Why I have, regrettably, placed duct tape over your mouth.
(please note the challenge; trigger warnings)
Crude, cheap thing
That’s the culture
your pleasing lips.
Media, media, media,
twisting into tweets
and bad TV
for the limited conception
of the great unwashed,
Vivaldi and Schoenberg alike
as “classical music.”
Cliché kills essence;
generality obscures beauty;
and most gravely,
A moment of beauty,
an act of perfection,
is itself. Only.
It’s “serial” offends me,
As though fourteen
brushes with divinity
could be plotted
on an X and Y axis,
bodies over time.
Your body is not datum.
Your body is holy,
and will bless me in ways
you cannot comprehend.
I am not a headline.
Who I am
is rendered perhaps
most suitably in the French:
Casanova des blessures qui coule.
Casanova of the Flowing Wounds.
What a Lovely Irony
Isn’t it ironic?
Me, a comedian, a man made of jokes, in the most miserable place that you could ever possibly imagine.
I stood over her casket and brushed my fingers across its polished wood. As I stared at the casket’s outside, I didn’t dare look inside. To see her pale face and flushed cheeks. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and moved on, letting a line of her family members file behind me.
Throughout the rest of the funeral, all I heard was a cacophony of apologizes.
“I’m so sorry.”
“She was too good for this world.”
“There was nothing you could do.”
“She would want you to move on.”
“I’m sorry about your wife.”
More or less, they all said the same generic thing, repeated a thousand times. Voices full of pity. I felt kind of numb to their sympathies, their pain, and just focused on drinking the champagne.
“Damn, that sucks,” a voice called behind me.
There was something different about this voice. I had never heard it before, and it sounded too monotonous to be truly empathetic.
Spinning around, I saw her. Dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and leggings. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun and she wasn’t wearing any make-up. Her face and appearance looked tired, worn. Yet, her eyes were wide awake. They stared at the casket, but not the inside.
She took out a cigarette, lit it, then puffed a few smoke clouds. “You should have gotten a mahogany coffin instead of walnut. Walnut looks tacky.” There was no remorse in her voice. Just brutal honesty.
“Who are you?” I asked.
She stuck her hand out. “Name’s Mindy. I’m the undertaker around here.”
Awkwardly, I shook her hand, then she shoved it back in her sweatshirt. “Do you go to every funeral you provide?” I inquired.
She shrugged. “I go to them every now and then, but I’m mostly over saturated with work.” Turning to me, Mindy asked. “How did you know the corpse?”
“Uh, she was my wife.”
I scratched the back of my head. “Not really. I mean yeah, it is kind of sad, but we weren’t doing too well before she died.” In a whisper I added. “It’s almost a relief.”
For some reason, I didn’t feel any guilt when I said those words.
I stepped a little closer to her. “So are you always working? Doesn’t that get depressing?”
“Not really. I mean, it’s not like I know these people. What’s there to grieve? So yeah, if you wanna find me, I’ll be the with corpses.”
I almost laughed at her joke.
That day, I was feeling kind of numb, but Mindy the undertaker made me feel more alive.
Isn't it ironic?
It was a week later that I saw Mindy again. She wasn’t wearing her old sweatshirt this time. In its place was a vintage T-shirt, ripped jeans, and gloves partly covered in blood. This time it was my father who died. His health hasn’t been the best over the last two years so this wasn’t a surprise.
“Never thought I would see you again so soon, sailor,” Mindy greeted.
I felt a sudden rush of euphoria when I saw her, but I kept my chin down so I wouldn’t show it. “Uh, yeah.” I struggled with the suffocating tie of my stuffy suit. “My dad kinda of…”
“I feel you. That’s gotta be terrible. Especially after your wife kicked the bucket.” I heard her say these words, and felt soothed by her lack of fake remorse.
“You okay?” Mindy asked as she noticed I was staring a little too long at her.
I glanced away. “I’m fine. I wasn’t that close with my father anyway. He held me at an emotional distance for most of my childhood.”
“Ha! Seems like you keep losing everyone you don’t like.” She turned to me. “I hope you can find someone that you do. Preferably alive.”
