“Here comes someone, get ready,” Rabbit grabbed the bat with both hands.
My whole body shook, but I couldn’t back out now. I watched as what looked like a man move closer with each step. Rabbit raised the bat above his head. We stood in the alley concealed from the figure walking towards us.
The figure stopped, lit a cigarette, turned around and headed back the way it had come from. “Shit, another few steps and I would’ve smashed his brains in.” Rabbit said, and lowered the bat.
I took out my notebook and started writing.
“What’n the hell you doing?” Rabbit demanded.
“I’ve got to write my feelings down so I can explain them later.” I put the notebook in my pocket.
“Yeah write out your confession before the cops even ask you to,” Rabbit gave me a disgusted look, “You want to kill somebody tonight or not?”
“I -- yeah -- I still wan -- t to -- do it.”
“Keep that fucking notebook in your pocket then, or I’m outta here,” he took a practice swing and smashed the side of a garbage can. A cat flew out and sped down the alley. Rabbit laughed.
“If I’d a known the cat was in there, I‘d smashed it instead of the can,” he took another swing and the garbage can folded around the bat. I knew then he was a psychopath without a conscience.
My name’s Jim Morrison and I write murder mysteries. Or should I say, I want to. My parents saw to it that I lived a sheltered life. Talk about being overprotective, I couldn’t shit without them asking if everything came out all right. I just moved to Boston proper from the suburb called Watertown. A good name because everything was watered down there, particularly the action. Christ I’ve never even been in a fight. Never saw anyone bleed, get beat, or murdered. How was I supposed to write about things I knew nothing about? The answer to that question, I knew was to learn, live the life it took to experience some action for a change. Now that I had moved out of my parent’s house I decided my life was going to be one continuous blur of exciting happenings.
Two weeks ago, I loaded my .38 snub nosed revolver and stuck it in my shoulder holster. I know there’s a better place to carry a gun, but in my story my protagonist will use a shoulder holster. So I would too. So I’d experience how it felt.
I headed downtown Boston, where I heard a lot of the bottom feeders hung out. I headed for the Palace Bar on Tremont Street. It was a known hangout for the riff raff, and that’s what I wanted to meet. As soon as I walked in the door every head turned to look at me, trying to decide if I was predator or prey.
My knees shook as I looked around the dimly lit bar. It wasn’t so dim that I couldn’t see the trash and butts that littered the floor, and the light had no effect on the overpowering stink of burning cigarettes, stale beer and unwashed bodies. I cautiously walked toward one of the few vacant bar stools that lined the long bar. I felt the weight of every eye in the place on me. I sat on the stool and ordered a Bud when the bartender looked at me. Sitting on my left was a small blond woman, decked out in a massive amount of costume jewelry. One whiff of her and I figured her money would have been better spent on a bottle of perfume. Her sagging tits practically hung out of her low cut blouse. On my right sat a very large man. In the dim bar light I couldn’t tell if he was white or Negro.
“Hey sweetie, buy me a drink,” the blond lady with her tits hanging out asked.
I signaled the bartender and motioned for him to bring her a drink.
“You buying man?” a deep voice emanated from the large man.
“Sure, my name’s Jim,” I stuck my hand out.
“Rabbit here,” we shook hands.
“Unique name,” I wiped my hand on my pants and prayed he didn’t see what I did.
“Well Jim, they call me that cus I fuck like a rabbit.”
“You mean you get a lot?”
“Nah, I’m fast. How about you, you get a lot?” he looked me in the eye.
“Yeah, I get plenty,” I lied.
“You can get some tonight honey if you buy me another,” the lady on my left said.
I almost spit my beer out. I wouldn’t screw her with Rabbits dick. “I’ll buy you another, and thanks for the offer, but not tonight.
“What’re you some kinda faggot or something, turning down a choice piece of pussy like that?” he swallowed the shot of Cutty Sark I had bought him and slammed the glass on the bar. “Buyin another,” he looked me in the eye and dared me to say no.
