The Serial Killer Chronicles 1


Posted by NL on February 26, 2008 at 15:27:22:

First of a series...

The Serial Killer Chronicles 1

You might want to look askance at me, as many do and have done. What, you might ask, is that bizarre individual doing now? Does he purport to tell ME anything I do not already know about serial killers? Bosh! Posh! Piffle! And yet, I could tell you a few things about serial killers. Why, I knew a fellow who became a serial killer only because he could not find his underwear under a heap of dirty socks. The frustration drove him mad, they say, and that very day he stormed across the street wearing nothing but his socks and strangled the hard-partying middle-aged divorcee who lived, then, in the small white house across the way, the house in whose front yard a solitary beech grew. He intended, they said later, after a series of interviews in which he was again properly clothed, to hang her body from that selfsame tree, but only after fucking it repeatedly. Please note, that it was THE TREE he intended to to fuck! Yes, he strangled Magdelana Bottlepuss but it was HER TREE he had intended to fuck! I'll bet you didn't know that! So, you've learned something already. All this happened in 1953, in the Spring. A lot of people drove Fords in those days, by the way, although the killer in this case drove a used Hudson Hornette, a sinister car. In retrospect the police, in looking back, ought to have known at once that anyone driving such a sinister car could be expected to do something violent to someone with big tits someday. A pre-emptive strike would have been justified. When I think of such obvious clues, cues and premonitions it fairly wants to make me jump up and down with despair. Why oh why don't they know? Why oh why don't they dare? The other day I heard about a fellow who seemed entirely natural except that one day he conceived the grand plan of refering to his and other's anal discharges as "fescue". That was precisely the way he spelled the word, too. He thought, perhaps, that he might redeem mankind from the cloaca and the spell of the cloaca. Who knew? Oh, he got all enthusiastic about it. It seemed that for some days many who knew him said of him that he seemed to be floating on a cloud and that perhaps God, who knows all, might have knocked him on the head, as they knock the cows on the head as they are led to slaughter. Who knew? And yet, this very man, they say, followed a woman on the street, his eyes fixed glazedly to her alluring and twitching butt, gyrating hams they were, swirling about in a sea of lust. He could walk much faster than she, and when he caught up with the woman, a certain Miss Roro Buttrowr, the fellow so entranced promptly laid his great hairy hand on her shoulder, turned her about and stabbed her in a terrible manner with his shiv, that he carried allways with him, and though she screamed and trembled and called upon God she went down, and down, into a welter of blood and tumbling guts, all hers, and expired in the street. And then that same man, instead of pulling off her clothes as you might expect, and raping the poor dead thing, walked away, in a daze they said, those few who witnessed the assault. He said, they said, something about having to deposit a load of fescue. They confessed, they said, to not knowing what the fuck he was taking about. One man, later found to be, himself, a serial killer confessed that he heard nothing and saw nothing and lied through his teeth but he did say, further, that he found the dead woman's body very attractive. Of course.

But now I have much more severe things to tell you. A certain serial killer of my acquaintance sported a pair of water wings. Yes, he carried them about with him, along with a well sharpened shiv. Sometimes, you would perhaps be slopping a beer with him, sitting with him in a pile of fescue behind his house, each of you tearing at a small dead thing with your gleaming teeth while tears fell from the sky, and, BING! like a loud alarum thing, he would whip out his shiv and stab the water wings, which, inflated, would pop and scare the shit out of everyone. Why the fuck, you'd ask him, did you do that? And instead of answering you directly and honestly like a natural man, saying something along the lines of: I don't know! It's a like a spell came over me! Kneel down here with me in this fescue and let us pray! No, instead he would kind of lean his head over to one side and ask you if you didn't think those water wings looked like a couple of big old fat old TITTIES! And then he'd grab you by the throat and demand a confession, to the effect that by God, yes, you've stabbed your share of mush mellons, and other round, ripe objects that sometimes, sometimes, after slopping way the hell too many beers, sometimes, when the moon was full, looked an awful lot like a couple of fat old big old TITTIES-- didn't you! Didn't you!

You know, I've probably known more serial killers than any man ever seen. I've seen them doing innocent things like fishing and hunting and diving and snorkling and chortling and hurling footballs like severed TITTIES through the air-- slopping beers, rolling around in fescue piles, and I've seen them stalking pretty girls, future victims, and I've seen them strangling and stabbing and slicing and dicing and hanging and banging and all the myriads of things serial killers do when they are through pretending that they are "normal" and start really enjoying themselves as only serial killers can do. Of course, it takes all kinds. I've known serial killers who seemed at first to be nothing but little babys, yah, little weenie pants in ruffles and ridges who couldn't be trusted to know what to do with a TITTIE if they found one severed in the alley behind their house, where any man of parts would be torn, TORN, I tell you, between conflicting urges: shall I whip out my shiv and stick it a few times, like that mush mellon the other day, or should I whip out my old castiron skillet and fry it up like that mush mellon the other day, or should I eat it raw, like that mush mellon the other day? No, that little namby pamby weenie pants BABY, yah! with no muscles on him and little baby ruffles and ridges all over him would probably just probe the treasure with his little ballet pump and not know a friggin' thing about his duty as a MAN, and, as a matter of fact, a serial killer. But, you know, under the right circumstances, put this speciman in a lucite box with a pretty girl and he'd whip out his shiv and stick her in juicy spots and fuck the poor dead dear on the spot, spotlights be damned! People like that surprise one. I don't like to be surprised, as a rule. I like it when a pretty gal strips naked and gets a bullet in her guts, or a bullet in her bellybutton and two more in her tits, right through the golden nips and dies and you can fuck her corpse with no surprises. No surprises. At any rate, I knew this serial killer once who had a thing for pretty girls sweating under a summer sun, pushing lawnboys through the fescue in their yards, dodging beech trees and sweating, the sweat forming a magical sheen upon exposed flesh on the belly and legs because he favored women wearing shorts and halter tops while they shaved the fescue short with whizzing and roaring and stinking belching roaring lawnboys with five and even ten horspower engines with overhead valves! One day he bought himself a lawnboy and kept it beside his bed. Then one day as he spied on the neighbor lady he saw that she sunbathed in her backyard, wearing just a little string bikini and it was like the sun shone through broken clouds and a veil lifted and a gobbet of cooling salve fell upon his brow. He resolved to mow his fescue, heh, heh, and he trundled that hulking savage lawnboy outside and cranked it up and felt the roar and smelt the grease, and he llifted that beast, that engine, of destruction and lifted it above his head, feeling the razor sharp blades whizzing above him, and he hurled the whole damn thing down on top of the lady next door as she lay stretched on her tummy soaking up the rays of Mr. Sun. Mr. Death came to visit her that day. The screams! The blood! The fescue never feasted so well, and my good buddy, old Buddy, "Bloody" Hell, why, hell, he never fucked so good in all his days. He said that after they took him away. I NEVER EVER FUCKED SO GOOD OR FELT SO GOOD IN ALL MY BORN DAYS! He shouted that in a loud voice and many of us felt right then and there that there might BE something in that serial killer thing.