by Carver Pike
“You were off fucking some whore,” she said. “You think you can come around here whenever you want, eat my food, sleep in my bed, watch my television, and then run off and fuck whatever whores you want?”
“I’m not a kid anymore,” I told her. “And you have no idea what I’m out there doing at night.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I have no idea. But if you’re going to stay here under my roof, you’re going to come home at a decent hour. Now go wash up and get ready for bed.”
My eyes were drawn to the way her silk robe hung loosely over her erect nipples. She was naked beneath the robe. Seeing that reminded me of the young boys she’d fucked. It reminded me of the life she’d ruined for me and all the others. It reminded me of what I might be today if I hadn’t been subjected to such a fucked up childhood.
My mind was split. One part of me loved her with all my heart and the other part of me despised her and wanted her to suffer. So I turned and left. That was the last time I’d stayed at her house.
I’d been gone for months when I finally decided to go home. The demons were getting too strong so I went to the only place that always seemed to sooth them, at least temporarily. I went back to Mrs. Rebecca’s house. I needed her to sing to me.
Ring around the rosy. Pocket full of posies. Ashes…ashes…we all fall down.
That wasn’t the only song she sang but it was the one that stayed with me. It was her favorite tune. Maybe it was the creepiness of it that kept it rattling around in my brain. Maybe it was the frequency at which I’d heard it. So many days, so many hours, so many minutes. She’d sang it to me and to the other kids, especially anyone suffering from a learning disorder. One kid had a cleft lip and she sang it. One had a stutter and she sang it. One had a lisp and she sang it.
I wanted her to sing it to me now, to help make the demons go away. So I went to her house and knocked softly on the front door. It was late so I knew she probably wouldn’t answer. She’d be asleep at that hour. So I entered and closed the door quietly behind me. I wasn’t halfway to her room when I heard the sighs. I knew the sound all too well.
Mrs. Rebecca moaned and sighed and whimpered. It was like I’d been whisked backed to my childhood where I’d sit on the living room couch or lie in bed at night and listen to the sexual symphony orchestrated in my mother’s room. At first it bothered me, then it saddened me, and after the Midnight Man and the demons came, it angered me. They’d taunt me saying things like, “Listen to that whore taking it in her ass,” and, “Oh he’s really giving it to her good this time,” and, “You should go join them in there you little pussy boy. Go get some of mama’s sweet ass.”
It never ended. Every night the demons would make fun of me and dare me to do something about it. The sound of Mrs. Rebecca getting fucked in her bedroom tore open a fresh wound. I’d come to her in need of comfort, in need of someone to help calm my thoughts and take the demons away, and she was in her bedroom fucking like always.
Her bedroom door was open a crack and when I went to it and peeked in, I was able to see her reflection in the dresser mirror. She was on top of a man. I could only see her back, but her hands were on top of her head, holding her hair up as she rode his cock. The man’s toes curled and his thighs shook as he clenched the bedsheet in his fists.
“Right there,” Mrs. Rebecca said. “Right…right…yes!”
As disgusted as I was, I couldn’t turn my eyes away. I’d heard her a million times but I’d never seen her in action. I wondered if this was a grown man or a teenage boy. She liked teenage boys so much. She always had. As I leaned closer to try and catch a better glimpse at him, my forehead pushed the door and it creaked open only an inch or two, but the sound cut through the still air and alerted them of my presence. I slammed the door shut and ran into the kitchen where I sat in a chair, waiting to confront her and this boy toy of hers.
How could she do this to me? How could she do this again? I thought I was special to her.
“Go out the window,” I heard Mrs. Rebecca say.
That made it clear I was not going to see her lover. He’d chosen an emergency exit rather than face me. He had to be a teenage boy. No respectable man would choose the cowardly way out, especially when dealing with a single woman. What had he thought, that her husband had come home and had disappeared quietly? No, a husband would have gone into that room and scalped his spineless ass.
