by Barbie Wilde
ENTRY 56:
I had another dream last night. It was a bad one.
In my dream I am—surprise, surprise—a serial killer. A super-hero serial killer with incredible powers. I am also a well-respected scientist. My laboratory is crammed full of bizarre, electronic, wiry devices that buzz and pop. It is all something to do with the Internet. I am incredibly handsome in my dream, tall with a face like Michelangelo’s David—beautiful in almost a feminine way.
Elene is in my dream laboratory. She is my friend and I care for her very much. I have no desire to hurt her. She is the only person on the planet that I like.
A man comes to the laboratory. He is also very tall, with a beard and piercing, red-rimmed, gray eyes. He is dressed from head to toe in gray and he looks like a tramp. His face is shielded by a large gray fedora. He looks grim and disillusioned.
I offer to drive him home. Elene comes with us. We get to our destination and The Gray Man gets out of the car, thanks me and then grabs Elene and disappears.
I get out of the car and look for them, but I can’t find them. Finally, I pass by some stairs that go down to a basement and there they are. The Gray Man is strangling Elene. I intervene, attempting to pry his large bony hands from her throat. Elene is also trying to fight him off, but she is losing her strength. As I struggle with The Gray Man, I see his face clearly for the first time.
It is the face of the Devil.
This realization gives me new strength. After all, I am superhuman. I tear his hands away from her throat and I catch Elene as she collapses. The Gray Man laughs demonically and disappears.
I look down at Elene, half conscious in my arms, and a dark compulsion comes over me. I have to have her. I have to betray my friend. I lay Elene carefully down on the garbage-strewn ground. She is defenseless. Her tongue is just gently poking out of her open mouth, just like a contented cat. I lift her skirt and rip her panties off. She is trying to get up, but I push her down. I tear her blouse off and force her bra up over her breasts. I bite her nipples until they bleed and then lick her blood. She cries out. I take her. I penetrate her while she is still helpless and vulnerable and half alive.
Then I hear the sound of laughter. I look up and there is The Man In Gray, staring down at us with his penis in his hand. His cock is massive and it is made of rusty iron. For some reason, the sight of someone watching us makes me feel more turned on and I fuck Elene violently, but my eyes are riveted on the rusty penis of the Devil. I know that when I come, something horrible is going to emerge from that enormous metal cock.
I can hear Elene beneath me, but now she is moaning in ecstasy. She is conscious and her hands are on my face. She is begging me to look at her, but I can’t. If I do, then the Devil will do something awful to us while our backs are turned.
All I can see are the Devil’s eyes, red and burning. All I can feel is my penis banging into Elene, pounding, slamming, ramming into her to the hilt. She is screaming now with pain and lust. Her screams and his laughter are all I can hear. I have a revelation. I know now where all my superhuman powers have come from. HIM. I bargained my soul for them and now The Man In Gray wants my soul back.
Elene comes and then I come and then the Devil comes. A huge gush of foul black oily liquid spews out of his iron penis and covers us. It tastes bitter, like the disappointment of a thousand souls, and it starts to fill up the basement where I am fucking Elene. We are going to drown, but I can’t move because I am still coming, she is still coming, the Devil—fuck him—is still coming. I look down and see Elene’s face disappearing underneath the surface of the greasy black waters. It fills her open imploring mouth and for a moment, she disappears. I grab her and lift her up as much as I can, but I can’t get up. I can’t stop fucking her.
It is terrible.
Finally, the black waters rise above our heads. We’re in total darkness, but I can still feel myself inside her. The blackness is suffocating. We are both cold now, both dead, but still fucking for all eternity. There is only one sound and that is the sound of the Devil’s laughter.
When I woke up, it felt like my body had been electrocuted. I was shuddering uncontrollably and the sound of The Man In Gray’s laughter was still echoing in my head. I had a bitter taste in my mouth, as if I had swallowed the foul black ejaculation from the Devil’s unspeakable cock.
