SIXTEEN MURDERERS

They say the average person in the UK will walk past sixteen murders in their lifetime.

You’ve always loved that statistic. It turns every crowded street into a quiet game. Every passing face is a possibility. Every stranger’s face an open invitation while you potentially wait for an answer, well you almost always wait.

You wonder sometimes how many people have already walked past you. How many unknowingly brushed shoulders with you in a lift, or stood too close in a queue, or caught your eye on the tube for just a second longer than they meant to. You can envisage them shuffling off to the safety of their homes, making dinner, cleaning the windows, never realising just how close they came to…oh you get goosebumps at the thought.

You’ve made sure there isn’t a pattern to your choices, that would be careless. Predictable. Unprofessional. Why others are driven to leave their little calling cards at the scene is beyond you. That’s tempting fate, like leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for someone to follow before the exposé of the true depravity of your deeds. No, you like darkness. Black inky darkness where no one sees anything. No clues, no smoking gun, but then you would never lower yourself to using something as baseless as a gun. The very thought disgusts you. So, base. So primitive and so destructive. No, you are an artist. There is a craft, a skill, a love of process in what you do, in fact if you were pushed you would admit you see what you do as an artistic calling something that emanates deep within your soul.

Did you feel that? That first flicker of desire. It begins as a whisper. Not a thought. Not even a decision. More a feeling. A small nuance somewhere deep down within you. Easy to ignore at first. Like an itch beneath the skin. A money spider crawling across the back of your hand while you sip wine at a barbeque. You can carry on as normal. Hold conversations, smile and laugh at the right times just so no one notices but it’s like listening in on a more interesting conversation while talking to someone at a party. You can’t help focussing on what’s being said while you ignore what is in front of you. Your interest is piqued.

And it grows.

Slowly, patiently, until everything else starts to recede. Voices become white noise. Colours fade to greys. Like a tap dripping at night, all you focus on is waiting for that dollop of water to collide with porcelain, those sweet seconds of release followed by the wait, the need to hear that ‘plop’ once again. That need demands to be answered. You’ve tried to describe it but the words at your disposal fail to adequately describe something that is primordial, almost instinctive almost guttural.

Society talks about men’s base urges and desires but this transcends societal norms. You disdain at these weak and harmless things, the preserve of the bedrooms of suburbia. No this is so much more. This permeates within every cell in your body, its pressure building, refusing to be ignored demanding that you address this need, an inner voice that eventually screams at you.

‘SCRATCH THIS FUCKING ITCH!’

When that point is reached abstinence and ignorance are no longer options for you. That’s when you give in, embrace the chaos of what is to come with open arms, smiling. You’re not fussy. That’s the terrible beauty of it. Anyone will suffice and, in the city, so many hold on to that hope of that one connection. That one person who might make a difference in their lives and you know exactly how to go about your business. A lingering glance, a smile acknowledged, a moment of trust freely given. That’s all it takes. People always want to believe in the kindness of strangers. The safety and protection from a strong man when in peril, a belief in the basic decency of strangers. What would you do without the salt of the earth gullibility of those who crave connection.

Men are particularly easy. So willing to accept your hand of friendship and if you’re in the right place at the right time, for some the suggestion of something just out of reach, that moment of communion in what is an otherwise sterile life is just enough for them to follow, some blindly, others just willing enough not to assume the worst. They fill in the gaps themselves as to what this is that you are offering. Building their own expectations, and you, Mr Nice Guy, you walk them exactly to where you need them. By the time they realise it’s already too late for them. That’s the moment you crave, that moment before understanding is fully realised. That shift in their eyes. That look of confusion before clarity is revealed and then the certainty of what fate lies ahead.

That is the sweet, beautiful moment. That which must be savoured. Never rushed. You don’t rush it. You never rush it. The glint of the blade is one of the last things they see as you set to work on them. Slicing, thrusting, poking, gorging the sweet, oh so sweet lines of dripping red blood as you slice along flesh. Their screams ring out, their panic rising, as they realise what you have in store for them just before the inevitable begging commences. Ah, the dulcet tones of desperation. Imploring you to stop. Crying out for all in sundry, as if you might somehow experience an epiphany of sympathy and cease to slowly shave the slivers of skin from their now wearied bodies.

