Posted by Dr. RADIUM on March 01, 2001 at 19:24:49:
He called himself the Black Knight. That was the name the media had taught the people to fear, focusing on his murderous exploits
throughout the length and breadth of America. The Black Knight: the signature on the notes left at each crime, pinned sadistically to the
dead flesh of his beautiful victims. Twenty-three women had died at the Black Knight’s hands since his reign of terror began, nearly 4 years
before, with a young college student named Yoko who was slow-hanged in her own dorm.
The Black Knight had photographs of all his victims, and he took a special delight in the series he had taken of curvy, delicious Yoko and
her struggles against the rope around her long slim neck, her beautiful fingers groping, clawing at the strangling rope, her long, lovely legs
kicking, thrashing, drawing up in a ball and lashing out until finally her terrified heart stopped beating beneath those ripe, sweet breasts, and
behind her sweaty, knitted brow her final delirious thoughts crashed into forever silence.
A final six shots, taken quickly; first five closeups of her agonized, purplish face, beaded with sweat and tears. Her wide eyes staring straight
at the camera, then rolling up through 4 photos, until the last showed her face slack and dead, eyes white, tongue hanging from her gaping
mouth. The last image: a full-length shot of the dead young woman dangling from the rope, toes pointing down, arms at her sides, fingers
slightly curled into the palms of her hands. Beautiful.
But the Black Knight didn’t hang all his victims. No, he considered their mode of death well before he acted, deciding on the most
aesthetically attractive method for each. Yoko, long and lithe, had died well in the noose. Sonya, a strong, compact woman with short
blonde hair and firm muscles beneath her soft skin, had warranted another method.
He flipped through the photos. It had taken a long time to win Sonya’s trust; he had bided his time, drawing her deeper into his web, and
when she finally fell in love with him, real love, he knew she was ready for the harvest. He had set the camera up on a tripod, its timer ready
for multiple exposures, and had his fiancee Sonya pose for it, wearing the sheerest of sheer bikinis.
Here she was, her beautiful eyes closed, standing with perfect poise, her arms gracefully extended above her head. Her head was turned to the
right, slightly raised, as if expecting a blessing from heaven. Her bronze skin glistened in the photo, a slight smile played about her perfect
lips. And in that second, as the camera hummed, reeling the film for the next shot, he realized that he could marry her, put the past behind
him, and forge a new, sane future. Or he could go through with this plan and always be a fugitive, a criminal. A killer.
He drew the pistol, fired once just before the automatic flash echoed the flash of the shot. In that second, he became the Black Knight
forever.
One picture, Sonya posing, vibrant with warmth and life; the next, Sonya staring at him, at the camera, in disbelief. Her left hand pressed to
her breast, fingers digging into the tit, blood trickling in a thin stream over the fingers. Her engagement ring reflected the light of the camera
flash. The camera whirred, flashed again: now Sonya was bent over slightly, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth slightly open, both hands at
her breasts.
The Black Knight flipped to another picture. Sonya falling to her knees. Another, her head thrown back, cords standing out in her neck,
mouth open wide, eyes open wide; the Black Knight could still hear her awful, wordless cry, filled with all the despair, betrayal and pain of a
lifetime. Then she had collapsed, face down, on the floor. Right arm extended toward him; left hand still clamped around her dead breast,
still vainly trying to deny the wound beneath her palm.
Then another series of posed shots, as he had removed the bikini from the dead woman, posed her still-warm corpse for his camera’s hungry
eye. A couple of close-ups; one of her beautiful face, frozen forever in shock and perplexity, unable to accept or understand her lover’s violent
treachery or her own death. One of her left tit, nipple hard, a few soft hairs around the big aureole; a small hole, about the diameter of a
pencil, punched in the flesh just to the right of the aureole’s edge. A hole still brimming with blood. He remembered putting his mouth on
that warm breast, sucking the hot blood from her shattered heart into his mouth, swallowing it by the mouthful.
Two more shots of her posed, naked, muscular body, one of the front and one of the back, and her photo set was done. The Black Knight put
his photo album back into its secret place in his briefcase. Behind him, a sound; the lights went off. He whipped around.
Silhouetted in the doorway, a man holding a gun. “Mr. Warren? Or is that the name you’re using now?”
“What do you want?”
“Very simple. You are the Black Knight. Don’t deny it; I’m not here to play games. Call me Dr. Radium. I have a job for you. “
“What?”
“I am placing $1000 and a photograph on this chest of drawers. When I leave, you may look at it. Her name is Chanelle Guerrant. An acquaintance of mine who has quite
outlived her usefulness. There will be another $1000 for you if you kill her. If not, well, I’m only out a thousand dollars. Pocket change.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself, Radium?” He was annoyed by the silly name, but the prospect was promising nevertheless. “It isn’t difficult.”
“Two reasons. The first is that I have followed your case very closely. I recognize the art in your killings. I am not insensitive to such things.
So I am merely paying an artist, commissioning a new work of art for the pathologists and policemen to mull over, for men such as myself to
read of and secretly fantasize about. Chanelle has been a help to me for some time, and she is a beautiful woman. She should die artistically, not
as crudely and messily as I would no doubt do it.”
“And your second reason?”
“I’m a coward. You do what other men only dream of. Do this for me, Black Knight.” And the strange figure turned and left the room,
closing the door behind him. The Black Knight immediately went to the door and threw it open, but there was no one in the hallway. He
turned back to the chest of drawers. The money looked real enough. And the photo; a picture of a sexy, voluptuous black woman, dressed in
the height of fashion. Dressed to kill.
He turned the photo over; a message was typed on it: “WHEN YOU DEVELOP THE PICTURES,
MAKE A SET OF PRINTS FOR ME. DR. RADIUM.”
Dr. Radium was obviously a madman -- but he appreciated art. The Black Knight sat down in his chair, mulling over the photo of Chanelle, considering
the most aesthetic way for a woman like her to die. After all, that was what he had been paid for. His first commissioned work. It must be a masterpiece.