This was not a good dream. I did not feel like masturbating afterwards. I was horrified.
I lay there for quite a while. I looked at my clock and it said 4 AM, that special hour in the night when more souls depart this earth than any other time. It is almost as if our grip on the planet is at its most tenuous. We are completely defenseless and susceptible to dismal imaginings and repulsive fantasies. That’s when the Devil rides out and it is his time when he holds sway. We forget logic and science, and really do believe in The Horned One. During the day, he recedes, evil falls back and lightness prevails. That is why it is so hard to believe it when someone gets murdered during the day. The shock that the following statement produces: “He was attacked in BROAD DAYLIGHT,” is the shock of a rational person not believing that it is possible that anything bad can happen while the sun shines.
Maybe I am not making any sense. All I know is that I just had an extremely unpleasant dream. I suppose that I can’t expect to go around killing people and not suffer some consequences. After all, a bad dream isn’t the worst that could happen to me.
But that kind of dream can give you nightmares.
ENTRY 57:
Today is Thursday. Tonight I will go to the Carousel Center and see Elene and Frank. It has been six days since I delivered my first Work of Art to the world.
The press coverage has been muted and I haven’t read any in-depth reviews of my Venus, but I suppose that is to be expected. I can’t do too much snooping around, as I don’t want to bring attention to myself, so I will just have to wait in isolation and ignorance.
It is a strange feeling, having committed such a crime and not knowing whether someone is after you or not. I am fairly secure in the knowledge that I covered myself adequately, but there are still times when an icy stab of panic hits my guts and I break into a cold sweat.
That’s when I can hear the laughter again. The Devil’s laughter. It is so clear—a distinct auditory hallucination—and it’s probably due to the front temporal lobe damage that I sustained in the Accident. When this happens, I have to make a heroic effort to calm myself, a mental clenching of the brain to throw off the fear. Then I feel at peace with myself again.
I never feel any guilt, only the dread of getting caught and that will not, cannot happen. I have thought this through completely and I have no intention of going to prison. If I do get captured, I will commit suicide. Suicide is the ultimate act of control, after all. One cheats the police of their arrest, cheats the authorities of their show trial, cheats the victims’ families of their revenge. How sweet that would be.
But I don’t want to look on the negative side. Deep down, I am an optimistic person and my fervent hope is that everything will work out for the best. I will meet Elene and help her with the investigation. She will fall in love with me and we will live happily ever after. Maybe we can even have children. That would be nice. I would like to pass on my genes to another generation. Just think what they could accomplish.
It is almost time to go to the Mall. I have to prepare my clever disguise. I have bought a different tracksuit, this one in a delicate shade of mustard yellow, as I don’t want to be perpetually known as The Man in the Baby-Shit Green Tracksuit.
The price I have to pay for safety.
ENTRY 58:
They mentioned me. They were talking about me over dinner.
They have a favorite table where they always sit, so I got there early and positioned myself so I could easily overhear them without them noticing me.
They came in, sat down and ordered their usual drinks: a Utica Club beer for him (yet another devastating indication of his taste bypass) and a gl
ass of Pinot Grigio for her.
They were arguing, as usual, but Elene always gives as good as she gets. She’s a feisty girl.
It went something like this:
Frank: “I think you’re full of shit. I bet you five bucks that when we check the VIC out, she’ll have some schizo ex-boyfriend in the wings and we’ll have our man.”
Elene: “How can you be so sure? This guy wrote poetry on her abdomen for God’s sake. Look at the pose of the body: it is so odd, so … artistic, for lack of a better word. Disgruntled ex’s don’t normally exhibit that kind of explicit behavior. This is the beginning of something, I know it.”
Frank: “Oh, I see, the great psychologist is pronouncing her verdict after only a few days, eh? Jesus, what would I do without you, Doctor? Us poor dumb cops are just helpless in the face of your brilliance. I mean, am I supposed to base my conclusions on your gut instinct? Who do you think I am, fucking Steve fucking McGarrett, or something?”
