Fun with Reporters

I received an email from a reporter who stumbled across my blog. He asked if I was for real, and if I was, how smart was it to post crimes for everyone to see. I told him of course it wasn't real. Who would post crimes on the internet for everyone to see? Ha ha.

Then I paid him a visit.

He came home from work late one evening and I was sitting in his small, unkept living room. It was the living room of a man who wouldn't be missed. He didn't even have a dog.

"I hear you have questions," I said, and he jumped a foot.

"Who are you?" he asked. It was a reasonable question.

"I'm the killer who doesn't exist."

"What...oh my God. From the blog."

"I'm going to kill you in a few minutes, Mr. Reporter, then I'm going to blog about it. And no one will believe it at all. The internet is a wonderful thing."

"But -- " he began, and I pointed a very large handgun at him.

"Or maybe I won't and say I did. Again, who will know? Who will care? And if I do somehow get caught, then what? To paraphrase a Jedi Master, I will become more popular than you can possibly imagine." I smiled. "What better way to hide what I do than to talk about it as if it were a lie?"

I stood up and walked over to Mr. Reporter. He would have to change his underwear soon, if given the chance. "Remember what happened to the curious cat." I said, and shot him in the head.

Or in the chest.

Or stabbed him in the throat.

Or left him standing there, sobbing quietly. Hard to say, really.

The Internet is a wonderful thing.

I've been Busy

Nina's sister, Mina, came to visit me.

Her reason, she said, was because she wanted to get to know the people who Nina knew the best, and who knew her the best. I pretended this made perfect sense as I hobbled around the house, pretending my leg hurt more than it did. Mina expressed the appropriate level of concern over my injuries, sustained while trying to save her sister, or at least that's how she seemed to think it happened. I certainly didn't correct her.

We talked for more than an hour. I was careful not to let her catch me looking anywhere I shouldn't, but I memorized every curve for thorough review later.

By the end of the visit I knew that Mina would either be my new protege, or my next trophy.

The Funeral

The morning of Nina's funeral was wet and unseasonably cool. I was still bruised and limping along with the help of crutches. I probably could have made due with a small cane, but it never hurt to play up one's injuries.

As funerals go, it was fine. Probably the most interesting thing that happened was meeting Nina's sister, Mina. She was about fifteen years old at most, dressed in a long black dress of something reminding me of silk. She was the spitting image of Nina, only younger and a bit more goth. She caught me staring at her, and nodded in my direction. I could tell she knew who I was, and that I had dated her sister. Had been in the car with her, as the story went.

I couldn't help but wonder if, with a bit of coaching, Mina could take her sister's place in my life.

New Developments

The past few weeks have been simply weird. Even in my world.

Nina was a special case. She had been seen with me and we were coworkers, and I needed to do something to keep suspicion off of me. It had to look like something other than murder. ANYTHING other than murder.

So I went with a car crash. It wasn't easy setting everything up. But where there's a will, there's a way. The next night I put her inside her car and drove to a particularly treacherous section of highway. I had to give it some thought as to how to shoot the car off the edge of the road. I couldn't just put it in neutral and roll it down an embankment. The police are too sophisticated for shit like that. They'd wonder why she had the car in neutral, and how she suffered such extensive blunt force trauma when the car was rolling so slowly. No, whatever I did had to be real.

And I would have to take one for the team, this time.

I propped poor Nina in the driver's seat of her Mazda 3. Sitting in the passenger seat, I was just barely able to steer and hit the gas at the same time. Anytime other than three in the morning, and anyone observing us would have thought I was playing twister in the front seat. I aimed the car more or less at the edge of the road and floored it. Right before we popped the curb I opened the passenger side door and threw myself out.

The Mazda 3 jumped the curb with no problem, then sailed over the edge and down the hill into a small revine that had eaten up more than its shares of wrecks in its life. It was far from the Grand Canyon, but it had a number of sturdy trees at the bottom, and when the car hit them it was moving pretty fast. The front of the car crumpled and stopped with a rending of metal and fiberglass. Nina, as full of inertia as the car but far lighter, didn't stop, and exploded through the windshield and into the thicket of trees. It made quite a mess.

All this I had to piece together from the police report, because after I hit the pavement I rolled about twenty feet and passed out. No matter what you see on television, jumping from a moving vehicle hurts!

