Serial Loser

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.