This is what I was looking for. Stimulation, fear, sex, things I lacked enough experience of to write about. “Sure Rabbit, I’ll buy you another.
“Ha, thought so, you’re a fucking faggot.” He pulled back on his barstool and looked at me askance.
“No, I’m no fucking queer. I’m just being friendly,” I said in as calm a voice as I could.
I imagined the wheels turning in his pea brain, trying to figure out what I was. Someone he could take advantage of, or was I someone trying to take advantage of him. The bartender put his shot of scotch in front of him and I guess he decided as long as I was buying it didn’t matter. He lifted the glass in salute and smiled. He only had three teeth that I could see through his crooked smile.
“Well if you ain’t in the market for no pussy, I’m outa here,” the lady said.
I folded up a fin and handed it to her, “Here’s your entrance fee for the next bar,”
She looked at it, stuck it under her left tit and said, “Thanks.”
“Hey Rabbit, anybody ever get killed in here?”
“Sure, all the time. Why?”
“You can probably tell I’m not used to being in a place like this,” I waved my hand indicating the bar.
“Seen that soon as you walked in,” he held up his empty glass.
I signaled the bartender for two more drinks. “Well, the reason I’m here, is . . . well . . . I don’t quite know how to say it.”
“Spit it out, you got something to say, say it.”
“I-- uh -- oh all right. I’m a writer and I write about criminals and murderers, and I’ve never even seen a dead body outside of a funeral parlor. How the hell am I going to write about something that I know nothing about?”
“That’s why you’re here, to see someone get killed,” he burst out laughing, hell I’ve seen over a hundred guys get killed.”
“Wow, ever kill one yourself?” He grabbed me by the collar and pulled my face close to his. His whiskers scratched my face and his stinking breath leaking through his mangled mouth reminded me of dead fish.
“You some kind of fuckin cop?”
“Take it easy,” I put my hand inside my jacket and gripped the .38. If I had to, I knew I could shoot him, because I went to the firing range weekly and knew how to use a firearm. I wasn’t that interested in shooting, but I went there to talk to the cops who came there to target shoot. That was one of the ways I researched my stories. If it wasn’t for that comforting feeling of that Colt in my hand, I probably would have shit my pants. “No, I told you I’m a writer,” he let go. I took my hand off the Colt.
“What if I told you I killed six or seven guys?”
“I don’t think I’d believe you.”
“I don’t lie asshole,” he gave me a mean look.
“I’m not calling you a liar, it’s just that anyone can say they did anything. That’s what I do for a living, write about things I’ve never done. That’s why I’m here. To actually do something before I write about it.”
“Motherfucker!” one guy who was playing pool yelled so loud I almost jumped off the stool.
“I’ll fuck your mother all right,” answered his opponent.
Rabbit stood up, now I saw that he was at least six foot five and I’d bet he weighed three hundred or more pounds. The two guys at the pool table were now swinging wildly at each other. The bartender came to where Rabbit stood, “Ten bucks Rabbit if you shut them up,” Rabbits face lit up with pleasure. He walked to the wall where a rack held a dozen or so pool sticks. He fingered through them until he found one he liked and stood there taking batting practice with the stick. The combatants didn’t even know he was there when he stepped up to the plate. With a vicious swing that sounded like a hammer hitting a watermelon when it landed against one fighter’s temple. The other fighter looked up just in time to see the pool cue swinging directly towards his face. There was an explosion of blood and teeth as the heavy end of the stick caught him directly on the mouth. He fell to the floor unconscious.
The only sound in the entire bar was Leroy Brown playing on the jukebox. Every patron in the joint watched as Rabbit went to work on his helpless victims. First he stomped both faces bloody and then gave each man several hard kicks to the crotch. He picked some bills off the table and stuffed them in his pocket and strutted over to where I sat.
“Teach them assholes to fight in the palace,” he placed the bills he had taken off the pool table on the bar, looked to be about twenty bucks.
“You get to keep their money?”