I ended up with a broken leg, a bruised rib, and a lot less skin down my right side.

But everyone says it could have been much worse. Look at poor Nina...

No Escape

I sometimes wonder if it's even possible to escape your fate. Does your nature ensure that you must continue to spiral as you always have?

I am reminded of the story of the scorpion and the horse. A horse and a scorpion were at the bank of a river. The water was high enough that the horse could only just keep his nose above water when crossing, but because of the depth he couldn't see where he was going. The scorpion was far too small to get across at all. So the two made a deal. The horse would carry the scorpion across on his nose, and in return the scorpion would lead the way. But the horse made the scorpion promise not to sting him.


Halfway across, the scorpion stung the horse. As the horse began to die from the poison, he shouted, "Scorpion! Why did you sting me? Now we'll both die in the river!"

And the scorpion replied, "I'm sorry, it is my nature to sting."

Which brings us to the events of this last weekend.

I live in an old house that gives me plenty of privacy. Although I usually don't do my killing at home, I do keep my trophies there. My trophy room is in the back yard, or under it I should say. I have an old shed in the back, and the floor of the shed is a door to an old bomb shelter built by the previous owners. It's enormous, and has it's own electricity. Down there I have several freezers that are no longer stocked with food, but instead have souveniers from most of my kills. Sometimes I go down there, take off my clothes, listen to music, and remember the hunting.

No one is allowed down there, for obvious reasons.

But some people don't understand boundaries.

Nina spent the night on Saturday. At some point during the night, she decided she couldn't sleep, and decided to explore. So she pulled on one of my shirts and a pair of socks, and went looking around. The house proved to be far too bland for her tastes, which is something I work very hard to maintain. Then the shed in the back yard caught her attention. God only knows what she thought she'd find in that shed, but it certainly wasn't what she ended up finding.

Opening the shed set off an alarm in my bedroom, that instantly woke me up. I saw the empty spot next to me in the bed, and knew what must be happening. I hoped I could get to her before she went down into the bunker, but the odds were against me.


I ran straight there, not even stopping for clothes. As I pulled open the shed door, I heard Nina scream.

She had opened one of the freezers. I came down the steps slowly. She was illuminated in the dim light of the bunker. As I passed one of my work tables, my hand absently crossed over the tools there and picked up one, which I then held limply by my side. Nina had her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide. I didn't have to look to know what she was seeing. She was at freezer one, which had my first three victims in it, the mother from the grocery store on top. At least her torso was on top.

Nina didn't seem to see me at first. She took a small step backwards, then turn towards me. Her mouth couldn't seem to form any words.

A dull, black wind buffeted inside my head, then settled over me like a wet tarp. "I'm sorry you had to see this, Nina," I said. I heard my voice from all around. "You weren't supposed to come here."

And then I could see her make the connection. I could see her realize I was a monster, and she was trapped in a room with me. My grip tightened on the hammer in my hand. It was heavy enough.

She turned and ran. But there was nowhere for her to run. The bunker ended in a wall, a cold wall with no options. I walked over to her, keeping myself between her and the exit. She was panicking, scared beyond reason. I had seen it all before. I had done it all before.

Like a movie panning back I saw myself approach her. I made no sounds. I'm not even sure I was breathing. Then, with calm precision, I lashed out, hitting her in the temple with the hammer. She dropped to her knees, and tried to stand as I hit her again. And again. And again.

I don't know when she died. Or when I stopped hitting her. I usually remember that stuff. But this wasn't for pleasure. This was survival.

A waste, really. I'll have to get a better lock on that shed door. I'm surprised I left it unlocked. I must have been distracted.

A Different Type of Sex

Sex with Nina is different from what I'm used to. Sure, some of it has to do with not killing her in the process. I'm not that bad at self-awareness. I think it's the mutualness of the whole thing. She wants it as bad as I do.

That I'm not used to.

At first I was afraid I wouldn't be able to perform in a more - traditional - fashion than I was used to. I needn't have worried. She handled me like an expert. In the end, it was wonderful.

I could get used to this.

