101 People to Kill Before I Die

by Anthony O'Connor

  "Please, take anything you want, just don’t hurt anyone."

  I waved the gun around for effect and then I screamed at them,

  "Everyone on the floor, face down, now!"

  They quickly complied. I didn’t like screaming, not my style. But I knew it wasn’t something you could say calmly and politely. They just wouldn't take you seriously. I had a bundle of those little plastic tags used to bind prisoners of war. In no time at all I had their hands secured behind their backs, and their legs fastened together. I gagged the wife and the two children. The children were crying. I felt bad about that. But, you know, the sins of the father and all that.

  I pulled Abernathey up onto his feet and shuffled him into the next room. I closed the door behind us. No need for the family to see what was coming next. I sat him on the kitchen chair, and then tied him to it. I withdrew the garrote from my jacket pocket, unrolled it. His eyes went wide with fear. He babbled at me,

  "Why are you doing this?"

  I wasn’t going to waste any time arguing with him or justifying myself. He was a lying, thieving, murderous cunt. How many people had he killed? Indirectly! Ever so politely, and with the full support of the law, specifically designed to make it easy for assholes like him to do what they do. I placed the garrote down over his head, around his neck, pulling it down in place, tightening it just enough to let him feel it was there. He screamed at me,

  "No. You can’t do this. You can’t. Please."

  But then I pulled on the sticks at the end, tightening it more, and now he could no longer speak. Then I pulled it in as tightly as I could. Pulling. Twisting. The wire started cutting viciously into his neck. He couldn’t breathe. For just a few moments he tried to twist about, kick his legs out. Then he stopped. Slumped. A few seconds later he was dead.

  I left him tied to the chair. Put the weapon back in my pocket. Walked back into the living room. The woman and the children were still face down on the floor. I don’t know how much they heard. But they would be assuming the worse. I felt sorry for them lying there so pitiably. But pity was an emotion I could not afford to indulge in. Mine was a path of justice and vengeance. Payback. Righteousness. So sayeth the Lord. I left them there and exited the house. When it was all over I'd call the cops, give them the address. No need for the kids to suffer any more than they had to. The wife I didn’t care about so much. She was complicit. I walked calmly and slowly down the front lawn towards my car. I didn’t want to attract any undue attention. Everything was nice and normal. I glanced at my watch as I got into the car. Twenty-five minutes. Good! I was ahead of schedule.

  The next one went off well enough but with one small hitch. I got to Bennet's house in Granville Street. Got in the door. Same thing. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were watching television in the living room. Their fifteen-year old son Billy was with them, also watching. On a Saturday night! Something wrong with him. I threatened them. Got them all face down. Taped them up. Gagged the wife and the kid. Then suddenly I was under attack. A blur of brown and grey, multiple assailants, savagely growling and snarling. Darting about. One of them bit into my ankle. My right foot. Fuck! That hurt. For a few moments, I was disoriented. I calmed down, got into focus. Looking around. Looking down at what was still wrapped around my foot. Fucking Chihuahuas. Four of them. Attacking me in pack mode. Nasty little fuckers. If they got me on the ground they'd rip my throat out. The way they were coordinating their attack was as fascinating as it was deadly. But no time to fuck around. I kicked my right foot into the nearby base of the couch, several times, finally dislodging the rabid little mongrel locked onto me. Though he took a chunk of my flesh with him and I was now bleeding quite badly. The Chihuahua hit the ground, rolled, sprang back on his feet, growled savagely and then charged at me again. Gotta admire his spirit. The other three were coming at me from different directions. Jesus Christ! I was still holding the Glock. I holstered it, drew out my Uzi, and fired a burst at the first attacker. They're small dogs. It shredded him into pieces instantly. Didn’t stop the others. They kept coming. Their ferocity and determination only increased. I killed the next two. I found myself in a face-off with the only remaining survivor. He stood there before me, snarling at me, with a level of rage and hatred which was truly impressive. I was pointing the Uzi straight at him. I'm not sure how well he understood the situation. He charged. I fired another burst, shredding him. He fell down dead. I looked up and saw a picture of them on the wall. Their names were Butch, Spartacus, Caesar and Enrico. They fought and died well. I was moved.