“Yeah, it’s a bonus for a job well done,” he swallowed his whiskey and signaled for another for both of us.
“This one’s on them,” he pointed to the still unconscious men on the floor.
“Hell you knocked them out with two swings. Why’d you keep on beating them?”
“A lot of stupid people come in here, and when they get beat, they’re not smart enough to know it, and they ask for more. I make sure when they wake up their bodies tell them they’ve been beat, and beat bad.”
The bartender brought us our drinks, refused to let Rabbit pay and laid a crispy new ten dollar bill atop the pile of bills in front of Rabbit. One of the guys on the floor was moving. Rabbit walked over and grabbed the back of his collar, dragged him to the door, stood him up and propelled him through the door into the street. He returned and repeated the performance with the other guy who was starting to stir.
This was great, my first night out and I witnessed a fight, an ass kicking by Rabbit. I was offered sex by a hooker, and the night was still young. I knew I’d have plenty to write about comes tomorrow.
“Getting back to what we were talking about,” Rabbit said, “You’re telling me you get paid to lie?” he looked at me like he thought I was bullshitting him.
“Not exactly lying, I make up stories that aren’t true, but its called fiction, not lies.”
“Bullshit, how can you write about something you’ve never done?”
“I use my imagination,” as I told him that I knew he was right. How many fights had I written about before tonight? Everyone I wrote about was a bland description of what I saw with my own eyes. The sound of flesh against flesh, the smacking noise of pool stick hitting someone’s head, a mouth smashed with the teeth and blood flying, the sound of a man being repeatedly kicked in the nuts. Rabbit the aggressor being so nonchalant about beating the men after they were helpless. Could I have ever thought of a line like, “I make sure when they wake up their bodies tell them they’ve been beat, and beat bad”?
“Imagination, I can show you shit you’d never imagine,” he looked at me to see if I believed him or not.
“I don’t know about that, I’ve got a pretty good imagination,” I said confidentially.
“Bullshit, I watch those T.V. shows and movies where they’ll have a robbery and those writers don’t know shit about what really happens,” he threw his cigarette to the floor and stomped on it, “The last liquor store I robbed the clerk puked when I stuck my gun in his face. How many times you seen that in the movies?”
I’d never even heard of that happening and started to think maybe he was right. I’d have to experience a lot of things before I could write about them. “Do you get scared when you’re robbing someone?”
He looked at me like I accused him of treason.
“Scared, what do you think I am some kind of pussy? You come with me and I’ll show you how scared I get,” he opened his shirt and I saw a very large pistol stuck in his waistband.
He stood and pushed me hard enough that I slipped off the barstool and had to stand. “C’mon asshole, scared, I’m going to show you who gets scared when I’m working,” he took his money from the bar, led me to the door holding my arm. Once outside he hailed a cab. One stopped, he pushed me in and slid in beside me. “Charles Street Jail,” he told the cabbie.
“Why are we going to the jail?”
“Just shut your mouth, you’ll see.” He rode silently and stared out the window. Once he saw the cement walls surrounding the jail he said, “Right here is good,” the cabbie stopped and Rabbit paid him.
At least he wasn’t going to rob the cabbie.
“Over there,” rabbit pointed toward a blinking neon sign that said, “Discount liquor.” It was directly across the street from the jail.
He pushed, dragged me with him across the street. He handed me a rolled up nylon stocking. “Put this on,
“Wait, let’s talk about t ….”
“Shut up, put it on,” he rolled a nylon over his head, pulled out that big pistol that was an old army issue .45 and pointed it at me. “Last time, put it on.”
I was still putting the stocking over my face when he pushed me through the door into the brightly lit interior where three customers were lined up to pay for their liquor.
“On the floor, motherfuckers,” Rabbit yelled in his deep threatening voice as he rushed toward the line of customers. Stunned they just looked at him. “Motherfucker, I said on the floor,” he slapped one customer in the face with the heavy barrel of the .45. His cheek split open, blood flew. The other two customers dropped to the floor. The clerk stood with his arms on the counter.
