by Barbie Wilde
The question is, what to do about these feverish thoughts of mine? Do I let them consume me, or do I use this dreadful mental energy to try to expand The Venus Project? Do I branch into something more challenging, more exhilarating? More important?
And at the same time, do I seek revenge on those that have betrayed me, whether they knew they were betraying me or not?
I have heard nothing from Elene since she telephoned to give me the latest about Lonnie. She no longer needs my expertise. I am no longer any use to her, so she has ejected me from her life.
Fine.
ENTRY 103:
All that a man wants from a woman—when it comes right down to it—is a fuck, pure and simple. A man realizes that, because of society and civilization, he has to go through the elaborate mating rituals of the human animal such as the lunch date, the first dinner date, the movie date, etc., before he can make his move. But all that cash outlay only has one purpose and it isn’t a pleasant chat and a steak from Sardino’s. It is a fuck. Men spend a ferocious amount of brainpower on plotting how to bed a woman. His most basic instinct is to spread his seed, then move on. Settling down for a man is a kind of nightmare and the sooner women realize this truism the better.
Around five years ago, there was a book out dealing with the controversial theory that man has the biological imperative to rape. That rape (i.e., one violent unprotected sexual encounter) was not necessarily just an urge to wield power over a woman, but it was also primarily a sexual urge as well. I saw a study published on the BBC web site that posited another theory that rape was much more successful at implanting a man’s sperm (thereby leading to pregnancy) than normal intercourse.
That made me pause and think. What kind of Creator would think up that fucked-up scenario? If this was true, if rape was the most efficient way of perpetuating one’s genes, then why bother with all those steak dinners at Sardino’s?
Of course, feminists were up in arms about both the studies, as if getting mad was going to change the scientific data. Why can’t rape be a sexual urge as well as being a power trip? Why can’t women understand that when a man rapes a woman, it could be that he is profoundly sexually frustrated?
Most modern men want sex and can’t have it. They want success and never get it. They want money and never earn enough. Everybody has desires and nobody—except the psychopathic few—has the guts to go out and just take what they want.
Maybe the Marquis de Sade was right: the world is shit and a man has an absolute duty to do exactly what he wants and damn the consequences. Of course, de Sade was advocating anarchy and, like some big obscene child, he wanted his every wish to be satisfied. Unfortunately for him, his society wasn’t prepared to give him his heart’s desires, even when that society was taken over by the very anarchists that he supported.
People who know what they want and are prepared to do whatever they can to get their desires fulfilled are considered by the establishment as menaces to society. They don’t want to toe the line and live the miserable little lives that their so-called betters have mapped out for them.
The ruling class likes to keep us ignorant, so we can’t question their decisions. They keep us fat, serving us portions at restaurants that would choke an elephant, in order to wedge us into our couches so they can send out more pernicious messages of infernal stupidity through the airwaves to clog up our minds. They keep us amused by selling us new gadgets that take up hours of our valuable time to comprehend. They keep us poor, draining our savings to pay for obscenely expensive bombers and computers and guns to protect us from enemies that probably wouldn’t hate us so much if we spent a fraction of our war chest on food and medicines for the unfortunates of the world.
They don’t tell us the truth, but what is the truth anyway? My truth is so different from the guy next door. My truth is different than anyone else’s in the world.
I no longer have any doubt that what I am doing is right or wrong. If the world is a deceit, then why shouldn’t I take my pleasures where I find them? If I believed in heaven or hell, in redemption or the burning pit, then I might pause for a moment. I might reflect that I will be punished somehow, somewhere. But I don’t believe in anything anymore.
If I have no fear, only desire, then I am unstoppable.
I have no regrets for what I do. I do it for myself alone. Elene doesn’t come into it anymore. She was a smoke screen, a blind, someone to make me feel better about myself, to feel that I had a goal. She was a bright shiny love object and soul mate that I could cherish. But Elene turned out to be a deceit as well. She is part of the world and the world is a corrupt nothing, so she is nothing.