  I got a small towel from the kitchen and wrapped it around my ankle, tying it in place. It would have to do. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. I look at the four Chihuahuas scattered on the living room floor. They really are amazing dogs - brave beyond measure with absolutely no self-concept of their own diminutive stature. Apparently - and I've never checked this for myself - the males have huge penises relative to their body size. No doubt it gives them an inflated sense of their own importance and an over-estimation of their own physical and martial capabilities which can often prove tragic when confronted with raw physical reality in one or other of its forms - a much bigger dog, an Uzi sub machine gun. Oh well. I had to kill them. I sincerely wish that it hadn’t been necessary. But what choice did I have?

  The wife and the kid were both screaming and bawling through their gags. Over the dogs presumably. Mr. Bennet was silent. I grabbed him, pulled him to his feet and shuffled him into the room next door shutting the door behind me. I tied him to the chair. He was remarkably calm. He was a big guy, a bit overweight, flabby. Had to be at least fifty. He tried to bargain with me,

  "Money. You want money. Any amount. Name your own price."

  His answer to everything. I sneered at him,

  "Fuck you."

  I took out the garrote, placed it lightly round his neck, almost delicately. It suddenly occurred to him what was about to happen. He started screaming at me,

  "No. No. You can’t do this."

  I tightened the wires, twisting and turning the handles and then started pulling it in as hard as I could. He stopped screaming. He tried to throw his body around, kick his legs out. But I had my body firmly against the chair and held him in place easily enough. I kept pulling hard on the garrote handles. Finally, he slumped. It was like air going out of a balloon in a way. Maybe we do have a soul. How the fuck would I know? But in any case, his time here on this mortal sphere had been abruptly ended. Lying, thieving, murdering fuckhead. We were all the better off for it. I left the house quickly, leaving the wife and kid tied up. Once again, I checked my watch. Fuck! Five minutes behind schedule. Fucking Chihuahuas.

  The third house is where things started to go wrong. I arrived in Glen Warren Street, walked calmly to the front door, and let myself in. Mr. and Mrs. Charleston had one child, a fourteen-year old girl, named Elsie. There weren't any other cars around. Shouldn’t be a problem. But when I burst into the living room, holding out my weapon, there were six adults in the room as well as the girl. Three men, three women. Four unexpected guests. Must have got a cab or something. I screamed at them,

  "On the floor."

  One of the men, not Mr. Charleston but one of his guests, yelled back at me,

  "No, fuck you."

  He was a big guy. Arrogant. Looked a bit like a boxer. Shit! He was going to charge me. As he started to move towards me I shot him. Twice in the chest. He fell. I finished him with one to the head. I turned towards the others and screamed at them again,

  "On the fucking floor, face down. Now."

  They started dropping. I saw someone moving out of the corner of my eye, turned quickly in that direction. Fuck! It was the girl. She'd reached the door, running. She was just about to leave the living room. I lined up on her, right in the middle of the back. I had just a moment left. I hesitated. No. I couldn't do it. Fourteen! Just a kid. She reminded me of Laetitia. Shit! She'd escaped now. Out into the foyer, out the front door. Fuck! No doubt she would run to the neighbo
r’s house. Call the cops. I would have to speed things up. I didn’t have much time.