“You deaf motherfucker?” Rabbit headed for him and he dropped to the floor. “Smell that shit?” he asked me, “these guys are so scared they shit their pants.”
“I didn’t,” the clerk said.
Rabbit kicked him in the face. “When I want to hear from you, I’ll let you know. You,” he looked at me, “get their wallets, watches, jewelry and any loose cash in their pockets.”
I hesitated, he pointed the .45 at me, and I started collecting wallets and watches while Rabbit filled a sack with money from the register.
A chime went off as a new customer walked through the door. Rabbit ran to him, grabbed him by the collar and threw him farther into the store. He started to protest, he got the gun barrel across the face. More blood flew across the store as he was struck.
“Get his fucking goodies,” Rabbit yelled at me.
I did as told. While I was taking his watch off the chime went off again and Rabbit repeated his performance. The bag I was putting wallets, watches and jewelry in was getting full. I got a larger bag from the counter and dumped all the loot in there. I added the newest customer’s wallet and watch to the collection when the chime went off as another customer came into the store. Rabbit had it down to a science now. One whack across the face with the gun barrel sent blood and sometimes teeth flying. The customer wouldn’t have time to think before I was relieving them of their valuables.
Another chime, “Hey the place is getting full up,” I told Rabbit.
I think my words brought him out of a sort of trance he was in. He looked like he could have gone on all night pistol whipping whoever came through the door. He grabbed the customer coming through the door, put the .45 against his temple and said, “He’s my hostage, call the cops before ten minutes are up, and he’s dead,” he pushed the terrified man back out the door, I followed.
“Which car is yours?” he asked the hostage
“That one there, with the motor running.”
Rabbit struck him on the head with the .45. He fell to the snow covered ground and bled into the snow, a halo of red spread around his head.
“You drive,” Rabbit said.
I pulled the stocking from my head and stuffed the loot into it, then jammed it between the seats. Rabbit pulled the stocking from his head and in the light I still couldn’t tell if he was black or white.
I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I didn’t dare tell Rabbit, but when he said someone had shit their pants back there in the liquor store, it was me. As I drove, my emotions were all over the place, I was grossed out sitting in my own shit, I was excited with all the action, I was terrified, but at the same time extremely gratified with being in charge, thinking those lives were in my hands. Adrenaline pumped through me like never before. I guessed this was why so many turned to crime, not for the money, but for the thrill.
“Take a right here, It’ll take us right to the Palace, Rabbit pointed to a side street and I turned onto it.
“I’m going to call it a night Rabbit,” I had to get home to get out of my shit filled underwear.
“Well, what did ya think of our little episode tonight?” he grabbed the stocking full of loot from in between the seats where I had jammed it.
“You’re right about being there. I’d never imagine a robbery like that.”
“Go home and write sonny, when you want some more grown up action you know where to find me,” he got out when I stopped in front of the Palace.
I parked two blocks from my apartment, and the longest walk in my life was that two blocks. My underwear stuck to me and I could smell myself. A shower seemed like heaven and I kept thinking of how good it was going to feel until I actually turned the water on and watched the brown water run down the drain.
X#
I started writing the next day and wrote for three straight days. My novel was coming along great. I wrote the fight and robbery scenes to perfection. Now I was stuck on the murder scene. Everything I wrote seemed artificial. The motive, method and actual killing all seemed unbelievable to me.
I thought about Rabbit and wondered about the men he said he had killed. Maybe I could watch him kill someone. Shocked at my thought, I sat up straight. How could I even think that? I knew better, one can’t watch a murder and do nothing about it. It would be uncivilized to do such a thing.
How about robbery? I asked myself. Didn’t I aid and abet in one just for the experience?
“Sure I did,” I answered myself, “But I’m not a criminal. I just accompanied him so I could write about the experience. Perfectly acceptable,” I assured myself. I justified that to myself and went to work on my conscience to justify watching a murder. “If he’s going to do it anyway, and I happen to be there, I’d be just like a war correspondent. Reporting on the deaths, not causing them,” that convinced me it would be all right to witness one.
