R/T/M (27 page)

    
But that would be the point of no return.

     After a man loses his virginity.

    
After a man has had sex with a woman, he views every woman differently.

    
Well, maybe not every woman.

    
Maybe not your mom, or your grandma, or your sisters or cousins or aunts.

    
When you see a girl or a woman that attracts you sexually for whatever reason, you wonder what it would be like to run your fingers through her hair.   What it would feel like and how it would smell.

    
You know the way that men think about fucking every woman?

    
I do that with rape and torture and murder.

    
Fucking and killing.

    
I don’t know if that’s how it is for everyone.

    
I don’t know if taking that step changes everyone.

    
People that do what I do don’t exactly have online message boards.

    
There aren’t a lot of rapists or murderers that write about it in their blogs.

    
Sometimes they keep journals.

  
  Rape diaries.   Torture diaries.

    
But by the time their actions become public, but the journals become evidence.

     Maybe if I ever get caught I can write a book and make a million dollars.

     Maybe I can take up painting like John Wayne Gacy.

     Ha!   Yeah right!

     I watched a talk show about that once.

     I was waiting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office and some talk show came on.

     I think it was the one hosted by John Walsh.

     He was all pissed off about what he called “Murderabilia”.   You know, like “memorabilia”?

     That’s what he called the phenomenon where people are fans of serial killers and they collect and trade and pay large sums of money for stuff from the killers like letters and paintings and murder weapons and whatnot.

     And John Walsh is all pissed off and pious because someone killed his kid, like, a decade ago.

     But fuck him.   Grief should be a private thing and he’s flipped it over into celebrity.

     Whatever.

     If I ever get caught, it’s all over anyway.

    
There’s no way I’m going to serve my time.

     I’m not gonna end up like Jeff Dahmer.   Get sodomized with the splintery end of a broken off broomstick and dying with a splintered broomstick up my ass?   No thanks.

     I’ll hang myself before I ever see trial.

     The septic tank is full.

     Not full of bodies.

     Heavens no.

     Thankfully I didn’t dump the bodies into my new septic tank.

     It’s not like I can call up the septic service and get the fucker pumped.

     You might deal with tons of human shit every day, but a couple dozen dead bitches is sure to get noticed.

     I filled in the hole with trash.

     Not all at once.

     Just every time I threw out a bag of trash I stuffed it into the hole.

     Over time it filled up.

     When it got near the top I knocked in the cement top with a sledgehammer and threw the lid out into the woods over the stone wall out back the house.

     When I knocked the top in, it settled in a little so I covered it up with dirt.

     It should be fine for a couple decades.

     The grass will grow a little thicker in that spot.

     Even if someone decided to dig there, they’ll just dig up trash and figure I filled up the old septic tank with trash then knocked it in and covered it up.

    
I should be fine unless later owners are the kind of jackasses that try to install a khoi pond in the backyard.   And if so, then so be it.   I’m long gone and invisible and that’s what they get for being pretentious assholes.   Unless you’re Asian you’ve got no fucking business fucking around with goldfish ponds.

     I stopped killing bitches and without a proper outlet for those urges everything started to seem surreal.

     I stopped going outside.

     Not like out in my backyard, but out in public.

     I’d go shopping at the supermarket late at night so I wouldn’t have to bump into too many people.

     Stuck inside out at my house I started to imagine doing ridiculous stuff.

  
  I want to tie girls arms together and push them off the roofs of tall building.

     I want to feed girls into
wood chippers feet first and watch the expressions on their faces.

     I want to
take them out in a boat to the center of a lake with their wrists handcuffed and toss them off the side and watch them drown.

     I don’t trust myself around women anymore because now that I’ve crossed that line I don’t know that I can keep myself from acting on these urges and I don’t want to be in a restaurant and
be unable to resist the urge to hack the waitresses throat open with the steak knife from my table setting.

     Things were getting surreal and life was getting hard to endure.

     Thankfully my parents died.

     I’m not glad that they died.   I mean it’s not something that I would have wished on them.

     My mother died from cancer, and my father died, like, a month later from grief.

     I didn’t feel very sad.