  The five remaining adults were stretched out on the floor, face down. I strode over to Mr. Charleston, pulled his head back with my left hand and with my right drew my combat knife from its scabbard and with one quick deep slicing move cut his throat. He started gurgling blood, thrusting about, dying at my feet. The women screamed and the remaining man too I think. I ran out the front door towards my car as quickly as I could and drove off. I had to get out of the area. Soon enough I heard police sirens approaching. That was quick! As I went down Malvern Street, already half a mile from the house, I saw two police cars tearing towards me, lights flashing, sirens screeching. I was careful to slow down, drive normally. They sped past me. I had to stop myself from speeding up again, couldn’t afford to stand out. I didn’t have much time. How long would it take the cops to find the other victims of my little rampage, connect the dots, predict my next hit? I had to get there, get in quick, do the job and get out. No screwing around.

  I got to Mrs. Dawson's house in Prahran twenty minutes later. But this is where it all went pear-shaped - and pretty fucking bizarre. I parked out in front of the house and walked up to the front door. The lights in the house were all on. I let myself in again and burst into the living room. Nothing. I walked around a few of the rooms. They should be here somewhere. Hopefully alone. They had no kids. But I found no-one. Then I heard some odd sounds from upstairs, a series of cracking, snapping sounds. I had no idea what it could be. I raced up the stairs. I could hear them now in the first bedroom. I burst in, gun drawn. What the fuck! I could hardly believe what I was seeing. A man was tied down over a leather padded bench, head down, ass up, completely naked. I couldn’t see his face very clearly. But it must be the husband, Frank! Mrs. Debra Dawson was standing nearby dressed in black leather holding a whip. She'd been striking him. His ass was covered with thick ugly blue welts. There was blood, already streaming from him down onto a sheet of plastic placed strategically underneath. Mrs. Dawson was wearing a large purple strapon - harnessed in place - thrusting out from her groin. It was obvious what was next on the agenda.

  She looked over at me. She was in a manic kind of mood, staring at me savagely. She started to move. I screamed at her,

  "Don't move bitch, or I'll put a fucking bullet in your head."

  She snarled back at me,

  "Well, it doesn’t look like you're here to lick my fucking ass."

  Then she charged. Not something you see every day. A large woman, five-ten, thick framed, two hundred pounds, dressed in black, silver studded leather, gripping a bull whip, with a ten-inch strapon jutting out from her groin, charging at you, screaming at you, roaring out furiously. I shot her. Three times. Central body mass. She dropped. But she kept trying to crawl towards me. Snarling. Her level of aggression was an amazing thing to behold. I put two in her head to finish her off. Fuck me dead ... well, she probably would have.

  I looked at Mr. Dawson still tied over the bench. He was blubbering. I was just going to leave him there. The dumb fuck would have an embarrassing time when the cops arrived. At least he had an alibi. Could hardly have been him. I looked at the dead body. Man! She had some spirit. Nothing now. I had only been staring at her for a few moments, thinking,

  “I really should get going.”

  when I heard someone bashing on the front door downstairs.

  "Open up, police."

  Oh Jesus. I didn’t even lock the fucking door. Had they heard the shots? Must have, surely. I ran out of the room, down a corridor, to another bedroom on the far side of the house. I could hear them stomping up the stairs. Don’t know how many. Enough. I opened a window and went out through it as quickly as I could. I managed to climb out onto a ledge and then jump onto the lawn below. I was in the backyard. No cops there yet. They'd be calling for backup though. The whole place would be swarming with them in no time. I went over the back fence, around another house and then out onto Queen Street. No way I could go back to my car. I knew that there was a shopping complex, pubs, restaurants, just half a dozen blocks from where I was. I ran towards it. It was only 11:00 PM on a Saturday night. It would still be busy. I'd look for a cab. It’d be tight though. The cops would lock down the whole area any minute now.

  Prahran’s High Street shopping center was jammed with people. No cops yet. I stopped running, tried to blend in, walking along the sidewalk like everyone else, looking around for a taxi rank or a passing cab. I got to a rank and got in the first taxi waiting. I did my best to be calm and nonchalant,

  "City thanks mate. Around Flinders Street Station."