I nodded along with a thin smile.
Mindy the undertaker was strange, but I kinda liked this kind of strange.
They say my mother died of heartbreak, but that isn’t exactly true. She died of a heart attack, just like my father and wife. Only a couple of days after my father’s funeral did she meet a similar fate. Mindy was there waiting for me this time. “Dude, what kind of crap star were born under?” She inquired.
I shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Has your life always been this tragic?”
“Then, I guess your luck is just pretty much trash right now.”
Pausing, I didn’t reply. I didn’t think this was so terribly unlucky. Instead, I thought I was
more fortunate to meet her. If only I could find time to meet her outside her work hours.
The next day, I went to visit my brother. By now, he was overcome with grief from the looses of both of our parents. I didn’t share in his tears. Instead, I simply put a hand on his shoulder as to comfort him. I handed his a glass of water. After an hour, I left him to a puddle of tears.
Then, I waited. For the fibrin hidden in the water to take effect. For the buildup of arterial plaque. For the clogged artery. For the funeral. And finally, to see my beloved Mindy again.
My brother was healthier than most. It took him a full two weeks to finally die. Some were shocked to see him die of a heart attack, but no one looked into it. I remained in the clear. At the funeral, I smiled when I saw Mindy’s face. I was the only one smiling
Funny how I’m most happy in what is supposed to be the most tragic part of my life.
Isn’t it ironic?
But then again, what a lovely irony it is.
I honestly didn’t set out to be a serial killer. It was all Mara’s fault because she kept taking serial lovers. And I loved her so much that I was unable to bear the thought that she was not mine. Every time I got the nerve to ask her to go out with me, she replied that she already had a boyfriend. Well, I’d fix that!
The first time, I watched the movement in the backseat of Mara’s car in disbelief. I crept even closer to make sure they were doing what I thought they were. I knew Don was taking advantage of her so I pulled up my mask, opened the door and yanked him out, shooting him in the head. Mara cowered in fear for at least an hour before she called the police while I watched from behind the old oak tree.
As soon as she got over Don, she took another lover, Dave. I watched as they lay on the beach in the moonlight, moaning and groaning and tossing and turning. Soon, I saw Dave sit up and go to his car to get birth control before he finished. But I finished him with a knife to the belly as I held my hand over his mouth. Mara didn’t hear a peep until she walked naked to the car to see what was taking him so long. I was already walking away when I heard her terrified screams.
Mara waited a while for the next beau. Since we were employed at the same place, I saw that flirtatious little minx sneak into the closet with her boss and knew what was going on. This time, I waited until Mr. Simon walked back to his office, tucking his shirt into his pants and slicking back his hair. I walked into his office telling him I needed to show him the latest financials, strangling him with my tie, until he was blue in the face. What a shame he had a heart attack, everyone said.
Well, I just knew that Mara would go out with me now because she certainly wouldn’t care if I got murdered in the throes of passion with her!
“I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth,” she said. “Didn’t I make myself clear the first time you asked?”
Well, what could I do? I took my razor knife and slit her throat. Never let it be said that I didn’t believe in equal rights!
Did you hear?
Did you hear?
Our old friend is in the news.
I recognized him because he still wears those old shoes.
Did you know?
He ran away from home.
It turned out that he’d been locked up all alone.
Did you see?
That look was in his eyes.
Like no one had ever listened to his cries.
Did you ask?
What happened to him?
Or did you never care; were your feelings too slim?
Did you hear?
Our old friend did it again.
And from what they say he was completely zen.
Did you know?
Your love was his first.
I wish he would’ve known that it would be his worst.
Did you see?
What he did to that chick?
He said that by the tenth you don’t even get sick.
Did you ask?
If you should turn him in?
When you’re the latest reason he committed these sins?
Did you hear?
Un petit mort (repost)
***Reader Discretion Advised***
His first asked for it; begged really. It shocked him, but then excited him beyond his wildest imaginings. She was an unexpected gift. She breathed new life into an existence he had, until that night, ceased to enjoy. Now, every day had meaning. She had unwittingly given him a reason to get up in the morning; to dream at night. Ironically, she was his savior.
