I have killed many people over the years; too many to put a number on, I’ve lost count. The first, I remember like it was yesterday, I was eight-years-old, he was in high school, I don’t know why he picked on me, but on the fifth day of him stopping me on my way home from school, when I was sure nobody was watching, I plunged a linoleum knife into the soft spot between his rib cage, I pulled the hooked blade down to his groin and my hand was warmed with what once was inside of him—it was no longer his, it was mine. As he fell to his knees, I stepped around his back, reached around his neck and cut his throat. Since that day, I’ve killed to protect myself, I’ve killed for financial gain and I’ve killed for pleasure. And under these categories I have killed every type of person, while I prefer the bully, the big shot, the alpha male most of all, I have equally destroyed the young, the old, the female, because I am a killer, I kill. Every moment, of every day, I desire nothing more than to unchain my true self and pulverize into lifelessness, that which stands before me and breathes.

Like others of my kind, who have reached a certain maturity of age, I now try to refrain from engaging in the one thing that I was truly put on earth to do. Did I develop a conscience? It is something like that, but perhaps better described as if another person has grown from my skin and wrapped itself around my being. And every day, a war is waged between the two—my outer and inner-self. My outer-self see’s the world in the macro sense; it gives all of humanity the right to exist and engage in all of the meaningless activities, that man does under the sun. But my inner self, the wild beast, is enraged as it observes the world in the micro, the superficiality, the greed, the lies, the betrayals, the arrogance, this me can only give man the right to suffer and die as is deserved, in the darkness. How can I exist, as two beings in one body, how can I reconcile that all shall live, but each one, individually, also deserves to die—I’ve made an accommodation to the I, that is fractured.

In general accommodations sicken me, they are the prostitution of one’s soul, there is no honor in them and I would hate myself for this contract I have signed in my brain, but for the assurance to my heart, that one night a year I could be who I am, unfiltered, unrestrained, and that I could pour my entire wrath out on those unlucky enough, for me to have taken notice of them. And when I say, “unlucky enough” I do not mean to suggest that I believe in luck, but rather, I believe that their end is fate, yet how they will end, could have been easier, were our paths not to have crossed.

And what is that one night a year, in which I am serenaded by screams and showered in human blood? Trick or treat, or murder—I choose murder, I’ve chosen Halloween; this is my night. On this night, others put their masks on, I take mine off, and I let the devil see that he had indeed used good judgment, when he did not let me into hell, because I am beyond calling the boiling pit home, even Satan, only feels safe when I am relegated to walking the earth in darkness, forever…

There are practical matters that must be considered, and I suppose the most obvious would be, that a night in which tens of millions of people are wandering around, some of them inebriated, many to places they have never been before and wearing a disguise is expected, it’s normal, it gives rise to no suspicion what-so-ever, who could not embrace such a night. But there is more to be considered…

When you desire to slaughter, other upright walkers, call them neighbors, countrymen, enemies, humans, foreigners, it doesn’t matter, when you desire to end them, in horrific ways that cause deep joy and satisfaction to one’s self, you must be prepared—it is not a game, it is not a lifestyle, it is an entire existence. To this end I shall speak now.

Physical violence, unlike what one sees in the movies, or on television, is physical. I began preparations for a life of violence at an early age. Other kids wanted to play in the sandbox; I wanted to wrestle, ideally with boys older and stronger than myself. My father, well intentioned as he was, allowed me access to a large hunting knife, which I was supposed to use for working in the garden, specifically to cut slots in the dirt, in which to carefully place grass cuttings. By the time I was eight-years-old I had made that right to left slashing motion, into the hard earth, no less than ten thousand times. And when I wasn’t cutting the earth open, with this gift from my father, I was throwing my knife at targets with the deadliest accuracy imaginable…For the last forty years, a knife has been in my hand six days a week, it is more an extension of my own arm than a separate object—the blade is me.

But there is more to life than a sharp steel blade.

There is no need to complete an entire essay on the physical preparations one must be dedicated to, to become a killer, but I would be remiss if I did not include some additional detail. Besides my good fortune of having been given a hunting knife and chores at an early age, that have served me so well in their duality of use, I was born with abnormal physical strength and endurance. A consummate life ender, must be in good physical condition, I’ve exercised almost every day of my life—the goal being strength and speed over physical appearance. In fact it is very important to achieve both, while at the same time not building a physique that indicates you have ever done a day of exercise. I have often strangled victims, or broken their necks with ease and immediately been ruled out as a suspect, no doubt, because in the macho mindset of law enforcement, this is a type of killing only done by someone of immense physical stature.

With respect to the martial arts and weapons training, I have perfected my own, unique style. Most martial arts come with a set of rules, usually for the purpose of practice and competition. My art, we can call it hand-to-hand death, has been perfected over the previously mentioned 40 years, with only one purpose, the killing of another human being, with as few motions as possible. If I had to strike someone more than once in order to kill them, I would most certainly find myself in a state of deep depression and despair.

I should clarify that I truly enjoy beating people to death. When I’m engaged in this sort of revelry it is the opposite of the previously described singular effort. I could easily kill with one strike, but I don’t, thus creating prolonged periods of moaning, begging, crying, pleading and the beautiful swelling that comes with the trauma of this kind to human tissue. Oh the joy of hitting someone just right above the cheekbone and crushing their eye socket in a way that makes their eye pop out. The confusion this causes to the newly blind and soon to be dead, has on occasion stirred me to laughter, which I am not proud of, because it seems so inappropriate and incongruent to the occasion, but I admit I have transgressed into this humorous folly.

Forgive my light-hearted digression.