It pains me to write these words, but it is also liberating. I can’t be tied to any one thing or person. I must be a free agent, free to pursue my goal.
If that means that people must die, then so be it.
ENTRY 104:
What is my most effective weapon? What is the thing that gives me power, that gives me the energy to go on? My anger, that’s what. It is cool, it is crystal and it allows me to see so clearly what needs to be done. I have a tendency to forget how my anger makes me feel. It makes me feel good. Ironic that something so bad can make me feel so good, but hey, that’s life.
ENTRY 105:
I know now that creating my goddesses was only a warm-up exercise for the Next Phase. Up until now, I killed in the hopes of acquiring Elene and, to be honest, for my own sexual pleasure. But so what? That kind of thing is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But now … now I have an idea that will really put me on the map.
To have contempt for one’s fellow human beings is not enough. You have to do something about it. I thought that somehow I was making a statement. That, like the Unibomber, I was going to force people to sit up and listen, but killing ordinary women isn’t important enough. I need a bigger target.
To truly feel like a god, one must assassinate someone with godlike power, like a president, or a pope, or a captain of industry.
I remember seeing this TV documentary about the largest, most poisonous spider in the world. This unpleasant creature lived in the Amazon rain forest and spent most of its time snuggled in a burrow in the ground, coming up only to kill and devour the occasional equally deadly serpent. Inter-cut with the spider shots were sequences of happy native people worshipping the spider. This involved telling spider stories, wearing stylish spider hats, singing spider songs, having spider dreams and explaining in detail how their love for the spider protected them from ever being bitten by their arachnid god. Then the happy natives decided to go on a spider expedition to show the camera crew the intricacies of their spider ritual.
Now, I had a bad feeling as I was watching this documentary, because I knew in my heart how it was going to turn out, but I couldn’t change the channel out of some kind of grotesque fascination. The happy natives finally arrived at Spider Central. They captured the spider, which was as big as a man’s hand, tied his legs together, wrapped it in leaves and then … threw it on the fire for a little barbecue. Yes, the happy natives consumed their god, which they assured the gagging film crew tasted just like shrimp. (How would they know? They lived in the middle of the jungle.) This act of deicide made them even happier. It made me want to puke, but it also made me think. By consuming their god, the happy natives became godlike in their own right. As I shall—when I pick my next target. Forget pretty women as victims, which I chose only for my base sexual pleasure. Successfully targeting a rich, famous and powerful person who really matters, now there is immortality in the making for you. That is doing something important.
I already know that it is absurdly easy to kill someone. All you need is the desire and the will. That, and the time to do the proper research on your subject and to figure out how to get away with it, which is a very important consideration in the scheme of things.
As the first stage of the Next Phase, I’ve decided to move to California, “the land of fruits and nuts,” as dear old Dad used to say.
The anonymity of the Los Angeles sprawl will provide ideal cover and it will give me a good base for my activities. It was either LA or Washington DC and I decided to opt for a place with good weather for a change. There are also plenty of targets for me out there—an embarrassment of riches.
ENTRY 106:
Before I transform the Venus Project into my new Project of World Rage Assassination, I may do something. Something spectacular.
Here’s a possible scenario. Picture this: Frank goes over to Elene’s one night and they are fucking like rabbits. You can’t get a situation where two people are more vulnerable, can you? While they are going at it totally oblivious to the world, I break into Elene’s house. I kill Frank, something that would give me an enormous amount of personal satisfaction, and then I’d do exactly what I want with Elene.
From my point of view, Frank is the ideal victim. He is a policeman, so he has many enemies. There would be a vast pool of potential suspects. It would never enter the investigators’ heads to suspect me. I’m just a quiet art historian who gave a minimum amount of help in one investigation out of a thousand that Frank has been involved with over the years. As for the rape and possible murder—I haven’t decided yet—of his girlfriend, well, the police would probably consider that just collateral damage. Elene got in the way of a revenge killing gone haywire.