That very night I found my way back to the Palace. I was approaching the door when a woman bleeding from her nose exploded through the door, “Don't mosey on waaay down back bitch, we duzn't wants' no dievin' cunts around here. S coo', yo',” the voice on the other side of the door said.
I bravely walked through the door. I didn’t expect trouble, but the very large man who had evidently propelled the woman through the door grabbed my arm as I walked through the door.
“What're ya' lookin' at moderfucker?" he said as he swung me into the bar. I knocked over a few barstools as I bounced off the bar.
“Honky's need t'pay an entrance fee, twenty bucks," he stuck his hand out.
“Hey man, I’m a friend of Rabbits, I don’t need to pay anything,” he grabbed me by the collar.
“We'll see if youse some homey uh Rabbit's. Hey Rabbit, be dis guy some homey uh yo's?" Rabbit came walking from the shadows and told the very large Negro holding my collar that I was okay. He released me and in the brighter light close to the entrance I saw that Rabbit was indeed of the Caucasian race.
“Back for some more action?” Rabbit slapped me on the back, “C’mon, have a beer and tell me what you wrote about your little experience.”
I recited all that I had written and when I got to the murder scene Rabbit said, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. People don’t die easy. It takes some work to kill a human. Yeah maybe if you get lucky a guy might die right away, but believe me -- nine out of ten times you’re going to have to work to kill somebody. It ain’t the movies or T.V. where they fall down and die,” he waved his hands in excitement.
“Well, like I told you, I’ve never seen anyone die, never mind being murdered,” I ordered drinks for both of us.
“You’re O.K. Jim. Know what? I’m going to show you. You wanna see what it’s like? Drink up.”
That’s why I came here, but my stomach twisted at the thought of watching him murder someone. Again I convinced myself it was only journalism, and I had every right to watch. Hell, if he kills someone that just means their time was up.
He downed his drink and walked toward the door. I followed and he grabbed a Louisville Slugger from behind the bar on the way out. We walked two blocks and he picked this alley where I now stood.
“Don’t worry, this is a busy street. Some sucker should come along any minute. While I bash his brains in, you time it and see how long it takes for him to die.
I couldn’t believe I was standing here with Rabbit who was going to kill somebody for my benefit.
“Maybe we can do this some other time Rabbit, I’m not feeling to good right now,” I tried to get out of it.
His eyes showed anger and I knew he thought I was chicken-shit. Just then a dog ran by, Rabbit took his anger out with a mighty swing and the bat hit on one of the dog’s back legs. It let out a loud yelp and continued running on three legs. That did it for me. Anger burned through me, blood boiled in my veins, I wanted to kill him for hitting that dog. I hate these sadistic bastards that vent on animals. Especially dogs. I decided the world would be a better place without Rabbit. If I killed him, I’d be killing two birds with one stone. I’d really know what it felt like to commit murder if I killed him with my own hands, and the world would be a safer place for dogs, cats, and humans.
I reached for the Colt, but he intuited what I was doing and he was quicker, the bat came down on my left arm. I fell to the ground, he charged with the bat raised over his head. I rolled over close to the garbage cans. The bat came down and caught the edge of a can and crushed it almost to the ground. He lifted the bat over his head with a clear shot at me now. I finally found the grip and pulled the Colt out and fired right away.
He screamed, dropped the bat and grabbed his groin where I had shot him. He slowly fell to his knees moaning. I stood up. He looked at me and I saw hate in his murderous eyes.
“I’ll get you for this,” he moaned.