The first time she spoke to him was almost two years prior to that night. The company they worked for had brought together the various divisions from around the country for a conference. She pursued him for three days. He’d thought she was annoying. Everything about her was too much – she talked too much, smiled too much, laughed too much. She was unnaturally happy. He barely responded to her attempts at conversation, but she persisted. For three days. The conference ended and they went back to occasional contact due to work, but nothing else.
A year later, they were thrown together on a company retreat, and that was when he finally realized what she wanted. He’d been married 20 years and no one had been trying to fuck him for 21. His wife barely spoke to him. Or his kids. He had been understandably obtuse when it came to seeing the signs.
She guzzled cocktails while pressing her leg against his under the table. Drank out of his glass at dinner. Took his hand when a song she liked came on the radio in the van shuttling them from place to place. He’d casually placed it on her leg then removed it. She picked it up and put it back as she continued dancing in her seat. The light bulb went on.
That night, he knocked on the door to her room. She didn’t even ask who it was. She opened it from behind the door. He entered the darkened room. She hadn’t drawn the curtains, so a weak light from the night sky kept the room from complete darkness. She closed the door, locked it and then leaned against it. He stood in front of her, his body flush with hers, barely touching.
“So,” he whispered.
“So,” she whispered back.
Slowly, he lowered his head and brushed her cheek.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he said in her ear.
“I know,” she replied.
“I’m married,” he said.
“Unhappily, I think,” she said.
“We work together,” he said, kissing her neck.
“Only sometimes,” she said.
“Hmmm,” he said smelling her, flicking her ear with his tongue.
“Kiss me,” she said, “please.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, biting the soft flesh between her shoulder and her neck.
“Oh,” she gasped.
“Hmmm, like that?” he asked.
“Mmmhmmm,” she moaned.
When she tried to reach for him, he grabbed her wrists and held her hands above her head. “Don’t,” he said, pressing against her, flicking his tongue against her lips. When she opened her mouth to deepen the kiss, he let go and stood back.
“No,” he said. “Lay on the bed.”
She scrambled to the bed and lay down.
“Take off your clothes.”
“That’s a little quick, don’t you think? We didn’t even kiss yet,” she said, pulling her t-shirt over her head, baring her breasts.
“Well, we could say it’s been a year. But not to worry, we’re not having sex,” he said. “I just want to look at you.”
“Really,” she said, looking at his groin.
“Really,” he replied as he stared at her, now laying on the bed, the only light from the moon beyond her window.
He knelt next to the bed, and traced the skin from her forehead, down her nose, across her lips, chin, neck, circled her breasts, her belly, dipped between her thighs, felt her moist and stopped.
“I have to go,” he said, standing up.
“Now?” she asked, incredulous, as he hurried to the door. He was gone before she realized what had happened. What hadn’t happened.
He avoided her the next day, only nodding from across the table or the room. He said goodbye in the crowd of their co-workers. He went home agitated, wanting, but unsure what exactly it was he wanted.
After a few days of his being more distracted, more distant than usual, his wife asked him what was wrong. “Are you having an affair?” she asked as she got ready for bed.
“Of course not,” he replied, turning onto his side, facing the wall.
“You’ve been weird since you came home from that work meeting.”
“Whatever. You’ve been weird.”
“No weirder than usual, I suspect.”
“You’re more distant.”
“I’m always distant. At least that’s what you’ve been telling me for the last, what, 18 years?”
“Whatever,” she snapped, turning out the light.
The second week back at work, he finally gave up ignoring her. He set up an email account, unpetitmort. He called her, told her what he’d done, what the password was and that became their means of communication. For the next year, they talked – wrote – about everything and nothing at all. Philosophical foreplay. Angst-ridden diatribes against god and man. Mostly, they bemoaned the daily grunge that weighs down the soul and sucks the light out of life. He saw the hole in her from which seeped the joy she spewed like vomit and realized she was seeking something other than what he had first thought. Something she seemed to believe he could provide.
