27/04/2015 by ajm crawford
The Main Event
Norman sat waiting for 21.50. It was two minutes to go. He checked his weapon and the sly clean gun he had in his socks. Neither would get hot tonight. He’d be struck hard on entry and then find himself waking heavily bound in the middle of the restaurant. He was naked and his eyes hurt from the sweat and blood.
Peter was in full massacre mode, guns had blazed, choppers had slashed and knives had skinned the attendees. The gory soon to be putrid mess was strewn all over the restaurant. Bits of humans, pigs, sheep and a secret concoction that Peter had devised was blended in with all of it. The animal waste was from his butchery and the endless supply of various carcasses allowed him to blend a cocktail of gore that completely confused the Police and their medical experts. He knew that they knew it was a mixing of wild and varying materials, but he knew they didn’t know how to trace his presence in these scenes. His was almost non existent. He’d shaved everything, scrubbed every inch of his body and wore a suit of sheer plastic underneath his clothing. His head was covered buy a solid hair net like thing that would restrain any loose skin or hair.
The mood in the restaurant had changed very quickly. Glenn was first – a bullet into his left eye and sadly Billie was showered with the contents of his head. She was shot next. The machine gun then appeared and sprayed the remaining swingers with a stream of bullets which cut a few in half. That dissection would not be the last. Peter liked to cut them down into even smaller and messier pieces. Once he’d finished with this part of the performance, he drew himself a picture of surreal proportions with the smaller messier pieces he’d created. Norman was able to watch most of this placement and was in shock as he listened to Peter whistling while he walked about, splashed about and threw sections of humans and other matter around the restaurant.
Norman didn’t know what was in store for him, but he was damn sure his family, including his ex wife, were dead already. He gasped for breath as the adrenalin, anger and heart tearing fear gripped his entire body. He knew this lunatic would kill him, he only hoped it’d be quick. This mad fucker looked familiar but that hood and strange hair net thing which peaked out from underneath the hood hid his features. He realised that even if he could identify this man he could do nothing about it. He was sure it was a man.
Peter had nearly completed the main event and turned to conduct this unusual last act. Norman would be a slap in the face of the Police, he was Police and would send a clear message that Peter was invincible. At least Peter thought that. He had nearly finished and danced over to Norman. He stared at him, letting him know who he was and simply sliced his throat like a orange. He took his knob like head and placed it into a black plastic bag and threw it into the kitchen wet garbage bin. He made sure it went down the side as far as it would go and with a bit of luck as it was due for collection the next day, it would be on it’s way to the tip long before the Police were notified of the masterful scene.
Peter had finished, checked his possessions, left the fake apron and tools, his outfit’s security and prepared for his exit. He would be leaving as woman and her gear was clean, ready for wear and easily placed over the killing suit. The shoes were the only risk as he had to remove the boots and slip into the pumps. This change offered a chance for something to be left behind. He was amazingly careful and took an enormous time in getting ready for the leaving car. It was parked just down the street and it would only take 1.30 to get to it. He strolled out like a super model, opened the door and drove off to his van. Switch done and he dreamt of his bath.
Peter loved this bath and almost fell asleep when he enjoyed it. He couldn’t do that of course as drowning was not part of his plan. The immersion into this mixture soothed every part of him. It washed away the sweat and toil of his pleasure. It also triggered a conclusion to each event in his mind. The cleaning and depositing of the bath’s contents also eased his mind. He was relaxed and ready for work the next day, the madhouse would be very angry soon enough.
As intended it would take three days for the scene to be found. Norman’s head did indeed travel to the tip and was never found, the last insult thought Peter. The Police were unconsolable about finding the rest of Norman at Danny’s. It had taken some time to realise he was there of course as he wouldn’t be in one piece. When they dug deep through the now putrid body parts they found his guns and badge tucked inside what was left of Glenn’s head.
They couldn’t find Norman’s head.
Ruth sat at her overloaded desk and thought of giving it all away. The shit she had to endure, the arsehole she had to report to and the overwhelming sense of futility forced upon her. Nothing it seemed was getting any easier. Far from it. More and more the job was being ruined by micro management from the microscopic dicks in management. With their stupid desk bound decisions, the stupid fuckers thought they were actually improving things.