Trembling all over, I was scared, exhilarated, and happy because now I knew what it felt like to shoot someone. But I still needed to know how the big M felt. I didn’t think I had the nerve to do it. I aimed between his eyes, my hand shook. He begged me not to shoot, and I probably wouldn’t have, if the cat he said he wanted to smash hadn’t run between us at that instant. I visualized what he would have done to the cat if he had his druthers. At that thought killing became easy.. I steadied my right with my left hand and slowly squeezed the trigger. He was begging when the bullet hit his face. Somehow his face disintegrated, and when his face spattered all over the alley, something happened to me. I couldn’t believe it happened. Totally unexpected I ejaculated. I mean I really ejaculated, it felt like I let loose a whole quart. I heard of sadists getting off from hurting people, but this, I never expected something like this to happen to me.
I watched as the alley cats came to get a warm drink of blood and nibble on parts from his exploded face.
X#
Three weeks have gone by since I shot Rabbit, and I’ve got three great chapters of my new story about a serial killer finished. Once I shot Rabbit the words had flowed. But one murder doesn’t fill a whole book. My protagonist kills women as a hobby. I’ve never killed a woman, yet. They always say, “Write what you know,” so how am I going to know unless I do it. How do I want my protagonist to kill his women? I want to write something diabolical, I searched the house and found lye and muriatic acid. I couldn’t picture a diabolical death using these so I went to the internet. I didn’t find a way to use these substances, but I did get a date with a single 40 year old who was “Desperate” for a date. I knew if she swallowed the lye and muriatic acid she wouldn’t be desperate for long.
My imagination ran wild. I’d never do something like that. Would I? I wondered what would happen if I actually did it. I followed my imagination and plotted a devious murder. “Hell, I got away with shooting Rabbit didn’t I?” I told myself.
If I wanted to write a believable and factual story, I needed to know how a killer of this sort would think. So in the name of journalistic research I convinced myself it would be okay to devise and follow through with a plan. Of course it was only to get inside the mind of an actual killer, I told myself.
I remembered the sexual stimulation I got when I blew Rabbit’s face apart, and convinced myself that was an anomaly. I just didn’t know what to expect and thought my emotional and sensory systems got mixed up at that instance. I knew this time it would be cold logic that directed any actions I took.
I met 40 and desperate at a currently popular restaurant. I wore the pink Hawaiian shirt I told her to look for. She spotted me right away and waved me over to her table and introduced herself as, Sherry. She had a pretty face and nice figure, the only thing I could imagine her being desperate about was her age.
Sherry was impressed with my youth and she gave all the signs of being on the horny side. When I suggested we go to my place she readily agreed. “Can I get you a drink?” I asked as I took her coat and hung it in the hall closet.
She answered in the affirmative and I went to the kitchen to get her drink and dumped enough Rohypnol, into it to be sure she’d soon be unconscious.
“Nice apartment,” Sherry said as I carried her drink to her on a tray.
It was in an old building and had plaster walls and ceilings, not the drywall of newer building. I hoped the plaster walls were thick enough to contain the sound that would surely emerge as I progressed with my plans. She took a long drink and slowly unbuttoned her blouse.
“So Jim, do you like older women? Or do you just fuck anything you can get?”
Her language shocked me, she had sounded so refined before now. I wondered if the drug could have affected her that fast.
“Well this is all new to me, and I’m not exactly sure what I like. You see, I’m a writer and to write about anything I feel I need to experience it first,” she smiled at this statement.
“What a coincidence, I’m a writer too. I just published a book, “How to train your husband or boyfriend.” And it’s selling well.
This is great, another writer. “How do you train a husband or boyfriend?” She may be onto something here.
“I took my dog to obedience school and watched how the trainer got the dog to listen. I always figured my dog was smarter than my boyfriend, so I figured if it worked on the dog, it would be a simple matter to train my boyfriend,” she gave me a condensing smile and crossed her legs showing me she wore no underwear.
“If he’s trained so well, what’re you doing here wanting to get laid?”
“There are some things you just can’t teach an old dog,” she uncrossed her legs and hiked her skirt up a few inches. She told me, “I’m going to give you an experience you’ll never forget. What are you writing about?” she smiled.
“Murder,” her smile vanished, replaced by a look of fear.