Something Unexpected

Image by Monroe's Dragonfly via Flickr

I almost made a huge mistake. Remember how I mentioned I try not to hunt close to home? It's always a bad idea. The cops consider a person's stomping ground to be full of suspects. It's just a bad idea. But this new intern, Nina, just grabbed onto me somehow, and I had been stalking her. I was trying not to let my urges get the better of me, and I told myself I wouldn't follow through. But I followed her. I couldn't help it.

And she caught me doing it. I saw that she was interested in old books, so I bought a first edition online. It was a copy of Stranger in a Strange Land. I was carrying it with me to use as a talking point in case I ran into her at the bookstore (I was following her, after all). And as I rounded the corner into the bookstore, she was standing there waiting for me.

"You were dragging behind, so I thought I'd let you catch up," she said.

I said something completely nonsensical.

"It's ok. I'm flattered that you've shown so much interest. The least I could do is let you buy me a cup of coffee." She smiled and stars flew.

It was the best cup of coffee I've ever had. We have plans to go out again. She doesn't seem to mind the age difference, we got that out of the way fast. I keep myself in shape, so I don't look older than 30, and she has very mature interests.

I could kill her without breaking a sweat. I imagine what it would be like, and I have mixed emotions. I wonder if I'd like her more or less covered in blood.

But I haven't had a date in a very long time. That, too, could be thrilling.

Where I Came From - More History

I've read that a lot of people like me come from broken homes. I'm not really sure what that means, but whether my home was broken or not, it certainly had some cracks. My Dad was a pussy as long as I can remember, either hiding all the time in his workshop or on the road. My sister was a whore, but she could do no wrong in the eyes of my parents. I think my Dad was probably doing her, but I can't be sure, and Mom never said anything. If they were screwing it meant she didn't have to, so she was fine with that. I haven't seen my sister in years. I'm not sure what I'd say to her if I saw her.

My Mom was a real piece of work. Crazy as a shithouse rat, and that's coming from me. I know that shehad Borderline Personality Disorder, but then I had no idea what was going on. She's twist from loving and cheerful to a psychotic bitch in the blink of an eye. You never knew what would trigger her storms, or what direction they would blow. Dear old dad would hide until it blew over, sis would go off in a corner where no one noticed her, so it always seemed that I was the one the winds favored.

I remember one time I dropped my toothbrush in the bathroom. She saw me rinse it off, and

Image via Wikipedia

flew into a rage. She felt that it was disgusting to use a toothbrush that was on the floor, so she grabbed by cup and filled it with water from the toilet. She made me drink the water, saying if I was so filthy that I could brush with a dirty toothbrush, I could drink toilet water. I was four years old.

Then there was the time she was angry because a neighbor had made a comment about our yard that she found insulting. It had nothing whatsoever to do with me. But there wasn't anyone else around to take her crazy anger out on, so she chased me around the house, beating me with a broom handle. I jumped out a window and ran off into the woods, where I stayed for three more hours until she calmed down. I knew the storm had blown away when she stopped throwing rocks and some of my smaller toys at me in the woods.

Often she would hit me just because she was having a bad day. Then she would joke about it with her friends. Real funny shit, that.

It was like that all the time. I truly hated that bitch. But not at first. After all, she was my mother. Who hates their mother, even when she's a flaming psycho? You're a kid, you don't know any better. You figure if she's holding you down and burning you with a cigarrette, it's because you were a bad child. If she's making you drink drain cleaner, it's because she's trying to make you learn how to act around your betters.

It was a long time before I realized it wasn't me, it was her. By then there was a lot of rage in me. But the last time she hurt me, I let that rage out. It came washing over her in the form of a gasoline can and a match.

The authorities said it was an accident, possibly arson. Since it killed both my parents, and my sister and I were sent off to join the ranks of the social worker elite, no one thought to connect the accelerant to me. If they had known how she treated me, they might have looked a little closer. Then again, they might not have.

Fire can be a wonderous, cleansing thing.

New Intern

There's a new intern at work. She's fucking gorgeous. Not quite old enough to drink, but with a firm rack and wonderful dark features. I normally don't hunt near my own watering hole, so to speak, but I'm finding it difficult to stick to that rule.

History 2

Her name was Nancy, and she was in my Intro to Physics class, along with about two hundred other strangers. I watched her a lot during class (come on, what else is there to do in a college physics lecture). She had short brown hair, full lips, small but perky tits, and an ass that looked like two bowling balls defying gravity. I loved watching her walk in and take her seat. Poetry in motion.