No, they were fucking everything up, bit by bit and seemed proud in their taking longer and longer to actually achieve it. What they were achieving was making this job so fucking difficult it was getting to the point where Ruth would leave the mess behind.
Being a defence lawyer couldn’t be that bad could it? .. thought Ruth as she grumbled away.
Peter didn’t leave any behind. His bizarre mastery of crime scene evidence gathering bewildered the Police every single time. This time Norman was his pièce de résistance. Harry stepped ever so carefully around the scene trying to get a handle on how this would be done.
The perp or perps would have to have been in the club already – Harry had found a phone diary entry for the “swingers do” and realised that the restaurant was closed for this event and that the attendees were invite only. So that meant the targets were carefully selected, with maybe an exception for the restaurant staff or any accompanying bimbo or boy toy.
Norman was here, but he wasn’t here for swinging. He’d had a prostate operation go south 2 years ago and aside from having no chance of standing proud was well known amongst those at the Madhouse, for having absolutely no interest in sex at all. He’d often shouted that the thought reminded him of the operation slip and his perceived lack of manhood. It drove him mad and the last place he’d want to be was in the middle of some wild naked orgy action with some high breasted rollers and big knobs.
Harry yelled out to anyone still at the scene, not really looking for a response but seeking any answers he could get .. “So, this perp or perps are here and must have set the whole evening up.
“There must be trace of the restaurant booking, the invites and/or RSVPs if any.”
“Do swingers commit?” .. wondered Harry to himself.
“The perp must have arrived here, done this deed and then left, how the fuck does he/she/they do that?”
“Anyone, any ideas?”
“The brutality must have made one hell of a mess on the perp or perps, although there’s still no sign of footprints, hand marks, or traces of tools being left in blood or gore.”
“And what the fuck is with this neat pile of apron and tools sitting in the middle of each scene like a shrine?” Harry realised that none were answering and he was essentially talking to himself. Rhetorical was a solo effort.
Ok, sorry, back to work, i’ll leave you to it” .. Harry mumbled some more frustration under his breath and went out for a cigarette. The smoking helped, maybe not his long term health, but it sure gave him time to think, reflect, contemplate and sometimes resolve the issues causing him to get all morbid, angry, frustrated and sad. Tonight was at least three smokes worth. He’d ring Ruth and see how she was getting on.
Ruth didn’t answer her phones. She had three phones and it often took days for Harry to reach her on any of them. Ruth was a very complex woman and they lead almost two totally different lives within the one relationship. Often both needed each other – but most often didn’t. It was a blissful time and a separate almost anonymous time at others. This must be one of those others thought Harry. He lit another cigarette and stumbled into the drivers seat and headed to the Madhouse.
Ruth had turned all her phones off. She was listening to an album that had taken her fancy and she’d left it uncracked on her iTunes collection. Today was a cracking time to forget the fuckers stumbling through her life and listen in peace to the album she’d been keen enough to buy, download and manipulate through her various devices. A quiet time with some wonderful tunes pouring into her ears. No disturbance, no noise, no work, no shit and no thoughts other than those delivered in her interpretation of the songs. Bliss. Times she’d forgotten about, experiences relived and a smile on her face that stayed there for about 40 minutes.
Numb was recuperating as only wealthy folks can. An agreeable reality TV crew was following his remarkable recovery from surgery. He’d had no such surgery of course but the fake melanoma removal story fitted the wronged multi millionaire in need of rest story to a tee.
Amy was also in need of rest and she’d found a quiet spot to lay low. It was in a cafe owned by local skin heads who where in the process of reimagining their obviously tainted reputation. The last place Dead’s crew would think of, or be allowed to look, was in the “Sharpened Cafe”. No people of any colour other than the “racist view of white” were found frequenting this oddly successful food outlet. The coffee and food was actually very good and well priced. A lot of local people had “other people” buy takeaway as they couldn’t bring themselves to go there, but wanted the quality fare on offer. Amy’s dumb arsed brother had joined up with these less enchanted singularly stupid fuckers and proudly displayed his new neck tattoo at any opportunity. It was a swastika being clutched by an eagle’s claw. Amy always smiled when she saw it, because the claw looked like a thin turkey holding onto a broken stick. A talentless backyard tattoo fumbler had scorched out this mess as a favour to Frank. He didn’t care, he thought it looked great. Amy was sitting in the back booth waiting for Frank and enjoying a large moccochino with cream and some raisin toast. The front doors suddenly blew off their frames and crashed out into the street. The noise of the explosion was incredible and the change in pressure swept everyone in the shop and the street off their feet and even altered some of their aggressive posturing.