“Why don’t you try some of that obedience bullshit and see if I’ll sit up and beg for some pussy?”
“I don’t like the way this is going,” she pushed her skirt lower and tried to stand.
I smashed a couch cushion in her face and held it tight. I knew the drug took affect at this time because her struggles ceased and she lay there with her eyes closed, still breathing to my relief.
I undressed her, carried her to the kitchen and laid her on the kitchen table. Face up, her legs dangled over the end. I opened the drawer where I had stashed three rolls of duct tape and taped her ankles to the table legs. Then I unwound two rolls around her and the table to completely immobilize her. Her head was wrapped in duct-tape too, but her eyes and mouth were left clear so I could watch the expression in her eyes as I poured the chemicals that would kill her down her throat. This would be a first, all the research I did didn’t show one victim who had been killed by having lye and muriatic acid poured down their throat.
While waiting for her to awake I returned to the living room to gather up her belongings. I dropped her purse and the contents spilled onto the carpet. I couldn’t help but notice her photo album. I glanced through it and saw the pictures of two young children and figured they’d have to find an orphanage or somewhere to stay after tonight. Then I saw the picture of the most beautiful Golden Retriever I had ever seen. She had scrawled Molly across the bottom. I knew this must be the dog’s name. I felt so bad about the dog that I considered setting Sherry free, until I realized I had already gone too far to be able to do that.
I could use that in my story, how the mistress of the house is murdered by the psychotic killer and the killer adopts her dog out of remorse. Hey that’s not a bad idea. Maybe I can get her dog as a souvenir once I’m finished with her. I heard her moaning and rushed back into the kitchen.
Terror blazed in her eyes, “Please, please, I’ll d . . .” I stuck a dish rag in her mouth to quiet her down. She watched with pleading eyes as I took a glass mixing cup and dumped some lye and muriatic acid into it. When I added water the contents of the cup smoked and churned. I mixed it with a wooden spoon and as I did a few drops splashed over the side and as luck would have it, a drop fell directly into one of her wide open terrified eyes. It must have hurt like hell from the way she acted. God thing I had taped her so securely. Her body writhed as her face contorted in pain. I watched as the blue in her eye melted until it was completely a milky white. Streams of vapor came from it. Her one good eye glared at me. I knew once I wrote that description of hate that emanated from her eye that it would go a long way toward making my book a bestseller.
I opened the utilities drawer and took out a small funnel. I removed the dishrag from her mouth, stuck the funnel in and began pouring the mixture into it. At first she gurgled, but then a cloud of smoke arose from around the funnel as she shook all over. Her remaining eye first pleaded then hated, then showed unbearable pain. I wondered how long it would take her to die as I looked at the kitchen clock. A smell of rotten eggs wafted through the room on a cloud of white steam like smoke.
I ejaculated again while watching her die, same as when I watched Rabbit die. She stopped shaking. I removed the funnel and put my ear to her mouth, no breath came from it. Now I had to figure out how to dispose of her. All I ever thought of was doing it, never once did I think what to do after the killing.
Movies or TV don’t tell us how a person stinks after they die. Sherry had urinated and defecated all over my kitchen table as she died. I cut the tape and carried her to the bathtub and gave her the last shower she’d ever have.
I looked through the drawers and prayed I had a meat clever or a saw of some kind. I came up with an electric carving knife. That and the largest butcher knife I owned were the tools I used to cut her up and place her in doubled up Hefty, thirty gallon black plastic garbage bags.
I learned a lot about cutting up a body that long night. I figured while I had a body to experiment on, I may as well find out what those freaks got out of mutilating a body. I always read about a body being mutilated, but it never says how. I decided to use my imagination and the first thing I did was pop out her remaining eye. I’ve read stories where the author said “The eye hung from the eye socket” sure enough once I popped it out, it hung still attached to her head. I popped out the one that had been destroyed and a blob that looked like snot rolled down her chest. I guessed whatever had held that eye in had been dissolved. That was enough mutilation for me. Whatever the weirdoes who mutilated bodies got from it was a mystery to me. I had to dismember her body and that was going to be more than enough mutilation for me.
