by Barbie Wilde
When I asked Keith why he put himself through all that shit when he wasn’t a believer, he said, “Well, gee, it’s for the kids.”
I see, so the little stinkers can squeeze even more gifts and money and food out of the already shriveled husk of Daddy’s bank account. Christmas was tailor-made for smart people and children to leech off the gullible. It is also designed to make us feel good about ourselves for about five minutes, until cruel reality hits on New Year’s Day. We have a blissful week when the homeless are fed and sheltered before they are tossed back out on the streets; the kids are temporarily sated with toys and candy; Mommy is too exhausted from all the present wrapping and cooking to complain; and Daddy is just too pooped to pop after assembling the tree and wrestling with the Christmas lights.
Everyone is too fat and tired to make a fuss, so for a brief time the Western World is as content as it will ever be. Of course, two thirds of the world’s population has never heard of Jesus Christ and couldn’t care less, so the contentment level is only confined to a small segment of the population, but then who truly gives a damn? So what if half of the world’s population has never made a telephone call—let alone used a computer. Unfortunately, those Third World folks wouldn’t have a whole lot to say to you even if they could afford fifty cents in the first place. What have they got to phone up and chat about that isn’t mind-numbingly depressing anyway?
What about, “Hello, Yankee Running Dog, I have just harvested two acres of rice today, but since I have to hand every grain over to the State, my family is starving to death.”
Or maybe, “Hi, Imperialistic Oppressor, my mother just died of AIDS, just like my dad three months ago. What should I do? I am only ten years old. By the way, my country’s President has just canceled elections while he and his fat wife go on a holiday to Barbados. ”
Or perhaps, “Gosh, Tool of the Zionists, someone just shot me with an AK47. Please advise.”
Merry Fucking Christmas to all and to all a good night. We can sit here plump and happy and dream of snow drops and sugar plum fairies while the rest of the world starves and dies and suffers, mostly because of the gross stupidity of their benighted leaders and our casual indifference. Meanwhile we can kid ourselves that we are content, knowing full well that our lives are meaningless, while we work ourselves to death like drones for our ungrateful children, for our slimy bosses, for the military industrial complex, for the ever-present tax man and for the great society in which we live.
I just love Christmas, yes I do. Can’t wait.
ENTRY 35:
A week has passed since I last wrote anything in my journal.
I have been working out and carefully sticking to my diet. I still have a drink now and then, but I am cutting out wheat and dairy products. I feel extremely clear.
I have not seen Elene. That is the punishment I gave myself for being so stupid and lazy since the Accident. I don’t deserve to see her yet. When I make the final decision about what I am going to do, then I will allow myself a visitation.
I am going out to pick up a prostitute. No matter how many cold showers I take and no matter how much I exhaust myself with exercise, I cannot get sex off my mind. I am sure that this will help, because I must be calm and clear when I decide what to do about Elene.
Sex with a prostitute means nothing. It is not as if I am being unfaithful to Elene. After all, she is a psychologist. She would be the first person to understand a man’s natural urges.
ENTRY 36:
Yesterday was Halloween. Exactly a year ago, I drove our car into a tree and killed my wife, killing something inside myself at the same time.
Last night, I dreamt that I was in hospital, with my arms and legs in casts suspended by ropes, helpless. I urgently wanted to shit, but couldn’t.
I call for the nurse to get me a bedpan. When she comes in, I see to my horror that it is Angie. She is dressed up in a nurse’s outfit and looks great, but all I care about is the bedpan. Angie tells me that the hospital has run out of bedpans and that I just have to shit in my pajamas. I refuse, ordering her to go to McDonald’s and buy me a bedpan. (Why McDonald’s, I’ll never know. Perhaps I subliminally associate their food with crap.) Anyway, Angie refuses to get me a bedpan. She explains to me that if she sucks my cock, then she can suck the shit out of me that way.
Jesus, even I am amazed at the weirdness of this dream as I am writing it down.
I tell her to go ahead. She smiles and I see with horror that all her teeth are filed into nasty little points. I start to struggle, trying desperately to get out of the bed, but I can’t move. She comes towards me and removes the bed covers. She exposes my cock, innocently standing at attention, waiting to be gobbled into that frightful mouth. Angie goes down on me and for a while it feels great. She is sucking away quite enthusiastically. Then I hear this horrifying sound, a CRUNCH. She stands up smiling, with my cock still in her mouth. I look down and see that where my penis used to be, an enormous vagina has appeared. I start screaming and Angie takes my cock out of her mouth and tells me to shut up. She hikes up her skirt and screws my cock into her vagina. Then she gets on top of me and fucks me with MY OWN COCK.
The surreal thing is that I could distinctly feel myself inside myself and—in spite of everything—it felt good. Then Angie starts to kiss me with her blood-smeared lips and I get worried that she is going to bite off my tongue next.
I woke up screaming from that one.
Call Dr. Freud. I’ve got an emergency!
That’s it. Tonight I am finding a prostitute and getting laid. I need some relief, pronto.
ENTRY 37:
I did a bad thing tonight.
It was bad, but it was good too, because the act showed me what I have to do. It showed me the path I have to take.