This is sweet. I like this idea. I am going to spend some time developing it. Meanwhile, I have approached the Art History Department of the College of Letters, Arts and Sciences at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles to see if they are interested in employing me. I have already told Professor Mandelson that I need a change of scene. He told me that he would be sad to see me go, but he was sympathetic. He said that he might be able to pull some strings to facilitate a transfer.
If the job comes through and hell, even if it doesn’t, I will sell the house and ship everything out West. Say my good-byes and then leave Syracuse forever. Then I will surreptitiously return for my big finale. Oh, this is going to be good.
ENTRY 107:
I’ve begun to do some research on my next Project. I was almost spoiled for choice. Forget about the scores of books available on a wide range of potential targets, the depth and variety of information about the rich and powerful on the Internet is almost spooky. Courtesy of MapQuest, I could print out directions and maps from the airport to their homes. I even could, if I wanted to, take virtual guided tours of their houses in Cyberspace.
It just goes to show that privacy really is dead in this country. It’s not just the government who wants to know all your business, but scattered all over the country, nodules of computer nerds are compiling your address, your telephone number, your credit card ratings, your criminal record, your Social Security Number, the state of your health (courtesy of your HMO), where you went to High School, where you work, where you travel, where you shop on the Internet, where you eat and where you take your dog to get spayed. All in the name of free enterprise, no doubt.
The only way to fool them is to keep moving, keep changing, keep metamorphosing. Switch identities, pay with cash, get a couple of different driver licenses, watch Day of the Jackal a few times so you know how to get all the different IDs that you might need. Avoid being on the Electoral Register, because that’s a sure way for THEM to find you. Be paranoid, very paranoid.
ENTRY 108:
I have worked hard in the last couple months on my new Project. Writing letters, making phone calls, networking like crazy. I am going to lose out on my tenure at Syracuse University (like I care), but I am now going to be gainfully employed by USC as a Professor of 18th Century Art History. I start in September. I put my home on the market, instructed the real estate agent that I wanted a quick sale and got rid of it in record time. I flew out to L.A. for a few weeks and bought a nice, unremarkable-looking house driving distance from the University. I paid Mayflower to come in and pack everything up and ship it to the new place. Professor Mandelson had a little farewell cocktail party for me, with some of my old friends in attendance. It was a very pleasant way to say good-bye.
I called Elene. I hadn’t heard from her in a while. I told her that I was moving out West. She sounded sorry, but she didn’t offer to have me over for that rain-check meal that she had promised me all those months ago. She was probably too busy with her blossoming relationship with Mr. Loverman.
So officially to all my friends, neighbors and countrymen, I left the environs of Syracuse for California on July 4th, Independence Day, very symbolic. In reality, I drove thirty-nine miles west from Manlius to the bustling little town of Auburn. I checked into the poetically named Whispering Winds Motel on Genesee Street.
This will be my greatest challenge yet, but I feel mentally prepared for it. It is a necessary cathartic step so I can move on up to greater things.
ENTRY 109:
It’s Thursday night, that magical time when Frank treats Elene to a fancy dinner at Kahunaville. I wonder if they are keeping to the same regime now that they are a regular item. I hope so. Every extra day that I stay in New York State makes things more awkward for me.
All is ready. All is planned. I hope it works out, because I would really like to leave Syracuse with a bang, in all senses of the word.
ENTRY 110:
In the evening, I drove back to Syracuse, stopping off at the airport to pick up my stalking car. I had made arrangements to sell it when the deed was done. I drove to the University and parked by the Sheraton Hotel and briskly walked the mile and a half to Elene’s house. I was dressed casually in dark, nondescript clothes.
I walked past Elene’s house at around 10:30 p.m. I knew they would be coming back soon. I stood under a tree, in near total darkness and reconnoitered the area. The street was deserted. I slipped between the houses like a ghost, sticking to the hedges and trees for cover.
