Posted by NL on July 27, 2004 at 12:30:59:
Why They Killed-- Part 6
You ask, me, why did I kill. I defy you. I offer you my name, a name to conjure with: Tommy "Tobar" Schmutz. Yes, Schmutz, like those quilty secrets we excavate, betimes, from our noses. I knew someone once who shared our family name, who went about being called Red "Bloody" Schmutz. A good brave soul, as i recall. He died in one of those interminable wars, when a bullet fired from an AK entered his skull and exited, carrying behind it a long red streamer, like one of those quilty secrets, and this one got deposited on someone's pants, but not his.
My parents made me, my mum and dah did, as an experiment, as a sort of academic exercise. Dah contributed his erector set, mum supplied her old chemistry set, and various ancestors with an interest in taxidermy supplied the rest-- armature, needle, thread, stuffings.
Science and math, physics, chemistry, math, more math, some classics, force fed along with languages romantic, germanic, slavonic and obscure and formal and finally confusing comprised my education. And all along, all along, I longed to be a real boy, and to have real adventures as boys will have. I wanted a red tricycle once. I wanted a cap pistol and a BB gun and a GI Joe. I sneaked in as much Saturday morning cartoon shows as I could, while dah and mum slept off martini hangovers-- too much academic partying. The elites are notorious drinkers, you know. Look at Oppenheimer.
I think the story of Cyclotron Morton saved my life. Old Cyclo' became a sort of ego ideal. Cyclotron was a runty little skinny weakling before he invented the secret formula with his chemistry set one day. After guzzling the brew he grew giant muscles and somehow got covered in day-glo spandex and battled space aliens and all the girls loved him, though I'm sure he remained chaste. Hah! If I became Cyclotron Morton, an irresistable force, I could have all the girls I wanted! And take them by force! I'd rip off their pretty sun dresses, their shorts, their peasant blouses or bicycle pants-- whatever, and I would have so much fun killing them! I'd stab them in their soft bellies! I'd shoot them in their titties! I'd lay out their dead murdered beautiful bodies on the floor, naked bodies, and I'd lay myself down between their spread legs with my face pressed against their sweet soft dead butts, and kiss and kiss the dead flesh, and slither up to kiss the smalls of their backs and the flesh between their shoulder blades and their necks and their cheeks and nuzzle their hair and then at last cum and cum in their celestial butt-cracks. And that would just be the beginning! After that you roll them over and start with their dead pussy and fondle suck kiss and fondle suck kiss up to the bellybutton and the midriff and the dear dead boobs, the dear dead lips, and cum and cum in the dear dead fuckhole. And days could pass in the fortress of copper, between the poles of an enormous electromagnet deep in the earth, while the dead flesh stiffens, discolors, dries, the lips curl back and shrivel. and then the body is limp again but ripe! Ripe! When exactly do you stop making love to it? When does such a thing lose interest? That was my question. I wanted to know.
Maybe it is not such a good idea to make a little boy from erector sets and old chemicals and such.
University went not as planned. Alcohol had such an interesting effect-- it was almost but not quite like the brew of Cyclotron Morton, and although inhibitions fell away, still, the girls I took to bed with me in those days, excellent as their bodies would have been for the bite of the knife or the punch of the bullet, never died. But I was on the right track. Flunking, failing, and wandering back to the dorm in an alcoholic stupor one cold night-- fuck it all, I thought-- I realized I would never kill. I didn't have it in me. Nor would I ever finish my studies. What I could do, is get all the pressure off my back by dropping out. Just drop out, get a nice little job somewhere, live quietly, drink a lot, watch a lot of tv and live a pretty ordinary life. That didn't seem like such a bad thing! I could do that! I might even get married someday, to some very ordinary woman who'd never suspect that in my heart of hearts I wanted nothing so much as to stick her with a knife and fuck her corpse. Keeping that secret from her would be fun! And that would spice up the relationship just as effectively as the infidelity so many men practised. Maybe more!
So I find it ironic that the very next morning I'd be picked up for the murder of a co-ed, a murder that just happened to take place in the physics department lab where I was known to spend so much time. And it just happened to be a girl my friend Red "Bloody" Schmutz introduced to me at a party, a girl I'd dated a few times. I never realized at all that she thought I was "creepy". I never realized at all that she talked about me to her other friends. I never realized that asking her to play dead the first and only time we got intimate would lead to so damn much trouble in the future. You say you have an eyewitness? I say they're mistaken. You say you've found a cache of "mutilated" skin mags in my dorm room? It proves nothing! You ask me for an alibi? I don't have one! You ask for a coherent account of my doings that night! I was fucking drunk, damn it! You can't produce the weapon can you, the knife used to kill her, and you've got circumstantial evidence at best-- I didn't kill her. You can't hang me for my fantasy life. I'm entitled to my private personal, fantasies, damn you. I didn't kill her, I didn't kill her, I didn't kill her. I'm 99.9% sure.
That's what I said then. That's what I say now. It's been so many years in this place, so many appeals have passed like the proverbial piss off the proverbial bridge, but I'm still sure I didn't kill her-- at LEAST 99.9% sure...