Almost a year to the day from that first non-kiss, they attended another conference. He had maneuvered to have adjoining rooms. He ignored it until the last night.
After the closing night dinner, he knocked on the inner door. She opened it, unsmiling, and turned to the room. “Hey,” she said.
“Surprise,” he said.
“What do you want?” she muttered, sitting on the bed. “Obviously, not me.”
“Maybe you,” he said, approaching her. He pushed her down on the bed and lay on top of her. She smiled. He kissed her, briefly pushing his tongue in her mouth, intertwining with hers. She moaned, happy. Her hands moved under his shirt, caressing his back. Lower, she grabbed him, squeezing as she pushed her hips up into him.
“Slow down,” he said. Taking one, then the other of her hands in his, he raised them above her head.
She lay there while he lifted her shirt. “Just as I remembered,” he said, licking, nipping, biting, one then the other. She writhed beneath him and moaned. He pulled the shirt over her head then moved to her pajama bottoms. He pushed them along with her nearly non-existent panties to her ankles and off. He kissed first one foot, then the other. He licked his way to her lips.
“Can I touch you now?” she whispered, arms still above her head.
“No.” He stood and removed his clothing, laying it neatly on the floor beside the bed. He covered himself with a condom, taking a moment to put the wrapper in the pocket of his pants.
He stood between her knees. Leaning over, he rubbed his hands up and down her thighs, teasing the flesh at their apex. When she moved her hips, he knelt on the bed, moved his hands up, past her breasts. His hands gently clasped her neck.
“You like this?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she whispered back, her throat slightly constricted by his hands.
“More?” he asked.
“Yes,” she gasped.
He entered her. Moved inside her. She moved with him.
“More,” he asked again, breathing rapid, eyes closed.
“Yes,” she rasped.
He squeezed and thrust, and squeezed more and thrust harder until he felt the most divine release he had ever experienced. He never noticed that she had stopped moving. He withdrew before falling upon her, panting.
When he opened his eyes, and lifted his head, her eyes stared at him, unseeing. He gazed back, waiting for his heart to slow. He closed her eyes. Returning to his room, he got a washcloth to cleanse her. Afterwards, he placed her legs on the bed and covered her with a blanket.
He took the clothes he had removed with him. Using her shirt, he locked the inner door to her room, let himself out and used his key to go back into his own room where he then used a clean washcloth to close and lock the inner door on his side. He put her clothes at the bottom of his suitcase, went to bed and slept better than he had in years.
She was his first. When he left to catch his flight home early the next morning, he was already planning his second.
Bridget pulled into her driveway and parked the car in the garage. It seemed dim and upon visual inspection, she noticed one of the bulbs was out. Bridget swung her legs out of the car and let Lidia into the house.
“Wow,” Lidia muttered, her voice betraying astonishment. “This is yours.”
“Um,” Bridget replied, unsure if Lidia had asked a question. “Yes.”
“Such a nice kitchen, I’ve always wanted an island.” Lidia looked around with the wonder of a child.
Bridget laughed to conceal her annoyance. She had brought Lidia here to die and dallying in the kitchen was not part of the plan. Bridget almost felt incensed that Lidia was getting sidetracked by a kitchen when sex was supposed to be on the menu.
Almost as if she could sense it, Lidia refocused her attention on Bridget. “But we’re not here for kitchens,” she said, attempting seduction.
Bridget barely had time to agree before Lidia’s lips met her cheeks. Somewhat dazed by the forcefulness, her only reaction was to lift her arms up and place them around Lidia. Bridget let out a schoolgirl giggle and guided Lidia upstairs towards the kill room.
“Here,” she said, pointing to the door to the guest room.
Lidia peeked into the room and saw the emptiness inside. “Not a bedroom?” she complained.
“This is my, uh,” Bridget stalled. “Messy room.” She felt proud of the lie she came up with, and even convinced herself it wasn’t false. “Let me go get some toys,” Bridget said as she placed a hand on Lidia’s arm.
“Ooh,” Lidia squealed. “I’ll get myself ready.” She happily walked into the last room she’d ever see.