I was in Elene’s back yard. I scuttled around to the kitchen stairs. I put on my gloves and went up and gently tried the doorknob. It was locked, of course. I nervously looked around, but her back yard was shielded from the view of the neighboring houses by a fair number of shrubs and trees, so I realized that I could relax. I went over to a basement window. It was big enough for me to crawl through. I used a glasscutter (previously bought for this very purpose) and cut a small hole in the bottom of the window, quietly removing the circle of glass with a suction cup. I reached in, jiggled the lock and in a few minutes I was safely ensconced in Elene’s extremely messy basement. I used my pocket flashlight, found the stairs and walked up to the first floor. I gently opened the door to the kitchen. It was dark and quiet. No one was home yet.
I couldn’t imagine why either Frank or Elene would want to open the door to the basement, but just to be safe I went back downstairs. I sat on a couch that had seen better days and waited patiently for their arrival. I could see that I had left footprints from the muddy back yard on the floor, but I didn’t care. I’d bought my sneakers with cash at a K-Mart in New York City a couple of months ago, so tracing them would be problematical. I’d also purchased a .22 caliber pistol from a nervous-looking man in Brooklyn during the same trip. The serial number on the gun had already been filed off. The man had also, at a great price, sold me a silencer.
Twenty minutes later I heard them. They were talking to each other. Surprise, surprise, it sounded like they were arguing. What a couple. They came into the kitchen and messed around for a while, probably making drinks. I heard music. It seemed like an eternity, but eventually I heard them go to bed.
I crept up the stairs, so slowly it was agonizing. It was surreal how deliberately and quietly I moved. Every creak of the stairs made my heart leap into my mouth. Finally, I got to the top and opened the door. The kitchen was dark and I could hear them. They were doing it. I heard Elene making sounds, like an animal. He had turned her into an animal. I could hear him too. Grunting like the pig that he was. They were hot, boy, they were on fire.
I moved towards the bedroom. How the bed put up wit
h the abuse they were giving it, I’ll never know. I peeked through the doorway and I could see them. There were candles everywhere. It made a very pretty picture.
All I could see was Frank’s wide muscular back. His ass was covered by the sheet, but I was mesmerized by its pumping motion. He was like a drilling machine, never stopping for a moment, boring into her relentlessly.
I could hear Elene. She was loving it. I couldn’t see her face. I was desperate to, but I didn’t dare reveal myself at that moment. I wanted to see her, as much as I knew that it would hurt me. I knew that if I saw her face, like that, with him, it would make everything justifiable.
I stepped back out into the corridor and put on a Stomatex Neoprene Balaclava hooded face mask, which had a particularly gruesome aspect. I took out my gun and stuffed the flashlight into my jacket pocket.
I peeped around the corner again. The ass was still in action. Then Frank stopped suddenly and I thought that they might have sensed my presence somehow, but no. He kissed her and they rolled over. It was Elene on top now. I could see her beautiful back, her tousled hair and her perfect pert butt. I almost lost it. I almost walked over to them right then and there. I could have pushed her down on top of Frank and thrust my cock up that beautiful ass of hers and then she could have had both of us fucking her at the same time.
But I didn’t do that. Too risky.
I waited. Elene came. Her cry of ecstasy broke my heart. I should have been the one to make her do that. It should have been me. It will be me. As soon as Elene came, Frank flipped her on her back and went back to the oil fields of Texas.
Finally, fuck-face Frank had his orgasm. They both moaned a while. I expected Frank to fall asleep immediately, as he seemed the type, but I heard him ask her if she wanted a drink. I scooted out to the kitchen and hid behind the door to the basement. A few minutes later, I heard Frank come in and open the refrigerator. My moment of truth had arrived. I opened the door. There was Frank—buck naked—bending over and looking into the fridge. For a split second, I entertained the notion of shooting him in the ass, but I instantly disregarded that as not life-threatening enough. I slid up behind him and said, “Frank?”