Mrs. Rebecca did come to the kitchen. She hadn’t bothered to get dressed. Instead, she’d only wrapped a sheet around herself and had let her hair fall down her back. She walked past me and over to the refrigerator, where she pulled out a pumpkin pie and set it on the counter. She then got out a gallon of milk and poured herself a glass. She probably needed to get the taste of dick out of her mouth.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “The last time you were here you got angry and left.”
“The last time I was here you were the one who got angry,” I reminded her. “I simply left.”
“And now you’re back.”
“I thought you’d be able to help me. But you were too busy fucking a young boy again.”
She slammed her glass of milk down so hard it shattered and she was halfway to where I sat when I stood to meet her. Her hand struck my face at the same time mine shoved into her chest to try and keep her far enough away for me to pull my knife. I was going to gut her wide open right there on the kitchen floor so her new boyfriend could find her upon his next visit.
The chair behind her robbed me of my kill. Her feet must have found the puddle of milk on the floor because she slipped, fell backwards, flipped over and smacked her head against the kitchen counter. She lay on the floor and didn’t move. I couldn’t be sure if she was breathing so I crouched down next to her.
“Mrs. Rebecca?” I asked, not sure if now was the right time to call her mom.
She didn’t answer.
“Hey,” I said, nudging her leg. “You okay?”
She wasn’t okay. She was dead. No blood. Just a sickening thud and a crack. In a less dramatic fashion than I’d become accustomed to, Mrs. Rebecca was dead. I’d murdered her without the satisfaction of spilling her blood. The demons would be pissed. I’d be punished later. That much I was sure of. I stood and walked out into the living room where I glanced around, wondering if there was anything of value for me to take. It’s not like she was going to be needing any of her old shit anymore.
I found nothing worth stealing, and I was about to leave the house when I stopped and looked back at her again. My original plan was to leave her there for her new boyfriend to find. But what if he’d seen me through the crack in the door? What if he called the cops and someone finally did come looking for me? It wasn’t the thought of prison that scared me. It was the thought of being locked in a tiny cell with the demons taunting me forever. Without the blood to quench their thirst, they’d make me suffer for eternity. They’d nail my limbs to the cell floor and strike me with lightning over and over again.
I decided to get rid of the body. At least to dispose of it somewhere other than in the house. That way, if Mr. Dickdown decided to show up again, he could only wonder where she’d gone. Plus, if he was from around this neighborhood, he would never tell anyone he’d been at her house. To do so would mean a life of ridicule. He would be known as the guy who fucked the wicked witch. The guy who fucked the “Foster Fondler.” No, he wouldn’t be that stupid. So if I didn’t give him a body to find, he’d be off the hook too. We’d both sleep a little better tonight.
With her body wrapped up in her comforter and no blood around, I only needed to clean up the broken glass of milk. Then it was off to Mount Diablo Park. The details aren’t important at this point. I ditched her body in the bottom of an old ravine and then drove to the coffee shop where I watched Ava close up for the night. There, in my dark car, I masturbated once again to the beautiful blonde who’d turned me down. I came inside of a milkshake cup and tossed it out the window before going home. I’d alr
eady killed for the night. Ava was safe once again. If I could only find Nikki.
But then I did find her. She almost found me. I’ll get to that in a minute. To understand where I was mentally at that time, you need to understand how I’d evolved. I’d gone from tearing the wings off of flies to killing cats and dogs to slicing up homeless people with razorblades. I graduated to burning one man and stabbing others. I killed because the demons told me to. I was sloppy at first. It’s a wonder I was never caught. The demons protected me. I know that now. Yet, it was naïve of me to believe they’d continue to do that forever. I needed to keep growing and keep changing with each victim until I became what I was always meant to be.
I’m rambling. I apologize.
I was a serial killer. It had taken me a long time to put a label on it, and I think it took the death of my mother to shatter that final part of my mind that held onto something decent. With her passing, I became even more liberated than before. I had no home to run back to. I was on my own. And the demons suddenly weren’t so menacing. We came to an agreement. They told me what to do and I listened. The fun could finally begin. Instead of reluctantly ending lives to keep the demons at bay, I found a new zest for the sport of it.
