Grants Pass, Oregon. The area had been nearly perfect for his purposes. A small city (more like a large town) surrounded by densely wooded forest. Rivers and lakes all around within a few miles in every direction. Not much to speak of regarding sophisticated law enforcement beyond the typical small community police and Sheriff’s departments. Nothing that he didn’t have the necessary assets to fend-off, should push ever come to shove. He had enough fire-power in his SUV to stage an assault on a third-world country. All cleverly stashed … hidden beneath the back seats of his black, limo-tinted-windowed, 2004 Chevy Suburban 4x4. Fire-power consisting of a MAC-10 sub-machine pistol with sound suppressor. A .44 AutoMag, and a Remington 12 gauge pump-action shotgun. Along with hundreds of rounds of ammo for each. All neatly tucked away in the false-bottom flooring that he’d masterfully devised himself months ago. He’d purchased the weapons from a guy that some street punks hooked him up with while passing through Chicago. Money wasn’t an issue. Money was one thing he’d plenty of. Plenty since the one time in the last ten years that he’d deviated from his normal deviated proclivities … and temporarily got back with his old crew out of Tulsa and helped them do a bank job. The job was successful … very successful. And each of the crew came away with nearly seven figures each. Only he had had the good sense to call it quits after the big score.

  He began reflecting on how he’d cleverly left her dead body to be slowly consumed by any passing cougars, bears, coyotes, and lesser carnivora. He didn’t much care that the body’s mutilated remains would eventually be found.

  Least the crows won’t be feasting on them pretty eyes. Some hiker ‘er camper … they’ll happen upon ‘er … eventually. Them sons-a-bitches always find ‘em eventually. The cops will contact the Feds. The Feds will get their special fucks involved. Send in the jocks. Send in them ex-high school quarterback jock types to try and rescue the day. We’re here to win the day … so we can all go home to our nice little house with our white picket fences and fuck the prom queen. Bury ‘em … Sink ‘em in a lake or river … it don’t much matter. Someone always finds ‘em. Trick is to not get seen. Not be traceable to the place. And get as far away from what they call the CRIME SCENE as possible. Got to resist all urges to come back around to check on shit. Best to get states away as soon as it’s right. Crime scene my ass. More like works of art … you ask me. Fuck ‘em. Fuck the cops and Feds. And fuck her. Little bitch deserved every bit a what she got. They all do. All them prom queens.

  Once I chow-down these little blue beauties … the power will be mine. I’ll be able to see ‘em coming for miles.

  He slips out of his blood-stained latex gloves and puts them into a small black plastic trash bag. He then carefully, as if it were his prized possession, places his stainless steel scalpel back into its teakwood case, which neatly fit next to his guns in his hidden cargo hold. Lastly he removes his size eleven-and-a-half rubber boots. Boots that he purchased at a Walmart months ago. Boots he’d intentionally made sure were at least two-and-a-half sizes too large for him. He stashed those into his hidden compartment along with the garbage bag containing the used gloves. He then put back on his size nine brown leather loafers.

  Little bitches. They make it so easy. All them cheerleaders and prom queens. They’re all … all of ‘em spreading their legs, and spreading their diseases. I’ll wash all the mud from those boots and leave ‘em in some dumpster across the state line tonight. Never keep nothing ‘cept yer guns. Man’s gotta right to protect himself from crazies. Them rubber gloves, I’ll burn those fuckers up soon enough. FIRE! I like fire. If I ever get caught with concealed guns, let ‘em charge me with have’n hot guns and no concealed permit. Probably never will fire ‘em … less some quarterback cowboy cop … ‘er them dumb sons-a-bitch FEDs ever try and take me. Then I’d use ‘em … I’d use ‘em all on their sorry asses. Hell, I ain’t never shot anyone. Oh, I might a’ bashed in some heads with a tire iron … ‘er stabbed a few bucks and does in my day. But that’s playing fair. That’s hunting with skill. Like hunting with a bow. That takes skill. Any dumb son of a bitch can pull a trigger. Gotta clean that tire iron good. Leave no hair ‘er blood. Always … leave no … what they call it? No viable DN-fucking-A. That’s the ticket to France. Boys and girls … let that be a lesson to ya. Purex does the trick every time. Reminds me … gotta get more soon. Down to just a couple-few jugs.

  He glanced back in his rig at the last three-gallon containers.

  Yeah … I fucking love the smell of Purex in the morning. Smells like victory.

  He laughed to himself at his intentional Apocalypse Now reference.

  Could have been one of them standup comedians. Could have stood up in front of all them quarterbacks and prom queens. Could have made ‘em all my cheerleaders. Fire … I love … fire. Purex and fire … them ‘er my two best friends.

