Posted by NL on July 14, 2004 at 15:39:13:
Why They Killed-- Part 4
Killer Karl am I, alone at last, set free at last, to roam the barren rooms of this my magnificent manse, this stately bloody pile-- hee hee-- of rocks and rubble and excrement! For, that is where love, love, hath pitched her tent. Well, not really, just the old fambly clapboard shack, the old house inherited at last. I've got asbestos shingles and asbestos tile and asbestos insulation in the walls and attic, all the better to kill me slow like and give me the death I undoubtedly deserve. All that damn asbestos-- I can't sell this place, so live here, with my modest inheritance, my knickknacks and childhood toys and memories and dreams. And in those dreams, am I ever Killer Karl! Sex maniac extra-ordinaire! ( A whistiling wheezing sound, perhaps of violins, perhaps of horns).
A man of parts am I. Consider this: Ahem! "Like a pitiful ghost I wonder within the empty spaces of a long deserted house. I am unable to diagnose my illness. I have forgotten that I am dead." Ahhhh! Lightning! Skazen! The above quoted from Anatole France's moving novel, "The Poo Poo Mouse." Wish I had written it myself. Despite the funny title it is profoundly moving. I hope you will find this moving, whoever you are, the coronor, the cops, the bailiff, whoever the fuck it is who goes through a dead person's shit when the dead person dies and leaves a lot of shit behind with no relatives of any kind, no fambly. It's for you I write, dear weird-o. I write because I really thought I had something to say, so tiny, so pathetic, so trivial, it almost seemed funny. What could it have been? The killings? The murders? If I can't remember what it was it must have been almost too pathetic and trivial. Gone! Have I squinched down so much, made myself so small, that my own deeds escape my notice? In that case I might have constructed at last a world to contain me, a world commensurate with my abilities. But such a world would have to be very very small! Ever so small!
Hah! That world was too small to contain me! Like the Great Khan am I, with a finger in every pie! In every EYE!
In our communtiy lived once a feller name uh Smitty, right proud he was of his home-made shitty (I tell you this as I recall it from my childhood. Events are reported faithfully, but names are changed to protect our modesty). It is said that smitty made his shitty from onions and garlic, greasy ground beef, the really cheap shit consisting almost entirely of fat and the stuff they scrape off the slaughter house floor, and tomatoes and chopped green pepper and other things best not mentioned. Vain was smitty of his shitty, puffed with pride and of a nasty dispositon in any case was he, due perhaps to intestinal blockages cause by his very own shitty. Well, it's possible. And it is even said that this smitty fellow was such a cheap son of a bitch he even made his own underarm deoderants from alum and talcum powder and white lead. And it is said as well that he was of such a nature as to dust his home made anti-perspirant over his shitty as it simmered as a kind of blessing and benediction over all. Now, he liked as well to SHARE his shitty with his neighbors (see where this is going-- I'm reminded of the woman of proverb who, overcome with shame, shat on a plate and went out among the people crying out: look at what you made me do! Just look! Now I have to eat this! It is all your fault for showing me up for what I really am! Ah! The price of penitence!) and so he, smitty, on that fatal day brought a great big steaming bowel-- bowl I mean-- of his hand-wrought sustenance to the house of his neighbor, saying: Look what I have made! Grandiose! Take of this pot of steaming shitty, and let us eat therefrom! Now, the neighbor thought at first that the poor strange fellow on his doorstep suffered from some sort of speech defect, and meant to say CHILI, and gave him the benefit of the doubt and desired to be neighborly being but newly moved into the neighborhood and wishing to avoid making enemies. And so he and his lovely young bride and smitty sat at table that evening, all together and like unto a fambly. It became clear very shortly that smitty did in fact not have any sort of terrible accent but spoke as clearly as you or I, and meant exactly what he said, and said that very clearly. Can't say that of many. Can't say that of myself. At any rate, laughing at smitty and gagging on the shitty was a grave breach of manners. Come to find out, this smitty was a man of parts and not to be trifled with. Smitty returned the next day while the wife was home alone and did terrible things. Killed her, too. Stripped her naked and sodomized her and bound her hand and foot, gagged her and shot her with a .22 caliber automatic four times in an area the size of a silver dollar just below her belly button, and also once in each boob, right through the "toothsome mounds pink centers". Then he left a pile of his own homemade shitty on the floor between her thighs. In my opinion he over-reacted.
In a little town like this, a town named Backward in the great state of Craphole (a very ordinary American town, I assure you)-- murder is a big thing. Guess I was only about twelve when the local papers published the pictures of the naked bullet-ridden body. They had some pics of her that her husband must have taken of her when she was alive, wearing a little skimpy bathing suit, and somebody drew in arrows pointing to the places where the bullets went in. Nice work. And the career of Killer Karl was born. In fact, I did my first murder that very night. Except I used a knife and I killed the school librarian-- I threatened her at knife point after breaking into her house (she was unmarried, lived alone) and stabbed her in her bellybutton after making her strip down to her panties and bra. When I saw her in school the next day I thought about how I killed her, and it was good. The next night I shot her between her fat titties with my father's .38 police revolver. I killed her several times in several different ways, and branched out to teachers and classmates. I murdered dancing girls by shooting them in their guts with arrows, and sometimes killed them in dagger throwing contests. I reckon I've murdered tens of thousands of women, and I'm still going strong. I can travel in time. I herded a bunch of naked Polish women into a shallow ditch or trench once, and shot them in their soft bellies with my Mauser-- me and a bunch of other guys. Then we took off our stuffy uniforms and dived into the flesh, and swam for hours amongest the the gaping mouths and floppy dead breasts and all manner of butts, fat ones and skinny ones and everything in between, leaving long smears of shiny spunkem behind us, like snail trails. Helped a bunch of deranged explorers round up all the women in an African village once, and boy, we had fun sticking them with spears and fucking them, dead, dying-- Killer Karl has excellent taste in women, let me tell you!
Well! So! Is it any wonder then, that I reckon myself to be God's cream cheese? The immaculate spatula rescued from the common slop pail? The CLAW, of shining ringing purest immaculate dura-loonium, hoisted at the rim of the Imbrium Basin, at the very hour when God flees from his world, at the pricise stroke of noon, on a SUNLESS day?
And, oh, I forgot to ask-- you got any GIRLS in your fambly?