First of all, I want to say that I didn’t go out with the intention of hurting anyone. I didn’t mean to kill her, but my desires have become so overwhelming that it almost wasn’t me out there tonight. I suppose I knew deep down that something was wrong, but I didn’t want to think about it. Well, now I have to face up to something even darker than my fantasies.
I drove to an area that I knew was frequented by street girls and I looked around. Even in a backwater like Syracuse, there were still some foxy prostitutes to choose from. I zeroed in on a little girl, a little catlike girl, standing around on South Salina Street. God, she was pretty. I drove alongside her. She sized me up. I had gone out of my way to look like a normal, nerdy guy. I figured the glasses, the gray suit, the affable demeanor would all add up to equal a non-threatening individual.
She asked me if I wanted a date. I said yes.
She got in my car. I asked her, “How much?”
She said, “Fifty bucks for full sex.”
I said, “I’ll give you $200 if you do what I want.” I could see the mental processes going overtime. “Was this guy a creep, or a pervert, or what? How much danger am I in?” She sized me up again.
“Hey,” she’s thinking, “this is a nice guy. He is so well-dressed. This could be his first time with a working girl. He is OK.”
She was so right on many counts, so wrong on the crucial ones.
I let her take me to a motel that she knew by the Interstate. She got the key. She knew the guy at the reception desk and he never saw my car or me. This was to protect her as much as her client. But in the end, it was to my advantage.
We went to the room. A woefully drab place that reminded me of all the fleabags that my parents and I used to stay in during our periodic wanderings across the glorious US of A, before Daddy left us high and dry. I said to her, this little cat-like being, “You know, I’ve never done any bondage. If I pay you $300, will you let me tie you up?”
Well, she looked worried, but she thought of the $300 and she looked at me, Mr. Solid Citizen. I’m sure that it was the glasses. They added an air of respectability.
Anyway, she acquiesced. I had to pay her up front. She allowed me to tie her to the bed. I had brought
some of Angie’s old scarves especially for the occasion.
I was just beside myself. Pretty girl, half-naked, tied to the bed. She had to be half-naked. That was very important. She was still wearing her bra, panties, garter belt and stockings. She got a bit disturbed by me just staring at her and she started making little noises of protest, so I ripped off her panties and stuffed them in her mouth.
“It’s OK,” I told her. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” That calmed her down a bit. I started to kiss her. Her body. I pulled her bra up and sucked her nipples. She made some encouraging sounds. Her nipples got hard and erect. I was getting her hot, I could tell.
I stopped and stood up with my cock in my hand and just looked at her. All of a sudden, I got this feeling of utter—clarity—is the only way I can describe it. Cold and clear like spring water. I didn’t care about this girl. She meant nothing to me, but I wanted to fuck her. She was totally helpless. God, the feeling of power it gave me.
Then a voice popped into my head and said, “Kill her. Fuck her and kill her and fuck her again.” It was so loud that I looked over my shoulder to see who was there. But there was no one. It was just my friendly, neighborhood, inner demon talking.
I was still looking at her and SHE KNEW. She must have seen the change in my eyes … yes, indeed, she knew what I was thinking … and she started to … well, writhe is the best word for it. Don’t women realize that when they writhe, it makes men more excited?
Seeing this girl in terror of me absolutely aroused me. I remembered the swimming girl in the crystal pool, looking scared and sexy. Why are women so ravishing when they are frightened? My cock was so hard that it was almost painful. Oh, it was beautiful. The cat-like girl knew she was going to die. And I knew that I was going to kill her. But I was determined to make her come, before she went. That was the challenge. That was the art.
I got completely undressed. I put on a condom. Then I thought, “Hold on a minute, make this LAST.” So I didn’t fuck her then and there. I went down on her. I spread her legs wide and I stuck my tongue up her pussy as far as it could go. I licked her from her clit to her anus. Talk about writhe. Writhe and shine, baby. It was like honey in there. She started to pump away and I made her climax. I didn’t think she was faking it, but by God, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered at that moment, because I made her come in spades. It was like Niagara Falls in there.
OK. It was my turn. Her panties were still stuffed in her mouth. I took them out and I kissed her. I knew prostitutes hated to be kissed. I thrust my tongue down her throat and she was making noises as if she liked it. Did I believe her? I disengaged. I stuffed her panties back in her mouth. She got panicky and started to wriggle around again. That just got me even more excited, if that was possible.
I made sure the condom was still on and I fucked her. I penetrated her and she was screaming behind the gag. God, the rush of power. I fucked her and fucked her. I made her come again. I did. A prostitute. I mean what is the chance of that? These girls must fuck a thousand guys a year. But I made her come. And as she came, at the peak of her orgasm, I took her by her smooth soft throat. I squeezed very gently and I could see in her eyes that it was heightening her pleasure. Her pelvis was pounding into mine, faster and faster. I had to wait and make sure that she was at the height. That was the utter science of the act. My little work of art. I pressed harder against her throat. I ripped the gag out and I strangled her. I could see in her eyes that it was the best sex that she ever had. Then I kissed her and I stole her last breath. Was it sweet? It was the sweetest! Her tongue was sticking right out and I sucked it in. The best. It was the best.