Bridget waited outside the room for a moment. She had hid her favorite companion on the desk in the hall right next to the kill room. After a quick moment, Bridget grabbed her pommeled dagger from its hiding place and held it behind her back. She walked to the open door of the room and peered inside.
Lidia had stripped down to only her bra and underwear and was sitting down on the couch in a pose nobody would have called sexy. A stupidly large grin made its way into her face when she saw Bridget appear in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Come here, sexy,” Lidia said, a little too excitedly.
Bridget sauntered into the room, still wearing the kill clothes she wore to the bar, with a hand behind her back, hiding the pommeled dagger. She held her head down slightly with her eyes pointed up towards Lidia, as if sheepishly inviting her for an embrace.
Lidia accepted the summons; she stood up from the plastic wrapped couch and grabbed Bridget’s head for a passionate embrace, her other hand snaking up Bridget’s belly.
Bridget separated a moment and whispered in Lidia’s ear. “Turn around.” The sense of impending release overwhelmed Bridget. She had her prey perfectly positioned, unaware; ready. As Lidia turned, Bridget kept her empty hand on the other side of her prey’s body and brought out the dagger. She braced her victim and plunged the dagger into Lidia’s back, splitting between two ribs and piercing her heart.
Blood splattered from both sides as Bridget pushed the full length of the blade until the hilt pressed against flesh. A short yelp escaped from Lidia before she fell limp in Bridget’s hands. The metallic smell of blood peppered Bridget’s nostrils with its familiar tang. She knelt and laid her victim gently on the floor with motherly care. Bridget felt the cloudy corruption of Cole’s antics leaving her mind until a terrifying sound snuck into her ear: a gasp.
The trajectory of the sound told Bridget whoever had gasped was standing in the door, encroaching on her ritual. She reached for the blade she had beneath the couch and spun to throw it at the interloper. It was on the tips of her fingers when Bridget identified the invader as Peeks. She was horrified as the blade left her hand, sailing across the room, spinning, hanging indefinitely. Bridget was so wrapped up in her work, so focused that she had just reacted to the sound. She could see the confused and terrified look plastered over her friend’s statuesque face. The sound of a loud thud rang out and a second gasp was released into the room when Bridget saw the blade lodge itself in the door frame, just to Peeks’ right.
Peeks stood in place, her face long with fright and eyes wide in surprise, focused on the bloody body laying before her. She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. Her heart was beating loud enough for both girls to hear its steady, thunderous beat.
“Peeks,” Bridget muttered. She stood up, hands hanging at her side with open, welcoming palms. Bridget had been caught before, but never by someone close. Those cases were easy; another body joined her collection of catharsis. “Peeks,” repeated Bridget. Sorrow swept over her, as the thought of having to kill her friend loomed heavily. Yet her friend had no words, no movement, just the same look of terror fixated on the woman laying in a pool of blood in the middle of the room. Bridget took a step towards the door.
“Is, is that the sword?” Peeks stammered.
Confusion overtook Bridget. “Sword?”
Peeks slowly raised a hand and pointed to the jeweled hilt. “That, the,” she said. Her head wiggled slightly as she closed her eyes to concentrate. “The gem. From your story.”
Bridget looked back at Lidia, still laying on her belly, lifeless and beginning to reek of death. “Oh,” she muttered, turning back to Peeks. “Yeah, from the other night.”
Bridget gazed at Peeks’ face, still anguished over exposing her to this.
A modicum of life returned to Peeks’ voice. “Is it true?” she asked in morbid curiosity. “Are you him?” Peeks finally turned to look Bridget in her blood speckled face.
“Yes,” Bridget answered without hesitation.
The answer didn’t faze Peeks. “So, you.”
“Kill people,” Bridget interrupted. She could sense Peeks processing the scene and moved closer to console her.
Peeks took a step back, terror once again rearing itself as she recoiled from Bridget. Peeks warily eyed Bridget’s blood stained clothing.
Bridget looked down at herself and realized that the black and red was only successful at hiding blood stains to a point. She stripped off the clothes and cast them onto the rug and began to approach Peeks again.