Bill had his right arm blown off just after he dropped the bomb at the cafe’s front doors. The idiot didn’t realise that his jacket sleeve had caught on the ornate door handle and he simply dropped the explosive device right there on the concrete step. The door handles were old movie props that proudly supported a brass skull at the top with a winding snake wrapped around a pole to the lower point. They did look very good and often discussed, but one of them had been twisted that badly and moved that quickly from it’s original mounting that it now held poor old Bill by the chest to what remained of the front wall. His right arm was across the street in a bloody mess and his left was trying to comfort his open chest. Being right handed he found this difficult. The lady who was reading the menu at the front window was dead and sadly separated from her lower limbs, they shared the footpath with Bill’s arm across the road. The scene was like a zombie movie set, blood, gore, coffee, glass and attitude with fragments of Cafe strewn all over the place. Amy survived intact, although her ears hurt a bit. The booth she was sitting took the force of the explosion and sadly so did the canoodling couple in the booth in front of her. They weren’t canoodling anymore, they were unnaturally spread all over the booth.
In a louder inner voice than normal Amy wondered .. “Dead or his mountainous crew couldn’t have known she was there? Who was this crazy mother fucker setting off a bomb at this of all places.”
Skinheads weren’t popular and their most vocal objectors were peace loving pacifists, those rallying against fascism, corporate greed etc. “Surely they wouldn’t be sending slobs to blow up the “Sharpened Cafe” with maybe an innocent or two inside?”
Amy stopped thinking about this and thought about getting out. The last thing she wanted was to be talking to some pickled, donut breathing fun stopper, look what happened the last time. She bolted to the kitchen door and out into the back lane way that normally screamed of bad things. This time though it was just rubbish and smells, no other bothers to worry about. She made it clear away as she heard the sirens belting out their rhythmic chants, cutting their way through the traffic.
They all felt the explosion, heard the bang, smelt the impact and revelled in the subsequent arrival of raging sirens. The crew immediately moved from recording Numb and his petty problems and aimed their cameras down to the cafe below. Numb was recuperating inside his second love / drug nest apartment which was two floors above the “Sharpened Cafe”. The scene below was amazing and the crew jumped about like a wine waiter at a wedding. All the mayhem, drama, arms and legs, and flashing lights would make great reality TV. This was reality. Why or what had happened was a detail they failed to worry about and it only entered their concentrating brains when the door to the apartment smashed open.
Muni wasn’t very shy in coming forward. He shot the camera crew in one sweep of his weapon and then grabbed up the feckless Numb in his right hand. He dragged Numb to the door smashing his head against a wall as he did so. The remaining crew members arrived with the Paramedic trolley and bagged up Numb, tied him down, adjusted their uniforms and casually waltzed out of the building and into the Ambulance they’d stolen for the occasion.
Numb was on his way to meet Dead. Recuperation and reality was over.
The Art of Negotiating
Fatality is final. Glib words flowed one after another but none flowed with more flourish than the line – more words for me. Numb was dreaming about his favourite creative moment. That moment he wrote his multi million dollar cross genre hit. A big moment and worthy of dreaming about.
The studio executives and teenagers of both sexes had no idea such a brilliant piece of music and banal, idiotic wordplay could go together so well. Numb has blatantly ripped off a sixties soul classic and simply scampered some bullshit phrases over the top. The only skill applied to this enormously successful release aside from the original song, was the production lovingly applied like cream on a scone, by one “Fat George”. George wasn’t actually his name and nor was he fat, but fuck he could twiddle a knob in the studio. He was the current darling of the mass produced and consumed music scene. The kind of music that always ends up sounding the same. Shit music sounding the same and earning millions for those lucky enough to have the percentage in their favour. More often than not, not the so called artist.
Numb wasn’t dumb and had a contract that provided a confident crotch bulging swagger, percentage and obscene success.
