Posted by NL on October 01, 2004 at 12:16:46:
Back, to the persoooot of excellence!!
Why They Killed-- Part 11
Mortimer didn't really want to be a psycho killer, or, if he MUST be a psycho killer, then he'd have to have something to blame it on, that egregious misbehaviour, expressing itself in splattered blood. So, it came as a great consolation when he realized that snippets of matter that had lived once in his ancestors lived in him as well. Maybe living fragments of dead men and women, subject to an as yet undetermined biological master control, were responsible for the fact that he wore his uncle's long nose, wielded his grandfather's narrow feet, and suffered from his great-great-grandfather's murderous impulses. The blood theories of the nazis were all wrong! True inheritance was less mystical and more piecemeal, more complex, than a mere transmission of blood. Even better, given enough time, every single characteristic that had defined one person, would appear again, at the same time, but scattered through an entire population, all over the planet-- that person would exist as a collective, and who knew what bonds of cellular communication would link the parts, to what extent unsuspecting individual lives would be shaped, by the need of that reconstituted dead person to flex muscles in the world again?
Lilith would have to have been the first catalyst. She was one of Judy's friends and one of her roommates. She came on to him at one of those college parties. They were both pretty drunk. Fortunately, he had the use of a friend's apartment for the weekend, and that's where he took her, although he got lost first. She came on to him at the party, but he learned that she was apparently a nympho, so it didn't mean much. It wasn't love. She was very short, had short black hair, wore hornrim glasses, and had a really sweet body if you liked a girl with a rounded belly, firm breasts, and a large rearend. He did! But Lilith had not been such a good experience for him, because that night she suffered from a urinary tract infection and had an active herpes outbreak in her mouth. Both gave her pain. She kept asking him if he had any pain pills. The best he could do was offer her more cheap wine. After he got her to the apartment he discovered he couldn't kiss her or screw her, due to her infestations. She stripped to her bra and dowdy high-waisted cotton panties and just wanted to sleep. During the night he managed to remove her bra and it cost him so much effort, he felt like he deserved a medal. In the morning he had a terrible hangover but Lilith was feeling a little better. They got naked, showered together, and he had a chance, then, to really appreciate her body. But he was so sick, the effort felt forced, sordid, and even boring-- he just wanted to get rid of her; he regreted taking her "home" with him and felt very guilty, too, because Judy had been at the party, and she knew perfectly well what Lilith was up to, and what he was up to with Lilith. Lilith kept talking about what they would do later, and he finally had to confess that he felt like crap, and thought they made a mistake, and frankly, he didn't feel anything for her. She took that lying down, lying down quietly on her belly, and with her butt exposed like that, lying so still, like a dead girl, then, at last, he got horny. Too late! She got up, got dressed, and insisted he take her back to the apartment she shared with Judy. But she perked up on the drive back and they made vague plans to get together again. But they never did. He spent the rest of that morning nursing a really vicious hangover. He could still remember how Lilith tasted-- like raw steak, with a hint of olive oil as marinade.
But there was always some little boring quotidian bullshit to contend with, something to keep the soaring spirit chained. Mortimer felt a little restless, after spending all day in his apartment, and he thought it might be a good idea to go outside for a little while, maybe just pick up a coke, some ice-cream, maybe. Or some beer! Beer! That cheap ecstasy, that frugal recreation. Not a good idea, with a shift in the hammermill in prospect, and the laundry waiting for him, like the troll under the bridge. Ah, there were many bridges and many trolls! Still, a hamburger might not be out of the question. Such was life! Savor every moment, every heartbeat, every twinge, for one lives! Not only did life not last forever, the quality of it deteriorated rapidly as one approached the natural end. No, one did not merely drop stone dead one day, in the middle of a vigorous life; one declined, and doddered, whatever that was. It didn't sound like fun. It was insult added to irreparable injury, in Mortimer's opinion. It could only be the work of God. It took that much malice, that much malignancy, to conceive it all. He needed a drink. But there was nothing at hand. Maybe he needed Holy Oil! Healing Oil! From the crankcase of his Ford, and blessed corn meal, and a handfull of Burpee seeds, or BURPY seeds if you dared to eat them, eat them raw. Maybe the Reverend Duncan was what he needed. Maybe he needed to make that "God Connection", in which case he would need to seek out the nearest schizophrenic-- for the straight dope. He needed the oils of Lilith, the nympho, the oils of her living meat. Meanwhile his joyous white trash neighbors fired .44 Magnums at the sun, and at random, into the trees, the leaves overhead, the fence, the garbage cans. KRACK! KER-WOM! After all, he might not live to enjoy his "sunset" years. Had Lillian been surprised in her bedroom by now, by a psycho killer? Had she been stabbed in her bellybutton, disemboweled, strangled, or both, and raped? For all he knew she was long dead. What a waste, if the killer had done her in without fucking her, once before and once after.
Mortimer figured, if HE was the lucky killer, he'd shower in Lilith's bathroom, cleansing away her blood and his obsession, and dress himself in fresh clothing he'd packed for the purpose, maybe taking with him a trophy, like a tampon, if there was one to be had, from Lilith's lifeless snatch, or, if not, then a single undergarment, all bloody, in a plastic sandwhich bag. He'd climb into his Chevy "Monstuh" and lay down some burning rubber, feelin' like a man, sated. What next? Mickey Dee, a shitload of Quarter Pounders, with cheese, and a cold Foster's Lager from his shaky Amana. Who knew? Yes, he would suffer a kind of remorse, but no more than a shadow of what he'd felt when he began his murderous career. For the sake of his peace of mind, he'd come to accept his impulses, and even love them. So he did. Him, the monster of love, not he, not Mortimer.
Mortimer, despairing at last, made an effort to cure what he suspected to be a disease of the spirit, and began to study the bible. As soon as he did it he laughed so much he got fat. Funny things made him hungry. And it was because of that HUNGER, damn it, that he ate so much, either that or some emotional problem-- emotional and maybe not spiritual at all. The bible said one thing and the minister of his church said something else, and Time Magazine was completely off the wall. Yes, there were many problems, and he wasn't smart enough to figure out the solutions or even decide whether the purported solutions offered by various con-artists were valid or not. What was a fella to do, with salvation hanging in the balance?
At least, he had his dreams. They alone nourished him. A meager dole! Like the book, sweet to the mouth, bitter to the belly, that the Angel commanded John to eat. His bloody dreams were like that. Reverend Duncan even had to laugh at that one. Who WAS Reverend Duncan, really? WHAT was Reverend Duncan? Someday, maybe, he would understand. Meanwhile he bought himself a folding desk lamp. When life got him down, really down, he'd clamp his neck in the crook of its folding arms and crush the life out. He'd "put out the big light". He hoped they'd bury him with his desk lamp.