I turned on the electric knife, grabbed her left arm and started cutting at the wrist. Her hand flopped up and down like she was waving at me. It seemed to take forever to cut through her wrist. It took me most of the night to cut her into small enough pieces to fit into three garbage bags.
I knew I couldn’t carry all three at once so I went shopping at the nearby supermarket and loaded the purchased groceries into a shopping cart and pushed it home with my groceries. How lucky that I lived in an elevator building and was able to push the cart into the elevator and roll it right to my door. I pushed it into the kitchen, cleaned off the table and threw all the pieces of tape into another garbage bag. I unloaded the groceries onto the table and went with the cart to get the bags from the bathroom.
I dressed a shabbily as I could, because it wasn’t unusual to see a homeless person pushing a cart with all their belongings in it on the streets of Boston. I managed to get out of the building without any of my neighbors seeing me, but I did leave a wet trail as the bags all dripped some kind of gore. The trail went from my door all the way across the lobby and out the front door. It was three in the morning, and I was fortunate no one saw me.
I was somehow compelled to push it all the way to the alley where I had shot Rabbit. How ironic I thought. What if the cat that drank Rabbit’s blood and chewed his face for an appetizer now ate some of Sherry as a main course? I chuckled at the thought as I lifted the bags out of the cart and threw them in the cans. The bags split open and I saw cats gathering in the alley, I knew they smelled fresh meat.
I wrote continuously for three days, about murder, how a murderer felt while committing the crime. The fears, joys, thoughts, regret and complete oblivion to the fact that they may be found out. Did all murderers think like me? I researched what I could find on the internet and knew I’d have to find a way to interview others who had murdered to compare experiences.
I finished my novel, “Murderers Amongst us” it went straight to the top of the best sellers list. Although the critics despised it, the public loved the graphic descriptions.
I’ve earned enough money from the sales of my book to have a house built in an isolated area with six separate rooms in the basement. “What’re you going to use these rooms for?” the builder asked me when I told him I wanted solid cement walls and steel doors.
“I’m going to store expensive wine in a few of the rooms and perhaps some art work in the others along with a rare book collection. That’s why I want stone walls and metal doors. It’ll make this section of the house virtually fireproof,” Of course that’ wasn’t my intent at all.
I’d use these dungeons to do research for my next book, “How to Train Your Wife, or any woman.”
. Getting ready to start my next novel I figured on using her idea of training men like animals. Only I’d substitute men with women. After all they were the ones who needed to be trained, not us men.
I frequently went to the animal shelters following Sherry’s disappearance and as I suspected, her dog Molly turned up in the pound. I quickly adopted her
I loved the irony of the fact that first I stole Sherry’s life, then her dog, and now her story idea. And I’m using the same guy she got the original idea from
This book would be written in collusion with Homer who ran the dog obedience school where molly trained. We discussed opening an obedience school for wives and/or girlfriends. He was sure his dog training methods would work on women. Sherry said the training worked on men. Homer said, they’d probably work as well if not better on women, especially if the women could be isolated during training.
We filled the rooms with women by going to the internet and making ludicrous job offers for attractive women. Homer got to work right away and I filmed it all for the video. We were going to put the video on the market along with the book. It only took a few weeks of training, before we could take the trained women anywhere and the well trained women always behaved themselves.
*X*
“Heel Mary,” she stood silently by my side at the command. “Fetch,” She brought me the newspaper. I fed her a treat of a cheese ball with a valium in it. Yeah, Homer needed drugs to train them properly, but he has it down to a science now. “Beg,” I commanded Mary and she got on her knees, “Please, please,” she said.
“Roll over,” she rolled across the floor.
My do it yourself woman training book and video is almost complete. Once it’s released I’m not only going to be very wealthy, I’ll be a hero to men everywhere.