‘I have children!’ How many times have you heard this last desperate cry, laden with hope that on some level you might care about the little ones. Ah they’re so cute aren’t they but so discardable. You feel nothing for them or that you will be leaving them bereft of a loving parent. Then your victim sees your resolve. A realisation dawns. Their inevitable end becomes all too apparent. You’re devoid of emotion and nothing they say will make a difference. Sometimes and it’s so very rare that it happens, they realise that their screams are like little blue tablets, fuelling your basest wants and desires, and then they go mute. Maybe they think in some way they are robbing you of some portion of the illicit pleasure, that will be released by their demise, but they never realise that it is the look of fear in their eyes, their sublimation to the fate that awaits them, and that precious, precious, moment when they lie on the fulcrum between existence and nonbeing, that fleeting moment, is where you satiate your wanton desire.

There is no meaningless expulsion of fluid to signify the denouement of desire. That would be too base for one such as you. No this is of a much higher order, beyond the shaking shuddering explosions of nerve endings in some sleazy contorted climactic facial machination. No this is spiritual, from a much higher order than the pleasures that mere mortals experience in their furtive ruttings. You can feel it in every pore every cell at an almost atomic level. You transform into a supernova of luscious luminosity so bright you burn to your very core, then satiated return back to your human form and you observe the lifeless remnants in front of you, the detritus of your desire.

If you could chase this lascivious luminance every night you would, but then such pleasure would be short lived. It takes careful planning and patience, all of which you have in abundance, and if you were honest with yourself, sometimes the cravings give just as much pleasure as carrying out the act.

Fear was both an aphrodisiac and an enabler for you. The lone woman running trying to make the last bus on time, panicking, tears falling from her face as the tension rises in her body, her flight reflex stretched to breaking point. Then you, the knight in shining armour appear. You welcoming smile and false concern for her safety. The lies that drip like honey from your tongue. ‘My daughters your age. If she missed her bus I’d like to think someone would help her as well.’ That’s all it took an open door a promise of safe passage. Some would hesitate but in the face of being caught out all you had to do was smile and show them, ‘look here’s my ID and address. I only live up the road’.

It always worked. They would climb in and you could feel the stirring starting deep down within you. You make sure their seatbelt is on ‘for their safety’ but also if for some goddam unknown reason their sixth sense kicks in and they decide to make a run for it it’s easy for you to haul them back before they get a chance to flee. Most of them just rattle on relived at having escaped that which seemed life threatening, then realise too late that your intentions all along were to threaten their life. Women were the easiest managed. One good hard punch to the head and you would watch them flop down in their seat, now supplicated for your desires.

You’ve always liked women. They scream, cry, and despair at the fate that awaits. Some think they can sex their way out of the situation. That an over enthusiastic exchange of entwined limbs and bodily fluids will be enough to save them for another day, but they don’t know you at all? Do they? You love to torture them mentally taking all liberties that are offered even playing the part of the considerate defiler. Gentle and assuring, encouraging compliance, while they hope their finest, unbeknownst to them final hour with you will be the thing that saves them. Then when you finish, that luscious moment, post the evening’s licentiousness when they realise, they gave their all in vain. That look on their faces, fear, then resignation before you flash your blade and unleash the terror, the screams. You the conductor with your steely stabby baton conducting the single orchestrate in your symphony of pleasure and release.

If you close your eyes now you can sense it. That feeling of becoming an inspired being, your sacred role, the divination of the “essence” of the diabolical, transmitted to a resigned recipient. Concentrate now, can you feel your entire body moving. Flowing, subtlety, sweeping motions for the softer passages, then as your euphoria grows towards its climax, intense, fast, slashing, the sweeping movements of your baton of debasement the screaming torments of the choir urging you on to your cadenza of engorgement, until you reach your apex. Hold that feeling now. Your heart gallops hard inside your chest. Listen that sound, your blood rushing through your veins like wind on a sandy beach, then you begin to plateau your baton still in hand as the resolution from your coda washes over you. It’s done! Take your bow.

Your body is tingling now stoked by the pleasures of the power of recall. But now the touch paper has been lit. There can be no going back. The memory is not suffice. The itch must be scratched and now and you are powerless to resist what must be done. You demand to be satiated. That feeling is pulsating deep within you, throbbing, pushing all other thoughts to the far reaches. You know this has to be done now no time to wait and plan. You need your fix and streets are where you will find it.

