Just another Saturday afternoon (1)

Posted: June 21, 2010 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

This is the first part of a new short story I’ve started to write, during my time “between jobs”.

I haven’t figured anything out yet about the story or the character yet, but it will come as I write.


Just another saturday afternoon (1)

“What’s that?” he said.

“That’s a coffee mug” she said.

“Coffee mug?”

The sound of a roaring airplane was like needles and pins in his skull. God damn it. Those last three or four whiskys last night was totally uncalled for, and her voice didn’t help his headache either. Not one bit.

“Yes. I can see that. But what the hell is that?” he pointed at the content of the orange clay mug.

“That is your decaf latte” she answered. There was something about her. Something he just couldn’t take. It wasn’t her hair. Her hair was a strange shade of blonde but it actually looked quite good. Still, there was something off about her. Maybe it was the fact, that in just a few seconds, he’d stab her in the chest with Mother’s old butcher’s knife and tear her limbs off her body and bury the leftovers in the woods.

“Listen…” he looked at her name tag. “… Mary, I never ordered a decaf latte. You see, I’ve been up all night writing; do I look like I had 8 hours of sleep? Huh? No? Then why the hell would I order anything without caffeine?” he started to get a little angry with her. Not the kind of angry where you start shouting and throwing things around, but he felt his pulse rise a little. Not much, but more than usual.

“I’m very sorry, sir. I’ll make you a new one right away. Black, right?”

And that was the end of it. 18 seconds later, the blonde had a knife sticking out between her ribs. She didn’t scream. He didn’t like when they screamed. He always covered their mouths with his hand when he killed them. But the only thing he hated more than screaming was the blood. Not because he didn’t like blood, he would have been a poor murderer if he couldn’t take the sight of blood. No, the reason? It was messy. It took quite some time to clean it up. He tried not to make a mess out of things. After all, what he did wasn’t exactly legal, so he didn’t have much time to clean up after himself.

In the beginning they didn’t bleed at all. He just beat them until they stopped breathing. No blood, no cleaning. But things started to get boring, and he almost completely stopped to do these kinds of things. Like a kid who got bored of a toy or playing soccer. He knew he couldn’t carry on his work if it wasn’t any fun anymore, so he tried to spice things up. He bought a gun. A nice 9 mm. and he brought it to work one night. Shot a prostitute. In the stomach. It wasn’t that it was still boring, but it wasn’t that practical. It was loud. Messy. And he hated when they screamed. He was a little weird when it came to the screaming. In a book about some serial killer, the guy said that the screaming was the best thing about it, and it gave him a feeling of power over his victims. But it wasn’t power he was looking for. Power he had and he didn’t need any more. But shooting wasn’t satisfactory, so he tried stabbing. Sure, he needed to get closer to whomever he wanted dead, but it was easier.


8 black plastic bags. That was all he needed to get rid of that waitress. He didn’t bury her in the woods as planned. Turned out they were cutting down trees all week, and it wasn’t exactly clever to bury 8 plastic bags filled with body parts when lumberjacks where around 24/7. So where could one get rid of a dead waitress these days? Back in the day they just found a well and dumped the bits and pieces there, but it seemed like wells wasn’t exactly fashionable anymore. The answer came a Saturday night. The Discovery Channel showed a programme about sea currents. Why didn’t he think about that sooner? It was perfect. Weigh down the bags with some rocks and drop them off into a sea current. Like the Gulf Stream. If the bags ever showed up anywhere again, it could be on the other side of the Atlantic. For a few seconds he felt like a genius. Then he got bored.

He remembered how his dad used to bring him on fishing trips just off the coast. Dad was a great fisherman and fortunately he still had the boat. The Cleveland Steamer. That was never a good name for anything; in fact it was a horrible name. But Dad did come from Ohio and had been a captain on a steamboat once. At least that’s what he told.

These days Dad lived at a retirement home down town, he’d been paralyzed for a couple of years now, so he figured that it wouldn’t be a problem to borrow the boat for a couple of days. And it wasn’t. Well, Dad didn’t actually say that he could take the boat, because Dad couldn’t really talk anymore because of the paralysis and all, but he knew that if Dad could talk he would’ve. Anyways, that wasn’t a question up for discussion, because he needed to use the boat, and fast. For the past couple of days a strange odour had made its way through his small studio apartment.

When he was asked what rotting flesh smelled like he simply told them, that it smelled like rotting flesh. He couldn’t really compare it to anything. If he could it probably would be a mixture of anything that’s been dead for a while and left in the sun, like rotten eggs and the smell of really bad diarrhea because of all the leftovers, excrement, in the intestines that has started producing gasses, and because people with excrement and urine inside them when they die… Lets go of their… Contents, when they die. He really wasn’t bothered by the smell, but he wasn’t retarded either. Other people where bothered by the smell, and he didn’t want to start answering questions from the other residents in his building if they started to smell dead people.


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