Bridget’s nakedness seemed to ease Peeks and she allowed her bare friend to come close. An inexplicable comfort eased the stress within her as Bridget stood in the doorway, resting her head against Peeks’ shoulder in a long hug.
“Come on,” Bridget whispered, and walked them to her bedroom. They climbed onto Bridget’s bed and leaned on the pillows she kept lined up against the wall. “I’m sorry,” Bridget offered. “I’m sorry you had to see this.”
He lingers in the midst of the night, after sleeping all day.
He dresses in the darkest clothing, it's hard to see him that way.
He lurks in streets of desertion, to hopefully see someone come.
He hides in ally ways to snatch or grab someone.
He creates a certain pattern, to throw you off the loop.
He leaves a pinch of evidence, on your family house stoop.
He entered through the window of an innocent sleeping soul.
He takes them through a series of tasks that would help him make his mold.
He hopes to never get caught in a drastic web of danger.
He is a neighbor, he is a friend, he's your unknown serial stranger.
She was finally here.
I watched her set foot on the carpet, red stilettos sinking in ever so slightly.
The lace hem of her skirt brushed against the skin on her thighs as she walked over.
I willed it to hike up - even a little bit, but to no avail.
She sat across me. I noticed the colour in her cheeks.
They were plump, growing even plumper when she gave me that smile.
I followed the flesh in her face as it rolled up and down her forehead, twitched when she laughed and creased as she blinked, but nothing could avert my eyes from those cheeks.
Ripe and rich and soft, but to the perfect extent firm.
Almost good enough to bite into.
Lately, there have been a lot of positive stories about serial killers. Killers with a code, tragic childhoods, sympathetic characters. The victims become irrelevant and the killer becomes a tragic hero of sorts.
I appreciate the hell out of this, let me tell you. I watch every series I can feast my eyes on and I smile. I have always been so misunderstood and to have light shed on my profession, well, it makes me happy.
I am going to be honest, this is, after all, my journal, my story. I had a normal childhood. I am not as hot as Ted Bundy, but I am not unattractive. I am not middle-aged, and I am not very charismatic. I just like killing. I didn’t start my career by killing animals and my first victim wasn’t someone I know. I have always been random, and I attribute my randomness to my success. Each kill is not the same. I don’t have patterns or calling cards and I certainly don’t keep trophies.
I have told you who I am not, so let me tell you who I am. I am in my early twenties, average height, average weight. I have female friends and some male acquaintances. My female friends think I am gay, but I am asexual. Children do not generally like me, and the feeling is mutual. I did well in school but didn’t pursue a degree beyond high school. I am attractive enough and I keep current with styles for hair and clothing; however, I tend to stay on the conservative side to avoid drawing attention to myself. I will not stand out in a crowd. I move frequently and have never been arrested. I work jobs that will help me choose victims. I have worked as a valet, the person who grocery shops for others, a pet sitter, a dog walker, and I even did a short stint in elder care.
My current target is some guy who dresses up like a clown for kids’ parties. I parked his rust-bucket truck for him when he was going in for an out-patient procedure and he seemed like a douche. His costume was in the passenger seat, so I struck up a conversation with him and learned he has a party this Saturday. I put a tracker on his truck. He didn’t tip me. I haven’t decided on the method yet. Last time it was a pillow over the face of a 104-year-old man. Don’t judge me, I know that isn’t challenging. I will report back when my new job is done. Right now, I need to get in the zone.
Well, it is Monday morning and I’m back, as promised. The world is now rid of one douche-bag clown but what a shit show!
It was Saturday morning and I followed his route on my phone. He parked his car at the party at 11:00 am and he started moving at 3:00 pm. I was parked down the street from the party and I followed him, keeping a good distance. My weapon of choice was a pitch fork. I had never used a pitch fork to kill so I was trying to mix it up. I had to saw off part of the handle, so it would fit in my trunk. I drive a Prius.