  He let out a big sigh as he continued reflecting on his latest kill, which was now getting him hornier by the minute. He closed the driver-side rear passenger door, then opened the driver’s door and hopped into his rig. With little hesitation he reached with his right hand over to his glove box and opened it. His now nearly fully elevated phallus was made even harder due to his near instant exhilaration at the discovery that he hadn’t forgotten to bring the salt shaker after all … not this time. He retrieved the salt shaker from the glove box then reached into his inside jacket pocket and snatched from it the zip-lock baggy of bloody orbs. Which would have, except for the dangling optic nerves, appeared to have been perfect jaw-breaker-sized bloody marbles. He opened the bag and liberated them both. Sitting there, relaxing in his rig, he lightly dowsed each eyeball with a thin dusting of salt, then popped them one by one into his mouth. He loved the way the optic nerve snaked around in his mouth, dancing on his tongue. But suddenly he almost gagged. Not for any reason other than that the long spindly dangling nerve, like a cord, reached too far back, tickling the inside of his throat.

  God … them were tasty morsels. Probably take a few hours before they work. Then I’ll see it all clearly. See it all.

&nb
sp; He stares out of his rig at the body as the headache and flashbacks once again take him over.

  Yes, Mommy. I’ll come up to your room and rub the lotion on you like before. Yes … you’re still beautiful like when you were younger. I know. You’ve told me lots of times that you were the most beautiful, most popular girl in school. Beautiful until the doctors had to cut me out of your belly. Then I was bad … so Daddy left us to die. But please don’t make me do that anymore. Don’t make me watch you and the men, from the closet … not again. I know you have to do it ‘cause of me. It’s how you make money. Yes, I’m a dirty little boy.

  Mommy, next week’s my birthday, did you forget? I’m almost fourteen and a girl asked me to a dance. She’s a football cheerleader. I told you Mommy that I could get my own prom queen just like you were. What? She just asked me to the dance to make fun of me? Her boyfriend’s the quarterback? How do you know that? You see everything? They’ll all make fun of me if I go? Yes. I understand, I’m ugly. No cheerleader’s ever gonna want me. Yes. I’m too stupid to know what to do with a girl anyway. But you could teach me to dance … like you teach me other things. Okay … I won’t. I won’t go, or speak of it ever again. Please stop hitting me. Just … just … please … stop hitting me! Yes. I’m ready for another special Mommy lesson. I’ll do better this time … I promise. I’ll clean and sanitize everything real good when I’m done learning. Yes. I’ll wash my hands and whole body till it bleeds, before and after … ‘cause I’m a filthy good-for-nothing bastard! I love you, Mommy. If I do real good … this time … maybe you’ll love me … too …?

  He reached back into the glove box and retrieved a jar of hand lotion. He unzipped his pants and arched his back … then pulled his jeans and not so tidy-white undershorts down to his knees. He knew nobody would be coming along. Not way up here. Not this time of year. He always chose his spots well. But right now his own impending ‘Cuming’ was all that was on his mind. He needed release from all of the sexual tension that had built to a near fever pitch, from all of the dealing with, and now absorbing, his coveted blondes … blue beauties.

  The parking lot of the local shopping mall. The night before.

  No more hookers, dancers, ‘er run-a-ways. No more easy pickings for a while. It’s been the season of the fairy princess ‘Does.’ Tonight, it’s a prom queen for me. Gotta get warmed up for big ‘Buck’ season coming up. Gotta hone the skills to a razor’s edge before going for big game. Them profilers. The ones that labeled me the “Eye of the Beholder,” they say I only target young Jane Does. Shit, shows what little they know. I don’t give a shit what it is … long as it’s in season. I’m not a fucking poacher. I play by the rules. Save ‘em from themselves, is all I do. I supply a valuable service. I remove society’s garbage. Christ. Don’t they love their titles. If they’re gonna call me something … they should call me the ‘Garbage Man.’ If the garbage can’t see its future with its own eyes … I will. Save their miserable souls form a fate far worse than … wait … there’s one. It looks … perfect. Nope. It got picked up by her fucking cowboy quarterback. Hmm, what snare shall I use to set my traps tonight. How ‘bout the ole … oh, poor me, I’m all crippled up and need help routine. Works nearly every time. Time to slip the sling on. Let’s put it on the left arm this time.

  The crushing headache and subsequent flashbacks once again began dancing, twisting and swirling across the recesses of his mind. Suddenly transporting him yet again back to when he was a little boy. Back to their apartment in Seattle.

  But Mommy … I like watching the Huskies play football. Everyone in school does. I like the quarterback, number six. He’s an Indian like my daddy. His name’s Sonny Sixkiller. Yes. I know I’m never supposed to speak about Daddy … it’s just. Yes. I say my prayers every night before bed. Word for word like you learned me. Dear Lord. Forgive me for being a no good … stupid … half-breed bastard child. Half-white … half-right.

  Teary-eyed, he grabs his head from the intensity of the headache.