Numb wasn’t swinging at the moment. He was just waking up and mumbling lines of the memory to those who were gathered about. Sadly these folks weren’t paying attention, they were just drinking and whooping about in their confident drug altered state. They felt they’d had a win and wanted to emulate the gambling ads on television and celebrate without restraint or taste.
Dead and Muni walked out of the arriving car elevator and into the large warehouse mezzanine area and changed the atmosphere immediately. The lighting even seemed to change all by itself. No one spoke, laughed or whooped. Suddenly there was restraint.
Dead cleared his throat ..”Well done, you dumb arsed motherfuckers, you did it and you should all thank Muni for helping you getting it done.”
The screams and self congratulatory cheering woke Numb with a jolt. He realised he was hanging upside down and strapped into some sort of a training harness suspension system. He also realised he was completely naked and dripping wet. It became reasonably obvious where he was when he turned his head around towards the noise, and the looming shadows on the floor.
He saw three solid feet of man muscles only a few feet from him and that slab of a flesh was just one man’s shoulders. The neck that only just managed to poke out of the collar bone was larger than both of Numb’s legs. The legs of this behemoth were actually larger than Numb’s entire body. Numb turned a bit further round. He could only half glimpse the outrageous scene developing within this get together. He understood that he would be playing a major role in the proceedings.
Muni had caught a sniff of Numbs awaking and gave a very subtle signal to his closest comrade. The signal required the fully loaded suspension system to be wheeled into the middle of the room, out from the dark corner and into the light. Numb was famous and deserved the audience he’d pulled together for tonight’s performance. Muni was containing a huge self satisfied grin as Dead saw the rack system appear. Dead was well chuffed.
“Ah, here he is .. is this the fucker who thinks he’s me?” .. The attending crowd knew not to answer, they knew it was rhetorical question, even if they didn’t know that was what is was called.
“So what are we going to do with you Numb Nuts?”
Well Dead, I’d hope we can talk about our problems and keep me alive so I can find a way out of the court case. An out where we can both win”.. Numb thought this was probably a confident start.
“How the fuck are we both going to win?”
“The court case can be resolved pretty quickly with an agreed compromise. You’ll be seen to win and we’ll both share in the earnings gleaned from our story. Bonus for you is your rep is sound and I’m seen as a shitless music industry fake.”
“That doesn’t worry me of course .. because I’ll make even more money by selling and promoting that worrisome detail. You can sell your story and add weight to your street percentage by being confirmed as the real deal.”
“Fuck me” .. screamed Dead. You’re one clever fucker. Just give me a moment. Someone get this shitless fake off the rack and give hm a blanket or something.
“Muni, slice off his wedding ring finger two joints up, Yakuza style and take a vid of it being done. Oh and bandage the stump nice and clean with disinfectant. Give me the finger when you’ve done it.”
Muni completed the task that quick that Numb had only managed to react to what he thought was a joke, before it actually occurred. His finger was considerably smaller and the medical attention was immediate and successful. He was also given a bottle of vodka to help numb the pain. The joke was made as the intended numbing result was communicated.
Dead was angry, not because he had not tortured Numb. He was angry because it seemed that Numb had planned this brilliant outcome all along. Dead was angry because he hadn’t. Dead was simply going to torture and flay the fucker spreading his bits around town, thus sending a message to all who could understand such warnings. But, and here was the but, Dead could achieve nearly the same outcome with doing anything that messy. Sure he’d have to smash Numb in the face a bit, and he did have a part of his finger, but he’d need a little more. What could that be. Well there is still Amy rolling about somewhere and the crowning action could be Ruth. She was hot but she was the system’s public face which was set on embarrassing him. Dead wasn’t one to be embarrassed.
“That elusive bitch Amy and Ruth were to be killed” .. thought Dead. “Alright Crew I’ve some news.”
Hutson used to be, indeed still appeared to be, a nice place to live. The calm public face of any town or city always seemed to hide the true goings on. The media in Hutson were often oblivious to these goings on. The public pretty well all time. The famous expression – ignorance is bliss, applied full force at the great unwashed of Hutson.
The greatest drama in town seemed to be who was going to host the high rating nightly news broadcast now that the award winning broadcaster was dead. Robert Browning had been wandering down the street behind his apartment building, when the front of the “Sharpened Cafe” unexpectedly blew up and out. Killed him after the deep seated wounds took their toll. The fact that three local television network employees were slaughtered in a unit above above the cafe didn’t seem to bother anyone. They didn’t care about the legless lady or the chubby fucker with one arm who was nailed to the front wall at the scene. All anyone worried about was who could replace Robert.
