Some kids dress up as superheroes and monsters from Outer Space. I dreamed of being a serial killer. And as Richmond sat surrounded by Civil War battlefields, there were many grownups that dressed up in butternut and gray to play war among trashy shopping malls and picnic tables. Ever notice they’d rather shoulder rifle-muskets and fire cannons than play at being saw-wielding surgeons surrounded by piles of amputated mannequin limbs?
Me? Well, I was different. I am a serial killer. But, I ask, who killed and maimed more people? Soldiers, of course. I was far more selective. Yes, indeed, I am a serial killer. Yea, I imagined I lived in a comic book and was born for death.
I studied the grossest movies, read all the scary books, and knew, just knew, I would do it better. I would be the best serial killer ever. And I was. For one thing, I didn’t feel ashamed of butchering people, didn’t feel compelled to carve ‘em up to eat, or try to not get caught so I could get caught. I was more of a scientist curious about sorcery.
Maybe what were missing in the reanimation of corpses were not freshly killed people but necromancy. Or perhaps, since it’s Eastertime, resurrection by calling down departed souls into dead folks before they could fester.
I didn’t get very far, however, into expressing my deep life purpose. My God, what a frickin’ mess! Every time I murdered some one there was all kinds of gore to clean up. Blood all over the place. All over my flippin’ clothes, my nice sharp tools, my new jacket, red goo all over the place! In my car, in my truck, in my house, in my bathroom and all over the kitchen, too.
I had to constantly backtrack to make sure I didn’t leave any telltale giblets in the yard. I was paranoid of hair being left behind stuck to something that would condemn me to capture. What a bloody, damn mess it was to clean up after killing someone!
There’s no such thing as a truly clean kill. Even if they don’t bleed out much, dead folks go limp and ooze out feces and urine and semen and snot and stuff. Yuck! I didn’t have hogs and alligators to feed ‘em to nor barrels of acid or alkaline to dissolve bones and flesh and clothes and shoes and dental fillings and belt buckles. I was paranoid one nanospeck of DNA would compel me into prison. I wasn’t afraid of being executed, but I was afraid of being locked up for life with a zoo full of meth-addled racist gangster manrapers.
Good thing I earned black belts in karate and judo and trained in combat martial arts. I’d rip those face-tattooed bigots in half faster than they can rage, and I have. I hunted those bastards. Think I pick on pretty little women? Hell no, I hunted racists. I hunted gangbangers and rapists.
You’d be surprised how many assholes exist among a species that believed their species and theirs alone is somehow sacred. I pulled them down into Hell. I showed them the real Hell, not their drunken crackass badass motorcycle-wrecking pretend hells where they tortured people in their clubhouses.
But, alas, I got caught. I ended up going crazy with extermination holiness. I went from one murder a month to one a week to several in a weekend. I lost count. I didn’t keep any records, as I wasn’t interested in keeping score.
Yes, I attempted necromancy on the first few fellas I felled. Goodness, what a sick mess! God, what did I get myself into?
No wonder Victor Frankenstein and all the other mad scientists hid out in remote mansions and castles. I needed room, and I needed power, a lot of electrical power. Well, all I was able to accomplish was the reanimation of a few fresh corpses where parts of their bodies, their cells and tissues, were still alive. The results were always the same. Sections of the body would twitch and ripple and spasm. If limbs were involved they would thrash about with such vigor those limbs would tear apart at the joints. Which left me even more of a mess to clean up!
I killed so many people I couldn’t keep up with all the cleaning. My search for excellence faltered as my executions became sloppy and sloppier. So sooner or later even a hotshot police detective or a private eye masquerading as a psychotherapist could put two and three together and figure out who was number five. And so I got caught. Yes, killing is messy. Birth is messy. Sickness is messy. Sex is messy. Life is messy. Death is messy. Blood, oh my God, blood! Blood is messy. Jesus, please have mercy on all our souls as we drink your blood. I wished, oh I just wished instead I’d just fallen in love. It would’ve cured me, love would’ve.
William Dudley Bass
Saturday, January 5, 2013
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