  No Mommy. It’s not like that. I’m not trying to be a … what’s a little faggot? I’m sorry I used all your make-up. Yes. I’ll scrub it from my face till it bleeds. Please stop … please stop hitting me. It’s supposed to be war paint. I was fighting the cowboy bullies. I was gonna win just like Sonny Sixkiller does. Okay. I’ll say it with you. I’m no good at sports. I’m good for nothing. Cowboys kill dirty little half-breed bastard faggots like me. Half-white … half-right.

  His mind reels. It’s now six years later (still his distant past). He’s being questioned by the police.

  Yeah, I called 911. Yeah. She was upstairs lying on her bed. I found her there when I got home from school. Yeah, I guess. I mean … yes she is … she was. She did just what you said. No. I’m okay. I don’t cry. I never cry! Did I notice anything strange, or out of the ordinary? No. Just the usual vodka bottle and pills she keeps on the table next to her bed. She drinks a lot, ‘er used to. And always took lots of pills. Guess it … killed ‘er. Did I touch her body when I found her? No … Yes. Just her eyes. I closed her eyes. They were staring at me. She was staring at me like she always did. Like she could see my future. So I closed them … forever. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?

  Once the headache and flashbacks finally subsided, he climbed out of his Suburban then let a significant amount of air out of his passenger side front tire, just after plugging his portable air-pump into his cigarette lighter to make certain it was in good working order. He was, above all else, careful.

  After getting back into his rig he checked his watch. It was almost 9:30, and the cars that were parked behind the Sears store where the employees typically parked were all gone now … all but one. He waited with patience to see if tonight would be his lucky night. That his string of exceptional hunting luck would continue. He knew, as any good huntsman does, that you’ve got to be patient. You’ve got to accept there will be nights when nearly all goes well, and the hunting’s good. And nights when for any number of reasons it’s just not going to happen. It was late December; this hunting season was nearly wrapped up. All he needed was just one more. One more ‘Doe’ would make six. Neither the cops nor the Feds had put that number together regarding profiling. Six months he gave himself to amass six confirmed kills before switching seasons. Next up, ‘Buck’ season. During his bi-annual hunting seasons, he would only hunt on any of the six nights a week not counting Sunday. Sundays were for rest. Those were God’s rules. Those were his rules.

  Ah … there it is. I knew it’d be a ‘Doe.’ Six, six, six … pick up sticks. She’s heading towards that Mazda convertible. Only ‘Does’ or all them faggot bastards drive ‘em.

  He quickly got out of his rig and stood next to the nearly flat tire. He’d already set his trusty tire-iron and long aluminum-handled flashlight onto the hood of the SUV. He called out to the young woman; a blonde, just what he’d hoped for. He was in a parking stall just three spaces from where her car was parked. He asked her in his nicest voice if she’d mind terribly holding the flashlight for him while he changed his tire.

  Reluctantly, after offering to let him use her cell phone to call for help, she agreed to hold the flashlight for him. Watching him pick up the tire-iron and instantly swinging it towards her head was the last thing she ever saw with her own two eyes.

  BACK TO THE PRESENT …

  Feels good to be on the road again. Time I make a change. Change the rules. Keep them sons-a-bitch law-dogs scratching their little heads. They’re always looking for patterns.

  Think I’ll start mixing-up the game I hunt each season. Long as I get my limits, that’s all that counts. Now that I’ve my ‘third-eye’ back and can see my future once again … open season starts tomorrow. Like Jim Morrison said … I’m gonna break on through to the other side. I’m gonna break on through … and … come see …… YOU!

  ***

  Kilarity the Clown says, “I’m going to keep my eye on this one. I don’t like competition.”

 
PERDITION’S QUEEN

  By Brandon Ryals

  Dedicated to Danielle Winters Ryals

  My inspiration; my one true love.

  Standing on the edge

  I watch the sun descending

  Soon the she will appear

  With the coming of the moon

  Faithfully I await the arrival

  On the edge of the night sky

  A hint of silver rises from darkness

  My goddess approaches

  Centuries of service to my mistress

  Forever in the shadows

  Bound to her by chains of passion

  The primal desire that is in my blood

  I watch her descend from the heavens

  So beautiful is this star falling to earth

  Falling to my knees I bow before her

  My mistress goddess of the moon

  Her touch so warm as she takes my hand

  Rising to my feet I hear her whisper

  Trapped by her stare I fall in her embrace

  Lips brush my throat as she tastes my flesh

  I hold her tight as she drinks deeply

  The heat of her kiss roars through me

  Heartbeats echo like thunder

  As my world fades to black

  I dream of rain the tears of angels

  Lost in darkness I fight towards the light

  Falling deeper into smoke and shadow

  I feel her grasp as she pulls me free

  Opening my eyes I see her smile

  Such beauty so dark and twisted

  I taste fire and brimstone in the air

  Around me the night burns bright

  Finally I have come home

  We walk together lovers immortal