I watched her out of class as well. I got to know where she went, how long she stayed there, and who her friends were. One Saturday night, when her roommate was out of town visiting her parents, she went bar hopping with the girls. She wore a thin black babydoll tee and white tights that showed off that butt of hers. When she came home, she was totally shitfaced. And I was already there, watching from inside her apartment.

She passed out on the bed, face down. And I went to work.

I carefully tied her ankles and wrists to the bedposts, making sure not to wake her. Although, to be honest, a high school marching band wouldn't have awaken her. I was being especially daring that night. Although I was wearing gloves and one of those clean suits you wear in labs, I had modfied it so I could get my condom covered junk out at the right time. I had shaved every inch of my body except for my head, which was under the suit's hood.

I slipped a cord around her neck ever so gently, and then, like riding a horse, I entered her from behind.

She didn't wake up at first. If I were a lesser man, I probably could have just fucked her and she never would have known. Maybe if the dark storm inside me weren't wailing so strong, I might have left it at that.

But not this time.

I began to twist the cord around her neck in time with my thrusts, and that's when she started to stir. She never really had a chance, of course. Waking up in a drunken fog while someone chokes the life from you? She probably didn't have any idea what was happening until it was too late.

She started to buck wildly, trying to throw me off, but I held on even tighter. I came explosively and twisted as hard as I could, finishing her off. She shuddered a bit more, then was still.

The sex had been great, I'm not going to kid you about that. But it wasn't what really got me off. It was feeling her life pass between my fingers, that was the real thrill. That was what the Dark Storm wanted, and that is what it fed on.

I zipped the suit up, leaving the condom on, and made sure everything I had brought was accounted for. In passing the kitchen, I opened the fridge and tossed back a Corona, then added the bottle to my gear.

I saw this as a big event in my life. My first fully planned and executed killing. Something to savor. I opened a large duffle bag that I had brought for this purpose, and carefully squeezed Nancy into it. She wasn't terribly big, so it was pretty simple. And, although I may have been small when I dealt with Dean, I was a decent sized college boy. I was able to carry her out with no problem.

Nancy joined the ever growing ranks of the Missing. There was the usual search and media circus, but they never found her. I know. She's still in my personal collection.

History Lessons

I didn't kill anyone for a long time after that. There was the incident with my mother, but I'll tell that one some other time.

But I always had the urge to, buried deep inside. And as time went on, that dark beast worked its way towards the surface.

At first I could keep it at bay by pretending. I would stalk a potential victim, and stop just short of contact. That helped for a while, and I learned many valuable hunting skills. I'd see someone that caught my fancy, maybe in line at the store, maybe at a restaurant. I'd follow them for a while, learn their routine, where they lived. Then I'd go to their home late at night. At first the excitement of being so voyeuristicly close was enough to get me off. But each time was less thrilling than the last. And I knew soon I'd have to consummate the act.

Next I'll tell you about when I finally did succumb.

My First

I remember the first time I killed someone.

I was thirteen years old, but even then I knew I was different. And more than that, people around me knew. Some people sense the difference and stay away. Some, not understanding they are feeling a kinship, mistake the difference for weakness and try to take advantage of you. I was small for my age, so at first these people were successful.

At first.

This one redneck fuck caught me in the locker room after gym. Just as I was small for my age, he was big, although most of it was fat. Usually his daily tortures were more along the lines of half-witted mockery or the occassional wedgie. But today he felt daring.

His name was Dean. Such a promising name for an inbred mountain stain with a fledgling taste for sodomy. He held me down over a locker room bench nestled in a corner, and with a mixture of violence and urgency he fumbled his way inside me. It didn't last long, as there just wasn't that kind of time for anything of length (no pun intended), and I gritted my teeth and didn't give him the satisfaction of tears. It wasn't the first time I had been abused, after all. Just the first time in a locker room.

He laughed as he left me there to clean myself up. I hope he enjoyed it. I got my turn later that night.