The moment she died, she came, I came. Total bliss. The feeling of control. It was an epiphany. Yes, I shall use that biblical phrase. I knew right then and there what I was made for.
I rested for a while. I felt good about what I had done, even though I knew it was a bad thing. The experience had been beyond satisfaction. I lay next to her and caressed her body. I kissed her all over and thanked her for giving me such a wonderful time. I gently untied her. Then, I arranged her body in the same position as the blue-skinned refrigerator girl in my dream, with her legs wide open. I stood up and looked at her for what seemed to be a long time. I stared at her open pussy as if I would find the meaning of the universe in there if I looked hard enough. I started to feel like I had in my dream and I became aroused again. I looked at her—beautiful, quiet, dead, mine—and I knew that I had to do more.
I also realized that I had to be careful. I removed the used condom, wrapped it in toilet paper and put it in my jacket pocket. I put on a new one. I placed a pillow under her lovely ass, then I fucked my pretty little cat-like girl one more time and if anything, it was more exciting and fulfilling than the first time.
I possessed her totally, utterly, without argument.
Afterwards, I cleaned up thoroughly and left nothing behind. I stole the bottom sheet off the bed. I even took the money I gave her, although for some absurd reason, it made me feel guilty. After all, she had taken care of me so beautifully. I filled the bathtub and washed her. I tenderly sponged away the traces of my presence from her body (paying special attention to her mouth and vagina) and then carefully dried her and put her back in the bed.
As I was looking at her for the last time, an image flashed into my head. It was gone in an instant. I desperately wanted to recapture it, because I knew that somehow it was very important. So I sat there on the edge of the bed and took in every detail of the girl’s body: the position of the limbs, the way her hair tumbled over the pillow and hung over the bed, the expression of her face. After about ten minutes, it came to me. My little cat-like girl reminded me of an obscure painting by French expressionist Henri Ottmann called The Sleeping Courtesan (1920). I only had to arrange her arms above her so that her hands cradled her head to make the picture complete.
I allowed myself ten more minutes just to stare at her perfection.
I carefully covered her up with a clean sheet from the closet before I left the room. I didn’t want policemen to gaze at her in all her naked glory and get turned on. I wanted her to know that she belonged to me, only me, forever. My pretty little cat-like girl.
It was so easy to escape. Sad to say, but who really cares about the death of a prostitute? The police hardly bother to investigate hooker murders. Society considers that kind of woman so expendable.
So, I did a bad thing, but the bad thing had a good result. It has given me a direction. I know now what my purpose is. I know what I am made for. I know how I can get to meet Elene. This will take a lot of planning and research. I don’t want to get caught. I don’t want to have some documentary made about me so people can say, “What a dummy. Look at all the mistakes he made. He deserved to get caught.”
So much work to do and so little time to do it in.
ENTRY 38:
I woke up this morning and, for a split second, I thought it had all been a dream. Then I read last night’s entry and realized that it had really happened. I had DONE SOMETHING. I felt no guilt, which was strange. It was almost as if it was just another dream, just another fantasy, hurting no one.
I checked the papers. There was no mention of a murder in a motel by the Interstate. It was as if the whole thing had never happened.
As I read (and reread) my entry from last night, I got aroused. I seem to be possessed by powerful sexual urges over which I have no control. Somehow, I have to find the strength to discipline myself. My brain is overheating with desire and I need it cold and clear to plan my strategy.
And I thought stalking Elene was going to be fun. This is going to be even better. This will be my life’s work, the culmination of all those years of depression, frustration, fear, weakness, anger and hate. It will be glorious.
I am going to create a serial killer. That should get Elene’s notice.
ENTRY 39:
Father, it has been a month since my last confession and, like the good little boy that
I am, I have spent the time industriously researching my new Project.
First, in the comfort of my own home, I surfed the Net. I downloaded and read the biographies of over a hundred serial killers, courtesy of The Serial Killer Hit List web site and others. Then I moseyed on over to Amazon.com, where I was able to find out which books would help me most on my quest.
It is interesting to see how many sites are dedicated to crime in general, and murder in particular. At the end of the week, I copied all my personal files to a portable hard drive and then wiped my internal hard drive. I memorized and destroyed my notes. During my surfing, I made sure that the sites themselves would not be able to place tracer cookies on my hard drive. Even so, I erased all temporary Internet files that might have accumulated, as well as any stray cookies before I reformatted my hard drive, just to be on the safe side.
At the weekend, I went to New York City again and visited a few bookstores around Manhattan. I bought the books that I required, always with cash and never too many from one shop to cause comment.
The books I bought were all solid research material that included professional guides to homicide detection, serial killer profiling manuals and books detailing the psychology and methodology of psychopaths. Finally, I bought quite a few books on the serial killer poster boy himself, Theodore Robert Bundy, Esquire. Ted was one of a small percentage of highly intelligent serial killers and he also did his research well before he began his personal project of death. Finally, I bought one very good textbook on Forensic Psychology, but, as I suspected, it was virtually indecipherable.
I read solidly for three weeks. I kept to my diet and worked out, but every other waking moment was reserved for my research.