Well, the frickin clown drove and drove and drove. I think we traveled into inbred country as most of the people I glimpsed seemed so white they would glow in the dark. Anyway, finally, he pulled off the road onto a two-rut driveway. The driveway was great for his truck, but more challenging for my Prius. I couldn’t leave my car on the road to be seen but I wasn’t sure what was at the end of this driveway. I waited a few minutes and then pulled in. I decided I would pretend I was a salesperson, in case clowns have families.
The driveway was filled with tree roots, branches and holes and eventually, I got stuck. I walked the rest of the way, but I couldn’t bring my pitchfork because, duh, that would have looked a little crazy. Well, his house, if it was his house, was made of cinder blocks and there were chickens running around randomly. Free range meals, I guess. In the middle of the dirt yard, was a scarecrow. There was no garden to protect from birds, just a straw-stuffed creature mounted on a pole in the middle of dust. The windows in the cinderblock structure were small and narrow and there were only two of them, at eye-level. The door was steel and unpainted, but it looked new. I knocked on the door and waited. Eventually, after I knocked repeatedly, he came to the door. He was still wearing his clown make-up but had taken off his wig and was just in his boxers. I told him I was selling insurance, but I got my car stuck in his driveway and needed some help getting it out. The douche clown said, “Insurance! I love insurance. Sure, I will buy some!” He started laughing, a very high-pitched raspy laugh, and then began to cough. When his coughing fit passed, he looked at me and I saw recognition in his eyes. “You! You parked my car!”
No one ever remembers the valet – except this douche clown. “I used to be a valet, now I sell insurance,” I replied. He started laughing again and I started getting annoyed. I wished I had brought my pitchfork after all. “Will you help me get my car out?” I asked directly.
“Well, no. I am not really the helpful sort. Call a tow-truck.” The clown closed the door in my face.
I stood at the front door for a few seconds and then decided walked back to my car to get my weapon. I grabbed the pitch fork and walked back to his house. I knocked again, hiding the pitchfork to the side of the door so I could still have the element of surprise. The clown opened the door immediately and grabbed the pitch fork. He must have been watching me from the window. He charged at me with the pitch fork and pierced my thigh. I fell backward into the dust and screamed. The clown in tighty-whities laughed. He raised the fork again and I scurried backwards, on my butt, asking him to stop. He continued to laugh the high-pitched raspy sound was now sounding more menacing. I got up to run and felt a burning sensation in my buttocks and realized they had been pierced by the wretched 4-prong fork. I fell onto my stomach and heard the sucking sound of the fork being pulled out of my ass. I screamed, realizing now that I was likely going to die. The damn clown started to laugh again, and the coughing fit followed. I got up and started to run back toward my car, taking advantage of this strange stroke of luck. When I reached my car, I looked back. The clown was on his knees, still coughing. He had dropped the pitch fork and was gasping for air. I walked slowly back toward the circus creature and watched. His face was a deep purple color and he shuddered as he coughed one more time and then he died. Face down in the dirt, his butt crack peaking out from his thread-bare tighty-whities - he just died.
I am an intelligent man and I knew that I was in the clear. The clown was dead, and I hadn’t killed him. It felt like I had been cheated, but I still needed to get my car pulled free. I could call triple A, but then I might have to explain how I was there to begin with. I rolled his body into some brush and checked his pockets for keys. Luck was certainly with me and I took the keys, started his truck and used the chain that was in the bed of his truck to hook my Prius and get myself free. I was bleeding (like a stuck pig, go ahead and say it), and sitting down or walking hurt like hell. I started to get angry at this clown and decided I was not done. I drug his fat body back to his yard. This took time, as I had to stop to catch my breath, several times. Finally, his porky dead body and I made it to the scarecrow pole. I took down the straw man and strung up the clown man. I went back and got my pitch fork and stabbed him repeatedly. It was a very unsatisfying time and eventually I stopped. I wiped down the handle and the prongs of the pitch fork and threw it into the brambles. I got in my car and drove home.
I didn’t technically kill the clown, but the clown is dead, regardless. My next adventure will be better. I started a new job in the Ebola clinic.
You pass over me,
as sly umbra.
Fleeing thoughts are permeable,
under your rogue digits.
Nothing here is sacred.
~N.E. Philomèle~ ©️2020