I practice the physical art of killing every day; I have done so for forty years, I was born with a natural gift for it, I am stronger and faster than any man, of any age, that I have encountered, I am a killing machine.

The job one must do, whether money is needed or not, should be of a non-descript almost menial nature, but recall my previous mention of duality of purpose—in my case cooking allows for a knife to be in my company at all times and dishwashing allows my mind the solitude needed to relax and plan my exploits to the very last detail. Also, it is important to have a job that allows one to move around the country freely and often—I try to move every two to three years.

To state the obvious, a low paying job and the need for a house with some property and a fixed up basement, requires some additional financial resources. Personally, I was able to achieve financial independence by the age of 18, simply by murdering some drug dealers and taking their money—when I got to thirty million I decided that I had more than enough. And frankly, I felt a little bad for the drug dealers, mostly nice folks, so I didn’t torture many of them, just a bullet or two to the head…Ironically, the old saying, “Money makes money,” proved to be quite true in my case. With more stolen drug money than anyone needed, I fell into the business of lending money to some guys who promoted illegal parties, called raves back in the day. Besides getting paid fantastical returns, I found myself with the equivalent of my own private game preserve, every weekend was a hunting trip, all choreographed to the best electronic music one could imagine. During this period, I took a real shine to killing fraternity boys, frankly I made so many of them disappear that it made national news, but good fortune prevailed and I was able to refocus on just giving party goers overdoses of various drugs and had to be satisfied with watching them convulse to a good DJ set, before passing on. I have to add, that I did end my dealings in the rave industry with a spectacular fire that killed more than 300 partygoers, while at the same time covering up an amount of carnage that I had created that night that would have made a Roman Legion proud.

So now I move from town to town, working in kitchens and fixing up old houses, which I sell for a modest profit every year or two. I involve myself in the community just enough to not seem anti-social and of course I give to every charity and organization that asks, just enough to let them know that I care. This is really important, I don’t smoke, drink, gamble, use drugs, hire prostitutes, I never use profanity and I have no tattoos—I’m just a hard working honest guy, a guy you can count on 364 days a year. But that brings us to that one special day, doesn’t it? That one day, when I rid the world of the most worthless and annoying creature of all—the teenager. However, just last year, beautiful Jamie the Homecoming Queen, almost brought the curtain down on my little shop of horrors, yes she did…

I was living in a nice little town of about ten thousand souls, hard working, church going, phonies, breeding one beautiful kid after the other—not the smartest bunch. I had bought and was well into fixing up an old Victorian built in 1905, it sat on half an acre, a little small for my lifestyle, but it backed up to a heavily forested area and had the most incredible basement—for one engaged in things such as I. Some fifty years earlier, the town’s police chief had been the resident of this fine abode and he had come across a jail cell from the 1850’s, which he purchased and then installed in the basement. When I first toured the home, I asked the realtor, a congenial older gal, working well into her seventies, why would anyone put such a strange thing in their basement? Of course, in my mind I had some ideas? Had this house had another dweller with my own proclivities, one who carried a badge? The realtor gal, assured me, without hesitation that the former sheriff, who she remembered as a kid, was a very nice man and was a well know collector of all antiquities related to law enforcement. She went on to say that he was a good man, a real lawman, the likes of which, they do not make anymore. I remember the delightful moment we shared, when I turned to her and said, “It’s perfect. Where do I sign?”

A thousand parents must have escorted their little ones, through my not so amateur house of horror, that night, a year ago now.

In the front, down the hall, get scared, have a ball! And then take some candy, before going out the back the door, but for the ones that will be never more.

And as the beautiful Jamie walked hand in hand with her little sister down the hall, the last to be allowed through the front gate, the trap door opened and they fell quit hard, onto the floor of the jail cell below.

Good blaaaaaaaaa! I said to the last of the living to leave out of the side yard. They were all so happy to be so scared. At least ten parents praised me for having gone all out for the occasion. One said, “I didn’t know you had it in you.” To which I replied, “Who really knows what lurks in the depths of another?” She laughed and touched my shoulder. I had to fight off an almost overwhelming desire to bend her wrist back and rip her arm out of its shoulder socket. “Oh, you really know how to stay in character.”

I walked back into the house, locked the kitchen door, and descended down into the basement, where in the cell, my girls awaited. The little one, dressed like a princess, was nothing more than an appetizer to me…I’ll spare you a detailed description of the crying, begging and screaming, suffice it to say, there was an abundance. But the most remarkable thing happened as I carried the princess toward the large barrel of acid I intended to submerge her in, rather than try to stop me, and mind you I had made very clear my intention, Jamie made a run for it. And no, I hadn’t locked the cell door, because I had imagined her trying to prevent the dissolving of the little princess—her efforts being the anticipated enjoyable crux of the matter. Anyway, with half a princess in a vat of acid, howling like Pagliacci’s wife after being stabbed on stage, I had to let go and run down big sister, who while lacking in devotion to the little princess, had the speed of a jackrabbit.

Jamie pulled furiously at the kitchen door. “La commedia e finite,” I said to her.


“The comedy is over.”

To her credit, she went for a substantial kitchen knife and lunged at me with murderous intent. I usually step to the side when this happens, right hand to right wrist, causing knife to release, left hand to back of neck driving face into kitchen table—let the party begin.

“All you had to do Jamie, was turn the deadbolt to the right and you would have been outside screaming at the top of your lungs, who knows where things might have gone from there.”

It pained me to move from this place, great memories, but move I did…So many people asked me to stay, I had been such a rock of stability in their time of trouble after the disappearance, but they understood, a man in my profession has to go where the work is at.

I’ve been counting the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds—it’s almost here, do you feel fear? You should.


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