     I hadn’t seen them so long it was like hearing someone else tell you about their parents dying.

     You know they’re sad but it doesn’t really affect you.

     Like something you watch on television or read in a newspaper.
    

     I sold the house.

     Both houses.

     First the house my parents lived in.

     Then when that money was in the bank I figured I’d just about worn out my welcome where I’m at now and I put my house up for sale.

     The real estate market was a little depressed but I still made hundreds of thousands of dollars.

     It’s not like I’m planning on filing a tax return anytime soon.

     So I’ve got plenty of money.

    
I bought a nice roomy vehicle.

     The kind you can sleep in the back of if you’re driving a long distance and you get tired or the kind you can stay in the back of when you’re between apartments.

     I’m going on tour.

     I’m taking my act on the road.

     I always wanted to see this great nation of ours and I figure there’s no better way than by the nation’s highways and byways.

     You know, like Henry Lee Lucas.

     He managed to get around and have a pretty good time while it lasted.

     Maybe if I want to pretend to fit in I could wash dishes.

     Or get a job as a construction worker.

     You know, anything I can get paid for doing under the table.

     Maybe I’ll sell shit door to door.

     That’s a pretty good way to get to know you neighbors.

     It’s true that I never told you what my name was.

     Maybe you might think that was rude.

     But I’m sure you understand that I have my reasons.

     I could be anyone.

     You could be thinking that you might even know who I am.

     I’m the quiet guy at work always sits by himself and eats his lunch out of a brown paper bag.

     He doesn’t really talk to anyone unless he has to.

     You wonder what it is that keeps him going on day after day, but you never ask him.

     Because then you’d have done something.

     Started something you can’t see through till the bitter end.

     Begun something that you had no intention of finishing.

     You’d own a part of him.

     Or maybe I’ll be that friendly guy that comes to your local coffee house and flirts with the waitresses.   Everyone knows that guy, or at least they think they know him.

     They know his name, or at least the name they know him by, but they never thought to ask what he does for a living.

     Then one day one of their waitresses stops showing up to work and the guy stops coming around and no one ever puts the two together.

      Never underestimate the absentminded carelessness of the average person.

     There are normal looking guys like me living lives of quiet desperation anywhere you go.

     We are legion.

P.S.:

     Sean.

     This post-script is just for you.

     About this book.

     I know you said I should write a book and you probably got a little bit more than you bargained for.

     But as long as you don’t tell anyone anything about me then I guess we’re cool.

     I hope the book goes on to have a life of its own.

     Maybe I’ll stop off in Manhattan and mail a copy of my confession to every major newspaper and a couple book publishers.

     I figure maybe someone somewhere will want to publish it.

     I don’t think they’d be allowed to though, what with victims rights, and not wanting to be associated with a mass murderer.   It’s a bitch that I won’t be able to get paid for my work either.

     Anyway, allow me to assure you that if you ever tell anyone anything about me I assure you that I will find you and I will kill you.

     Forget about the witness protection program.

     They only do that kind of thing for mob informants and government stooges.

     I’m not really into killing guys, as you might have figured out for yourself.

     That’s just violent, crude, base.

 
   There’s no art to it.

     Murdering men isn’t beautiful.

     I’m trying to do something else.

     But if you decide to turn me in, I’ll make an exception in your case.

     I’ll get creative.

     I’ll make your death a performance art masterpiece.

     I’ll make you famous.

     If you’ve read this far, you might’ve figured out that I’m pretty good at making things happen the way I want them to happen.

     Careful.

     Methodical.

     If you skipped to the end because the suspense was killing you, you might want to go back and pick up where you left off.

     I don’t make mistakes.

     I leave this with you.

     Do what you will.

     It is what it is.

     You do what you do, then you move on.

     I don’t figure I’ll be seeing you again if you finished reading this.

     But if I do, you’ll know when you know.

     The room will be dark and you’ll feel like there’s someone else in the room with you.

     This happens to people every day, but unlike all of them, there will be someone in the room with you.

     I won’t try to throw you a scare by elaborately detailing what the next few and your last days would be like.

     I’ll just let you use your imagination.

     Later.