Elene: “Button it, Frank. You know this is a weird one, or you wouldn’t have called me in the first place.”
Frank: “Yeah, and don’t I regret it? You can be such a pain in the ass, Sheppard. You see psychos crawling out of the woodwork. I bet you’re just desperate for it to be a serial killer, aren’t you, so you can get on your forensic high horse and jabber meaningless psychobabble to us Neanderthal cops. And then, maybe you’ll get a chance to take the stand and defend the asshole and say that he was misunderstood, or he had dysfunctional childhood, or his wife never gave him enough sex, or maybe he was abused as a kid, or even that he’s brain-damaged, or something.”
(Right on all counts, Frank!)
Elene: “Just let it go, Frank. I will be happy to hand this case over to someone else if you have a problem with me.”
Frank: “No. I don’t have a problem with you. I just have a problem with you jumping to conclusions. Until I have evidence otherwise, this is going to be treated as a probable domestic, understand?”
Elene: “You realize what you just said? The only evidence that will convince you is another murder with the same M.O.”
Frank: “That is the official FBI definition of a serial killer, Doctor. Need I remind you? Two murders in a row with identical M.O.’s.”
Elene: “You are such an obstinate, narrow-minded …”
Waiter: “You folks ready to order?”
Well, they had to curtail their argument for the moment to look at their menus, but as soon as the waiter left, they went back to haranguing each other. Boy, I bet they had great sex when they were dating.
Anyway, the upshot was that Elene, being the perceptive individual that she is, thought that a serial killer was gearing up for business. Frank was leaning towards the idea that the murder was most likely committed by a former associate of the victim. The more I listened in, however, the more I realized that Frank was just indulging in wishful thinking. He was no dummy. He was probably being stubborn just to annoy the hell out of Elene. Also, serial killers are a cop’s worst nightmare. If the perpetrator doesn’t have any previous connection with the victim, how the hell are the police supposed to catch them? Sometimes the only answer is calling in the FBI, and local cops hate doing that.
It was a very entertaining evening. It really cheered me up. The Devil retreated back to his own private hell and I went home feeling safe that Frank and Elene were right on course, following THE PLAN.
I slept like a baby that night.
ENTRY 59:
It has been a quiet time. Christmas didn’t exist for me, except for watching the usual boring movies over the vacation period. I started teaching my little half-wits in January and I spent the rest of my time reading and working out. Occasionally, as a treat, I allowed myself to discreetly stalk Elene.
I went down to New York City again and bought another car, this time a Ford Explorer. I drove it home very late one night and put it in my garage next to Angie’s BMW. From now on, I will use my most recent purchase to travel to the Venus Project Car and leave the BMW in the driveway, so the neighbors will think that I am at home. I suppose that I am being rather elaborate in my precautions, but you can never be too careful.
I am counting the days to my next outing. I keep tabs on the investigation every Thursday with my dinner date with Frank and Elene. (I’ve discovered that Kahunaville’s Maui Teriyaki Salmon is magnificent.) I’ve had to invest in more camouflage outfits. I went to K-Mart and bought a few plaid lumberjack shirts, some cheap jeans and a pair of hideous trainers. God forgive me, I even bought a baseball cap. Along with the goofy glasses and my unattractive hairstyle, I am now totally indistinguishable from the rest of the rabble.
Things are not going that well with the investigation. Frank has been laboriously checking out Tamsin’s known associates and nothing much has shown up out of the ordinary. He does have high hopes for one ex-boyfriend called Gary Sharman, who sounds like a bit of an animal and who seems like first-rate prime suspect material. I was overjoyed to hear that Forensics had shown up very little in the way of any useful evidence. My meticulousness paid off, it seems. They are currently waiting for the FBI spectrograph of the magic marker, but they won’t learn anything from that. I bought the most common brand that I could find.
They have nothing.