Plus, I was giving the city something it so desperately needed. Something it hadn’t had in a long time. Something that wouldn’t allow people to prance around in the late night hours, doing whatever they wanted to, without any worry about the darkness all around them. I became a serial killer. A monster for the city to blame all its problems on. I could have simply carried a pistol and put a paper bag over my head and found couples making out in cars. Or I could have brought young boys to my home and drugged them and performed sexual acts on them before eating them. I could have dressed like a clown and buried young men beneath my house. Yet, I was no Zodiac, Dahmer, or Gacy. I needed to be up close and personal, I wasn’t gay, and I fucking hate clowns.
I was something unique. In honor of Mrs. Rebecca and her shitty dessert, I decided to put a spin on it and give the city something truly horrific to be concerned about. I would become the reason curfews were enforced, the boogie man parents warned their kids about, the shadow that made women run to their cars at night, and the fear that made men check their back seats before getting into theirs.
I became Simple Simon who met the pie man. You know how the nursery rhyme goes. It made sense. I hated pumpkin pie yet it was the one thing that my foster family and I had in common. So I used it. As silly as it might seem, I decided to create my own sick treats out of the bodies of my victims. While I went on about my day, stuttering, juggling for those who knew the daytime me, I pretended to love the mushy mud-like pies. I made an effort to eat them in public and make mention of them whenever someone asked me for coffee. It was all a game really. Like the way I chose my victims.
I picked people close by. Not necessarily friends, but definitely those familiar and who’d been dumb enough to step foot into The Motor Quill. They thought they were only stopping in to get some fresh ink when in reality they were making an appointment with death. Their new ink served as a beacon, calling me to them, begging for me to make them a part of my city-wide message. They unwittingly made themselves a part of my recipe.
My first murder, in what I’ve taken to calling my NEW AGENDA, didn’t work out quite like I’d expected it to. I set out for the night with my new Damascus HK 33 hunting knife. The bone sticking out of the bottom of the handle had called to me the weekend prior when I nearly passed it at an outdoor flea market. The man selling it was doing his best to keep it hidden from anyone not actually searching for a knife. He had it covered with a folded up newspaper. The sun glinted off the tip of the blade which was barely sticking out of the Classifieds section. The fact that he wasn’t supposed to be selling a 10-inch blade in the first place allowed me to strike a great deal. Two cops were headed our way, not on a mission but eating gyros like some of the other shoppers, and their approach made it easy for me to rush the deal.
So my new blade was there, tucked in a sheath at my hip, covered in a long black jacket, dangling above black cargo pants. Having it made me feel giddy, like I was on my way to my first day at school and had a backpack full of unused writing utensils. In my pants pockets, I had my other special items for the night. On my right was my first pumpkin pie ingredient: cloves. On my left, six syringes loaded with dope. Overkill sure, but that was kind of the point.
My victim was oblivious to my presence. I’d watched her all night but had been keeping my eye on her for a lot longer. She was a recent customer at The Motor Quill and had asked for a rose tattoo, one that stretched from her shoulder all the way down to her side. I think she may have been a biker’s ol’ lady, an added bonus since I’d gotten my ass kicked not long before by bikers. This girl was a druggy whore. The way she sucked the end of her cigarette, refusing to flick off the ashes that dangled over in a long curl, disgusted me.
When a whore is looking for dope, like the groupie I’d killed after the Shadow & Flame concert, they make dumb decisions and stupid mistakes. Like following a complete stranger into a shadowy alley. That was me, the mysterious stranger, who in her eyes was a guardian angel bringing her the “good stuff” that might make her forget her troubles.
It was too easy. I didn’t even wear a mask that time. You see, from the beginning I’d continued to evolve. I’d adapted. I was like a chameleon. I was a great fucking experiment of death with demon guidance to keep me following the right path. This night was a part of that process, a first step toward becoming the ultimate assassin, a true angel of death.