You still need to be careful though. You need find somewhere unobserved. A place with no cameras and where the twitching curtains of suburbia remain closed tight to the sounds of the outside world. You drive around the city looking for your Prey Then you see her. Stumbling, hesitant unsteady on her feet. It looks like she’s been drinking and a broad smile appears across your face. You like them with a few drinks in them. Inhibitions are lowered and common sense becomes the past tense. This is going to be easy. Then you stop and watch. What if it is just too easy. What if it’s a set up and a squad of undercover police are waiting in the wings to pounce. She’s dressed like she’s heading to a nightclub but you know there none nearby. Maybe she’s a local and she’s heading out for the night. You can tell she looks after her body. Her clothes accentuate all the right parts in all the right places. You feel that familiar warmth starting to spread.

If you can just get her into the car with the minimum of fuss then the night’s fun can begin. She’s just your type. Petite, blonde and dressed to attract attention, easy to overpower, pliable for your needs. Oh! Can you feel that. It’s getting more intense the pulsations. You can feel the endorphins being released into your bloodstream creating that static charge around your brain. Any choices are now moot. You try to reason with yourself. You know you need to be extra careful but that other side it’s telling you forget it. You know she’s the one. She’s alone, vulnerable and she’s yours now for the taking. You go to drive past then at the last minute you slam on the brakes and stop just ahead of her. You wait until she’s alongside.

‘What’s a lovely girl like you doing in a neighbourhood like this?’ It’s a corny opening line but you know if she’s had a few drinks sometimes the cornier the line the easier it was to gain their trust. You put on your best smile warm and inviting, safe. Just saying that word and knowing what happens next makes your grin broader and what’s more you think it’s already started to work. She looks at you with that confused state the inebriated display checking you out through one squinted eye as if somehow this was going to be able to see into your soul.

‘Are you lost love? You look like you heading to a party

She wanders over to the open window and your heart starts to pound. If you can just persuade her to get in the rest for her will be history.

‘What’s it to you then. For all I know you might be some sort of serial killer’

For one split second, the accusation your senses prickle. If she knew what she was saying and to who. The ignorance of the innocent, then you feel that smile coming back. That look of reassurance that you have propagated over the years. The I’m harmless trust me eyes that you flash in the hope that it disarms and dissuades them from flight.

‘I am one love. Two Weetabix every morning and if I’m feeling lucky maybe three!’

O yes, you like that line. Where did it come from. You don’t care. She’s laughing now. She leans into the window confidently and looks you up and down. She’s not nervous at all. You have the distinct feeling she sizing you up as much as you are her. This is new territory for you. Normally they are like jittery sheep. One wrong word and they get spooked and before you know it, they’ve gone, running off in the opposite direction. But this one she’s holding her own. This close up you can see she’s older than she looks from a distance. Maybe thirty, thirty five but dressing like she’s in her twenties. Not a bad ploy to attract attention, men being men, the promise of getting something more would always cancel out any disappointment they felt. Now if you can just get her into the car, you can go to town on this bitch.

But you’re getting distracted. You will her to open the door and climb in. Once the door is closed, she is yours to do with ….well you know what you are going to do and it will be delicious, the thought every single slice sends shivers down your back and you can feel the hairs on your arm stand to attention.

‘Oh, I don’t know getting into cars with strange men’ She stares straight into your eyes as if probing you.

You laugh to yourself.

‘Somehow love I don’t think it’s our first time, is it?

Her laugh is exaggerated you think it’s all for show. Maybe she’s all tits and ass and there’s not a lot going on in there, then the thought strikes you maybe that’s it there’s more to this girl than meets the eye.

She laughs hysterically again. ‘What are you suggesting. You’re a bit saucy aren’t you. Where are you going to take me then somewhere nice? Are you going to look after me’

She stands looking in smiling. Totally confident. You’re surprised by how forthright she is. Somehow, now it’s you that is being asked to make the decision. You sit back and look at her. She balances her breasts over the lip of the side window accentuating them. You smile now convinced as a new wave of anticipation washes over you the hunger is now demanding to be satiated.

‘Most definitely, I’ll look after you climb in, we’ll go for a spin’.

You lean over and open the door and wait to see what she does. One person is going to be looked after tonight for sure and that’s you and your needs. She climbs in puts on her belt and sits looking patiently ahead smiling coyly. You pull off and start driving. Now you just need to decide when to deliver the blow to the head. Can’t do it too early in case someone sees her slumped in your car and gets nosey. You hope that perhaps a mixture of alcohol a soft seat and a warm car would do the job for you and she would fall asleep. When she woke it would be too late, you’d have her exactly where you wanted her and the night’s pleasures could begin in earnest. You can start to relax now the hard parts done.