The news in town was hotly contested. The content was the same, except for the shit they each made up and claimed exclusivity for. Channels 9, 11, 7 and 8 all managed to research, shoot and murder a topic they thought would rate well with their target audience. “Rubbish like “The Best Way to Avoid Major Traffic Grid Lock – A Special Report” or “Details of the Hutson High School Reporting System – A Special Investigation” blah blah blah. All rubbish. The increasingly shrinking audience was very fickle. Robert had a masterly, slightly patronising style that seemed to garner and reward those that tuned into him Monday through Friday. Channel 8 swung well in the ratings race due to to the power of Robert. Even in death Robert was hogging the airwaves. Who would replace him? the most common headline.
Hutson was a small riverside town with some oldie world historical buildings and feelings. It was proud of its subservient, religious and morally conservative population. This majority is the reason Dead and others could swim about almost unnoticed. The media missed most of it and the population would not even think such criminal activity could occur. Fuck knows what they thought about the recent gun murders or even Peter’s colourful handiwork. The ageing population hid in their dimly lit domiciles while the younger wilder residents raced about in the light and the dark, depending what time of day it was and what they wanted. They gave, wanted, got, turned down and turned out for a huge range of things. Most hedonistic activities were covered, enjoyed and well provided.
The colours of Hutson were legendary. Professional and amateur photographers and busloads of artists flocked to Hutson. The rivers edge, the botanical gardens and the streetscape captured millions of shots and miles of easel canvas. The rest of the country saw many a documentary on the boastful aspects of Hutson. Much boasting and deservedly so.
The Mayor of Hutson was a complete knob. He was also a millionaire. He’d managed to buy his way into the position by investing in media slots and subsidising ridiculously obvious vote gathering publicity stunts. The aged population and the well connected, incredibly closed minded business community ensured his success. He ran Hutson like an English Holiday Camp. All smiles and “Hidie Hi” complete bullshit publicity and an avoidance of anything vaguely important.
Peter excelled in this vacuum of normal governance. The Police, Fire, Ambulance and General Medical Services were grossly understaffed and under funded. The three rs, roads, rates and rubbish were OK, but they just only just managed to scrape by. Just in time collections, repairs and the rates only rose a modest amount each year. The unwashed thought all of this was marvellous. Harry and Ruth did not fare so well. They got naked together and when finished, lamented their failures.
Who would replace Robert they thought.
Not much to say
“How’s it going at work Lover .. is that clown letting you get on with your job?”
“No Harry, the man’s driving me insane with his interference and micro management. I mean sure I understand he’s asked to carry this torch of bright shit into my office, but I really wish he’d take some common sense and bounce it back up the chain.”
“Make those nongs understand.” .. Ruth was very insistent in that last part.
“I’d think you’ve got some shit on your plate .. what’s happening with you at the moment?” .. she asked of Harry.
“Well in addition to having no clue about these murders, I’ve been given an oversight role in the “Sharpened Cafe” explosion and the news crew who were slaughtered in the unit above. It seems that you know someone involved in the upstairs.”
“Why, what’you mean – who was there?”
“Well would you believe we found footage of Numb being there.”
“Yeah, he was working on some reality TV crap. The filming had stopped when the door smashed in. Luckily one camera caught a glimpse of Muni firing an outpouring of bullets into the apartment .. we have everyone looking for him now.”
“We still can’t find Numb, he wasn’t found in the apartment. He must have been taken by Muni, and as you know Muni never goes anywhere alone.”
Ruth didn’t want to think the worst, even though she knew things wouldn’t be good for Numb if Dead had him. She had to think of something else ..“What about the murders? .. Any clues at all?”
“Nothing – fuck all sadly. The lab is desperately trying to isolate some DNA and they think Norman’s body might be the best bet. They reckon that the heavy duty work involved in the separating and final handling of his head, should have left a trace or two.” “It doesn’t look like his head will ever be found though, we might get lucky but I doubt it.”