As I sat there, I felt a twinge of compassion for Frank and his little crew of investigating officers. Syracuse just isn’t used to crimes like mine. It’s singularly uninteresting when it comes to acts of violence. All the cops ever have to deal with is a few domestic- or drug- or gang-related killings a year, maybe a vehicular manslaughter or two, or the occasional rape of a student. Nothing too intense. The only case of note was that poor slob who attacked his wife a few years ago. First he bludgeoned her into a coma, but that didn’t quite do the trick, so he finally did away with her with a dose of cyanide while she was recovering in hospital. Now, there was a man with a mission.
Well, I can’t let my feelings of sympathy cloud my reason. I am pleased that they haven’t got anything. Unfortunately, the more crimes I commit, the more evidence they will have—it is inevitable. I must remain vigilant.
ENTRY 60:
Tonight’s the night. I feel very excited, but I’m a little more nervous than the last time. I was so lucky with Tamsin. How will I fare with the lovely Katrin, I wonder?
It is the National Rotary Club Conference at the Sheraton, so the town is hopping with worthy Rotarians. I will dress more conservatively tonight, in brown. I have bought two new pairs of shoes, one brown, one black, that I will only use for The Project. I will keep them in the Project Car at the airport. I gave the shoes that I wore to Project Tamsin to the Salvation Army, as well as rest of the clothes I was wearing that night. There is nothing to link me to her.
ENTRY 61:
I knew that the second time would be different. It was inevitable. How different, I couldn’t have begun to guess.
I would have thought that the girls around town would have been on the alert since Tamsin’s demise, but then the newspaper coverage has been pretty minimal.
Katrin showed up as expected at Awful Al’s Cigar Bar. The joint was crammed with young professionals, students in plaid shirts, and rogue Rotarians. Katrin was wearing a red dress and looked truly appetizing. She was with friends, so I just sat back and observed. I was willing to wait to make my move.
She chattered away. She was very theatrical with her gestures, as any part-time actress would be, I guess.
Finally, Katrin went off to the ladies’ room. I followed and lay in wait for her. On her way back, I accidentally on purpose bumped into her and spilled a little of my martini on her dress. I acted mortified and offered to pay her dry cleaning bill. She was touched. I then invited her for a drink. Katrin accepted.
First level of communication with the victim achieved with ease.
We drank martinis. Boy, could Katrin put them away. I drank slowly and kept her well oiled.
The dance began again, to a different tune.
&
nbsp; Later, I made the same excuse to leave as the first time and offered Katrin a ride. She said, “Yes.” My luck seemed to be holding.
I drove her home. Jesus, that girl could talk a mile a minute. My mind fast-forwarded to a silent Katrin, transfigured into a quiescent, marble-skinned goddess.
I accompanied her to her door. We kissed. She was very responsive. I made the move to go. She invited me in. So far, so good.
Katrin took me straight to her room, no messing around in the living room. I was momentarily distracted by the display on the bedroom walls of commemorative plates depicting famous scenes from the movies. Gone With The Wind, The African Queen, Casablanca; they were all there in glorious, hideous Technicolor. It had to be one of the most grisly manifestations of kitsch that I had ever seen.
Katrin instantly got on the defensive.
Katrin: “You’re looking at my plates, aren’t you?”
Me: “Well, you have to admit, it’s hard to avoid them.”
Katrin: “My mother bought them for me. She thought that I would love them because I want to be an actress. I can’t get rid of them. She died last year.”
In my opinion, Mom’s death would have been a perfect reason to donate them to the local Home for the Terminally Tasteless, but I couldn’t say that to the poor girl, could I? After all, I was just about to cut short her sweet little life.
We kissed some more on the bed, slowly removing our clothes. I felt a lot more relaxed this time. Katrin was a very sensual being. She liked being touched; she liked being undressed.
Sometimes, it scares me how easy it is to kill someone.
We fucked. She had already come a couple of times; I made sure of that. At the height of her third orgasm, I took her by the throat and snuffed out her life like a candle. She tried to stop me, but she didn’t have a chance.