Now you have to keep the façade up until you’re ready. Keep her calm and unsuspecting, make her feel like you’re her good Samaritan, a safe pair of hands. But if she knew what these hands were about to do to her that would be a different matter.

‘I just need to drop something off at my lockup Is that ok?’

You ask the question not really waiting for her answer. You are both going there regardless of what she says. Any lip and your fist will make her agree. She nods her head and says nothing.

Ahh this is too sweet, You’ve fooled her taken her in. She suspects nothing. Your already planning what you are going to do with her. You’ll make her beg offer up everything and no perversion will be too great a sacrifice for her and despite it all. Tonight, you’ll make her wear your sunglasses. The mirrored ones. If there was one thing that accentuated you pleasure to the next level it was seeing your own face just as you dispatched them. That look you have in your eyes, cold, emotionless and for a scintilla of time you behold true evil, that dark essence in that place where a soul should reside. Just think of it, the expectation is becoming too much. You need to concentrate just for a few more moments.

You pull up at the lock up and the automatic doors open and you drive in. This has been too easy and now you can enjoy the fruits of your labour. The doors close behind you and now you can drop the façade. You look at your passenger all warmth gone. Your whole demeanour changes from affable guy to the wolf that is circling his prey about to move in for the kill. But wait something is different here. Instead of scared baleful eyes your gaze is met and reciprocated with the exact same look, no fear no emotion, and then you feel it. How you didn’t see it is beyond you. You made the mistake of letting the lust take over and now this. You feel the thud on your thigh and pressure being applied. You go to swing to neutralise the threat but your arm feels like it is made of concrete and you can already feel a veil of unconsciousness slipping over you. More disconcerting for you is your prey now sitting silent, smiling with mock concern.

‘Oh, are we not feeling well?’

How many times have you done the exact same smile, then a second impact on your leg and then a third. You try to speak but the darkness envelops you.

You don’t know how long you’ve been out. Your eyelids feel like they are two breeze blocks and you have to fight to try to open them but slowly consciousness returns. You somehow manage to raise your head and look forward and there she is standing in front of you with an all too familiar look. That look you normally wear on your face when your victim wakes up. That cold dispassionate look. The look that tells you this isn’t going to end well for you. The look you give that normally sparks the terror within your victim. But not you. Not tonight. Instead, you smile as you realise the tables have been turned but then your own body surprises you. That feeling. You can feel it starting to grow. The engorgement has begun and it is in that moment that you realise just how fucked up a person you really are and you start to laugh.

She looks back at you confused. This isn’t the reaction she was expecting. No Fear. No crying out. No begging. You can almost read her mind. She needs to do something to reassert her position. You know what you would do and she follows your play book to the letter. She fumbles inside her hand bag and produces what she believes is her game changer. You observe dispassionately, totally unimpressed.

You recognise the knife instantly. A Gerber Strongarm. The blade is about five inches long. For you this knife is merely foreplay. She holds it up and then slowly licks the blade while smiling. You know what she intends to do and it sends a shudder of pleasure through your body, goosebumps cluster bomb across your back and arms and again you can’t help smiling.

While you’ve been out, she’s been busy. Your arms and legs are tightly tethered to the chair in which you normally entertain your guests. You try to move them but they refuse to cooperate.

‘That’s the Curare mate. In case you’re wondering it acts as a neuromuscular blocking agent by binding to the acetylcholine receptor at the neuromuscular junction and preventing nerve impulses from activating skeletal muscles. Now you being a dirty pervert probably don’t know what that means do ye? But me being a nurse I do. It means you’re mine to do with as I please’.

Her words remove the smile from your face. ‘Dirty Pervert’, the cheek of it. You are so much more than that. You are an artist. A master of the macabre. You doubt if this thing in front of you has even the slightest notion about the art, no the craft of the deliciousness of dispatching souls. You test your arms and legs just to check if there is any chance that you can in some way reclaim the situation in front of you. Your mind wills movement but your flesh ignores all requests. Somehow you have allowed this…Bitch to render you inert and all you can do now is literally sit back and wait to see how her murder scorecard will compare to yours. You suspect she is a street busker compared to your classical honed perfection and wonder what her first movement will be.