  He would probably be questioned in the coming days. I didn’t give him my final destination. I didn’t want him to remember anything much about me at all. We drove off and were soon racing down St Kilda Road, back towards the city. The road blocks went up ten minutes later. But I'd escaped. Just. Then it occurred to me. Oh crap. I’d just lost my shotgun.

  When I got back to the hotel Natasha was there waiting for me. She wrapped herself around me and then kissed me. She asked,

  "Where have you been?"

  I shrugged.

  "Had to see some people."

  She was still wearing nothing but the little silver chastity belt. She pointed down to it.

  "Any chance that ...?"

  I smiled at her.

  "Sorry darling, one more night."

  She growled at me,

  "Asshole."

  But she accepted it. Not that she any choice in the matter.

  Even though it had been six days I honestly didn’t feel like it that night anyway. I was too jittery, too worked up. The kills I'd just done were still rolling around in my mind. None more than when I cut Charleston’s throat. That was gruesome. More than I wanted really. Hard to forget. Natasha got out some more of Russel's weed and rolled a couple of joints. I put on some music. We lay on the couch together, smoking the pot, listening to the music. Natasha snuggled up against me. I found myself staring at her breasts. What an exquisite work of art they were. Gorgeous. Simply fucking gorgeous. Yeah, tonight I needed a good night's sleep. But tomorrow ... tomorrow was going to be fucking awesome.

  ------------------------------------------------

  The head of the Major Crimes Command Assistant Commissioner Michael Branton and the Commander of the Special Operations Group, Commander David Morton arrived at the crime scene in Prahran about an hour after the murder. There were a lot of police already there. They were escorted through the house and up the stairs into the main bedroom. They had a look over the crime scene. The forensics guys were already carefully scouring the room for hair, saliva, blood, skin flakes, finger prints. They were shown some pictures of the body, which had been removed some time earlier. They both did an involuntary double take when they saw Mrs. Dawson in the studded leather outfit. With the strapon. They saw her face. She looked angry, even in death. Assistant Commissioner Branton had met her a few times. She and her husband Frank were generous contributors to the police community fund. Branton smiled in a sad kind of way. Yeah there's no way that bitch would have gone down without a fight. She was all right. Was. They were also shown photos of the husband when he was still tied down over the bench. Branton looked over at David Morton. David Morton couldn’t help but snigger. He said, with almost a straight face,

  "Well, each to his own I suppose."

  Branton was also trying not to break out laughing. He replied,

  "I guess so. Well. Let's go talk to him. He's waiting in the next room."

  David Morton raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  "This will be interesting."

  The two men then walked into the bedroom next door to interview Frank Dawson. He'd refused medical treatment. Didn't need it. He was sitting on one of the beds wrapped in a blanket looking miserable. Branton had always thought Frank was a bit of a dweeb. He could never see what Debra saw in him. She could have done so much better. But now, well maybe things were a bi
t clearer. Frank looked up at them as they entered. He recognized Branton. Grunted an acknowledgement and then looked down, going red with embarrassment. Branton and Morton remained standing. Branton spoke somberly,

  "Hi Frank. We're both very sorry for your loss. You can be certain we’re going to get the bastard who did this."

  Morton joined in.

  "Yes. We are definitely gonna get him. I guarantee that."

  Frank Dawson didn’t look up. He mumbled something. Branton saw that they needed to encourage him. He was conciliatory.

  "Listen Frank, what's done in the bedroom between consenting adults is none of my god-dam business. I don’t care what you were doing."

  He looked at Morton, expecting a follow up. Morton got it. He chimed in,

  "Yeah mate, you do whatever you want, none of my fucking business."

  Neither of them were at all sincere. They both wanted to burst out laughing. But they did their best to suppress it and hoped Frank wasn't seeing it. He wasn’t even looking up at them. They needed information from him. That's why they were here.

  Branton pulled a sheet of pictures out of his pocket, unfolded it and passed it to Frank. There were twelve different images, all of them male, all reasonably similar in age and appearance. He asked,