The plan was to give her the drugs and follow her back to her place so I could wait for her as she shot up. Then I’d shove the cloves right down her fucking throat. She’d choke to death. It would be as easy as that. Only it wasn’t.
“How far back there do we have to go?” the pretty brunette junkie asked as she followed me.
I wasn’t worried about her turning and leaving. She wanted what I had and would follow me to the ends of the earth if that’s what it took to get a hit. Sad really.
“What’s your name anyway?” she asked as she flicked her cigarette into a puddle. “In case I need to find you again.”
“Simon,” I said, using the name for the first time.
It struck me as funny and I had to fight back the urge to laugh. Later on the city would know this name well, but tonight it meant nothing.
“Simon,” she repeated. “Well, I’m Ally. I come to this club almost every night. I’ve never seen you around here before.”
“She wants to suck your cock,” Hag whispered in my ear.
I couldn’t allow her to distract me. The fucking demons could be so disruptive to thought out plans.
Ally and I were deep enough in the shadows. Nobody would see us. So I turned around and held out my hand. It contained only a small baggy of flour. I wasn’t sure how good she was at buying drugs but I hoped she’d fall for it.
Note to self. Plan the drug situation better next time. You can do better than this.
“CUT HER FUCKING THROAT!” Samuel yelled in my ear.
I winced from the sharp pain that shot through my head and lit up the back of my eyelids. Sometimes his voice, especially when unexpected, was too much to handle. It instantly brought on a migraine. In the process, I dropped the bag of flour onto the floor and stepped back, almost crashing against the cement wall behind me. A dripping sound in the alley seemed to provide a percussion to the moment, an odd soundtrack that beat through my head and pounded through my veins.
The bar was about fifty yards away, but even from that distance I could hear the sound of some kind of techno song giving a pulse to the city streets. THRUM THRUM THRUM BA DOOM THRUM THRUM.
“Are you okay?” Ally asked.
“I’m…I’m fine,” I said.
The fact that she cared enough to ask gave me a peek into her heart and I could tell that deep down she wasn’t only a druggie whore. She was a pleasant person wh
o might’ve gotten caught up in a rough life. It had probably been the biker gang’s fault. Yes, they were a gang, not a club. They were a gang who’d kicked the shit out of me for nothing more than idolizing them and wanting to sit on a Harley.
“You don’t look so hot,” Ally said.
She couldn’t see my face in the shadows but I suppose the way I was hunched over like I was about to vomit on the pavement was indication enough.
“I need to get high,” I lied. “Do it with me.”
It seemed like a good excuse for my behavior.
“FUCKING KILL HER!” Samuel yelled.
“Yes, kill her,” Hag said. “Then lick her pussy gently. I’d like to see that.”
“I’m sorry, hon,” Ally said. “Here’s the cash.”
She reached down to pick up the baggy and I realized she was about to walk away. If she went back into the club, it could be a long night of waiting for her again. Plus, as soon as she tried the shit and realized it wasn’t drugs, my opportunity would be gone. No, I needed to go back to her place so I could shoot her up with the shit in my pocket.
“I’m lying,” I suddenly said out of desperation.
“What?” she said as she stood with the baggy dangling between two fingers.
“I do need to get high,” I said. “But I want you too. I’ve seen you in the club before. I’m not gonna charge you for the dope. Just go out with me. Let’s get out of here and go do something fun.”
She stood and twirled her hair around one finger.
“You did all this to talk to me?” she asked.
She had to be thinking I was a creep. No girl in her right mind would see this as a compliment. I was losing it. She was going to think I was a dirty fucking weirdo and run back to the bar any second. I needed to fix this.
How can I fucking fix this?
“Tell her you want to eat her pussy,” Hag said.
“JUST FUCKING KILL HER!” Samuel yelled.
“Be nice,” Rotten said, and I was shocked he would suggest something so innocent.