Your head starts to sag. The effects of the drugs now weakening your ability to keep your head up and your only view now is off your knees. You hear footsteps walking past then behind you before your head is wrenched up roughly by your hair and a neck brace applied. Your head is now fixed facing forwards but there is a delay before your ‘victim’ reappears. When she does it is not what you expected at all. She has stripped naked except for her boots, her hair has been tied back and she is now standing confidently in front of you.

‘Do you like what ye see mister? Not that it matters. You’ll never get to tell anyone’.

You think to yourself had roles been reversed you would have enjoyed her body first then you would have taken great delight in slicing her piece by piece until she begged for release. You think she might even have enjoyed the experience given the amount of small straight scars that cover her body. You had always wondered if you had a self-harmer on the table so to speak who would have got off first, well it looks like now you will never know.

She walks over and straddles you knife in hand before she starts to grind against you. Ah yes, you can see her modus operandi. She will garner herself into a state of excitement and then……the thought brings on an unexpected flush of pleasure again and you can feel it ebb through your body. This is new territory for you. You are not afraid at all in fact that oh so familiar feeling is starting to pulse, you feel your heartbeat getting faster. The sideshow going in your lap is a mere distraction it is the thought of that blade, of the pleasures that lie in wait if used properly.

Your thoughts are interrupted by loud orgasmic moaning and you surmise that the floor show is nearly over and that you are heading towards the main act of the night and you are right. Just as it looks like she is about to have her moment of release she stops and looks at you. You watch as she takes the knife and places it exactly where your heart is. Medical training comes to the fore. You can feel a small amount of pressure where the blade touches your shirt. The end is nearing but you feel no fear in fact it’s the exact opposite. You can feel the pleasure pulsating through your body and you wonder is your face as flushed as your captor after her recent antics. Then you see the piece de la resistance of the evening’s activities.

If you’d been planning this yourself it could not have been more perfect. Your lady friend has had a rummage through your things. She produces your sunglasses. The ones you normally place on your victims so you can see your face for their final moments and now she places them on as if by doing so it somehow is hiding her nakedness. She begins to grind against you again. Slowly this time. Stoking her fire but unbeknownst igniting that same fire within you. You can hear her breathing getting heavier. Small gasps escape from her lips as her passion builds. You can feel the warmth of her breath against your face and tiny droplets of spittle collide with your flesh The cadence and frequency of her moaning increase rapidly as her arousal escalates. You would moan or cry out too but the effects of the drug have paralysed your ability to create sounds but they have no effect of the torrent of dopamine that has just been released within your own body.

The neck brace holds your head so you look straight ahead of you and your ‘prey’ lowers herself down so she is looking you straight in your eyes. Even if you wanted to you can’t close your eyes, but this just adds to the sweetness of the moment.

You see your face.

That face you love to see.

Devoid of emotion.

Soulless.

You think you can see, no wait.

You can sense that cruel callous, feral being who needs must be satiated.

He is looking back at you through mirrored lenses.

His needs override everything ,satisfaction is everything in this moment.

The antics of the woman squatting on your lap are now of no consequence as in unison you both soar towards your crescendos and then you feel it. The exquisite pressure of the blade pushing into you. Oh, she knows her stuff. The knife positioned just as you would do it. Below the third rib, blade turned sideways for uninterrupted access. There is no pain but you feel its progress as it moves slowly through muscle and glides its way in until you feel it pierce your heart and slide cleanly through the muscle tissue. You know if she stops and leaves the knife where it is she could sustain your life for hours but this is not her plan. You feel it cutting through the chambers of your heart. You know what will happen next because you have done the same thing many times. You know she will pull the knife out and this will result in a cardiac tamponade, your heart will literally drown in its own blood unable to perform its primary function.

You feel the blade being pulled sharply from your chest. She writhes backwards and you watch as your blood spurts out of you spraying her body with your thick viscous essence as her orgasm reaches its peak and she smears your blood over her body gasping and shuddering in pleasure. If only she knew you were in the exact same place that warm hot sense of pleasure flooding every aspect of your body while you look into your now dying eyes. Your mind is roaring YES!!! as your whole body sensates for what it knows is the final time which intensifies the whole experience.

If you could have smiled you would but your facial muscles refuse to respond but just as an amputee can feel a lost limb you too can feel that lost smile emanating across your face as your eyes now view in soft focus your stoic visage through blood stained lenses. There is nothing more to be said as you drift towards the plateaus of resolution. You know now this was the ultimate high the peak of pleasure you just never saw it co…………………………………………………………..