The stupid bastard never saw me coming. He even slept with his window open. While his crack whore mom was out doing God knew what, and no one else in the house, I had no trouble getting Dean tied to his bed before he woke up. Rope and duct tape are wonderful things. When I was sure we wouldn't be interrupted, and I had my gloves on and a tarp from the garage over the floor, I went to work on him. I used a fillet knife for most of the work, experiments, really. Seeing what made him squirm the most. But when I really needed to do some serious cutting, I had a large hunting knife from Wal-Mart. He lasted longer than I expected. Long enough to see some of his own goodies dangled in front of his face.

No one was able to pin anything on me. It helped that there was a "mysterious fire" at Dean's house. I'm sure there was some concern over the condition of Dean's body, even as burned as it was. But no one lobbyed for white trash, and the matter dropped. No one even considered me, as far as I know. But there were rumors at school. "It's bad luck to fuck with that kid," that kind of thing. It never reached the adults, and we didn't have Facebook in those days, so whatever people may have suspected, it was nowhere near as bad as the truth.

Ain't it always that way? lol

Those Who Have Gone Before. Pussies.

Anyone who has studied serial killers knows the names of the country's most famous. Each has lessons to teach, but I am not like them. They couldn't control their demons, and they were truly messed up. Ed Gein thought he could become a woman by draping himself in their body parts. That's nuts. Ted Bundy slept with rotting corpses. Even I know that it takes forever to get that smell out of your hair and clothes, and people recact negatively to the smell of death. He did leave some great quotes, though. My favorite is:

“We serial killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are everywhere. And
there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.”

John Wayne Gacy was a faerie, but at least he was good at what he did. Albert Fish was plain whacked. I could stick pins into my balls, too, but why the fuck would I? He liked kids. I suppose I can understand that, but it isn't my thing usually.


Herman Webster Mudgett had a cool killing castle, and it would be neat to have one of those. But these days, how would you get away with it? But sometimes I imagine owning a Neverland Ranch or Disney World where no one ever gets out of the castle. lol


Coral Eugene Watts is the poster boy for almost sticking it to the Man. He came this close to getting immunity for 80 murders. But in a fairly expected turn of events, the state reniged on his immunity and he went to jail. He died from prostate cancer. So much for doing the Lord's work.

Good ol' Warren...he's a riot

After ten long years
they let him out of the home

Excitable boy, they all said

And he dug up her grave
and built a cage from her bones

Excitable boy, they all said

My Normal Suit

I know I'm crazy, if that's the word for it. For being different on a fundamental level from the people around you. I guess that's the definition of crazy.

But I'm not stupid. Or at least not so crazy that I can't tell that acting crazy will get me noticed in ways I don't want. Ways that will restrict my freedom and my ability to satisfy certain cravings, certain needs. So I act not-crazy. And I do it very well. I've learned to mimic the normal behavior of those around me so often I seem more normal than they do.

I have a normal 9-5 job working in IT at a company in downtown Richmond. I'm one of the "server guys," so I end up with all sorts of access to information that is considered confidential. The place I work handles mortgages and developer funding for low income loans, so I have a wealth of personal information to dip into, if I feel the urge.

Ever wondered if anyone reads your email at work? Well, they do. All the time. Usually it's just a matter of being nosey. But sometimes you run across someone like me, who does it for a completely different reason. I do it to help pick prospects, to help seperate the weak from the herd. You think that email you exchanged with your co-worker to meet them for dinner was a secret? It's just between you, your co-worker, and me. And if I have the mood, your co-worker may never even know about it.

Then it's just you and me.

Just an excitable boy

You don't know me. Don't even pretend that you do.

Oh, chances are you know a version of me. I may even sit in the cubicle next to you. I seem nice enough, a little outgoing, a little charming, but not too much. I have a devilish grin, and sometimes my eyes twinkle when you think I don't know you're looking.

But that's not me. That's the suit I wear so I can move through all you normal people with ease. I don't hate you. I don't envy you. For the longest time I didn't even know what to do with you.

I'm not Dexter. I'm not Hannibal. I'm not anyone you've seen on TV or in the movies. I am death walking. But when you look at me, you see everyone you've ever liked. You wouldn't even mind if your daughter dated me. And most likely, she would be fine.

Unless a dark mood came over me. Unless my need required un-needing. Then your daughter might just join all the others. She might vanish from the face of the earth, and remain only in your memories. And my freezer.