This stilted, sometimes forced banter went on for about 20 minutes and concluded at a natural pace when they gathered their collection of clothing, public persona and confident stride.They strode out of the discrete hotel room and into their separate ways.
Harry walked into the Madhouse with a spring in his step. His “I’ve had sex” spring was on show to those who’d know. Peter knew and he knew who. Peter had been watching the activity in the homicide rooms with great interest. Warren had gone home ill and the rest of the clown car coppers were stumbling about the office like the circus was auditioning new acts. None of them would get the part.
Ruth strode with a stern purposeful walk back into her collection of offices. No one would have known that she’d had sex. No one could tell the difference, she was stern and purposeful all the time. The office was abuzz about Numb’s disappearance, the cafe and the news crew. The fact that Robert’s replacement remained unknown was also a topic of hot conversation.
There was a strange hurriedness to seemingly unconnected events all over Hutson. People were hastily closing shops, closing their business down completely and people were leaving town. The highway in and out of town was getting slower and one way – the out way, was getting very crowded.
No one knew why these strange things were happening.
Malcolm is still very keen
“How long can we go on swimming in this muck Malcolm .. asked Margaret”
“How the hell are we going to find anything of note in this never ending sick bucket of mess, and what the fuck are you doing under your apron?”
Malcolm had been caught gently readjusting his increasingly manly member. He’d continued his serious fantasies about Margaret. The way she often leant into and over the bench as she worked was most provocative. In fact it was dick hardening – it was that good. Malcolm remembered a young lady he shared his university degree with and his mind wondered off to her and what she might be doing now? Something to do with teeth he remembered.
Margaret yelled at him again, he must stop displaying his enjoyment while working with her.
Malcolm had successfully completed an entry level university science degree and could be ( at a stretch ) described as a scientist. This completion came as a complete surprise to Malcolm and even more so to his mother and grandmother. They loved him of course but really thought that fast food, bar work or the retailing of hipster jeans may be his lot in life. His life changed for the better once he’d completed his degree and ended up at the Medical Examiners Office on a 12 month traineeship. They both still spoiled him rotten. Their “little boy” was now out in the world.
Margaret liked Malcolm and was riding him hard and teaching him all she could. She wasn’t oblivious to his intentions but wouldn’t entertain them, under any circumstances. Not that she wasn’t keen for some woman on man action, it shouldn’t happen with this eager young man. She liked plenty of young men, but not one that’s grown in her working garden. Her roots are to be gathered from outside her garden. Plucked from afar and far afield.
Over the years Peter had survived some very strange and mind scaring sexual experiences. He’d tried gay, both top and bottom, bondage, slave and master ( although not in the same session of course) and he’d tried rape, being raped and even a heterosexual boy next door fumbling virginal dalliance with a young girl who worked at the Madhouse. She was really lovely and Peter was almost thinking of himself as providing a servicing of gratitude. She was that nice. His view of the sex was not so nice.
Peter ended up combining a number of features from various adventures. The most dominant, visually repulsive ( if anyone had witnessed them ) and the darkest no-vanilla aspects of each of them. He topped this off with killing folks and dismembering their bodies. He’d added this extra component over time. Back 5 years ago when he started, he was very tentative and singular in his methods. As time went by he added more bodies, gained a higher level of confidence, added complexity and the increased level of toying with Police became climactic. Now it was just killing and cutting – no sex.
The bath ritual grew out of these incremental steps he had taken. He fancied himself as some sort of a master, toying with authorities and making life and death decisions for those chosen. For those that were killed – the ultimate toying. The Police hadn’t even managed to connect the 18 murders he’d carried out over the past 5 years. Nor would they he thought. The bath had a powerful subliminal message effect and triggered the willingness for the next event. Main event or not, even the little side bar projects helped him to reach that point of self actualisation. He’d been to a course or two whilst working at the Madhouse but had misinterpreted and readjusted the message to suit his own predilections. The tastes that grew and fed the growth, as he grew more confident while seeking more. Peter was getting better, bigger, stronger and providing more control. No one could beat him.
Harry was wondering how he’d beat this monstrous killing spree, would it be like Jack the Ripper. Known around the world as a failure, a mystery and something that can never be truly known. Surely something is going to reveal itself, Scotland Yard didn’t have 2015 science and technology back then.
Peter had some serious science and technology and he knew how to use it.