Truth is, it takes a few more washings to turn bloodstains to orange, or more specifically a shade of orange that can be blamed on a spilled Sunkist. Eminem has never murdered anyone, and that's why he's on stage with millions of dollars and a spotlight firmly fixated on him. We're not in the same boat...I am a serial killer. Or at least, I hope that's how it will turn out.
My victim...odd choice of words. I don't view him as a victim. This is a man who makes his life making victims of all he comes across that didn't measure up to his standards. He'll be described on the bottom of the paper as a clean-cut All-American high school baseball star who's life was cut short by an unidentified assailant, or some other typical bullshit tripe that the family will attempt to push. Your family is often the collective of people who know you the least. Name me one obituary where the family called the deceased an arrogant asshole who made the lives of those who did not attempt to curry his favor a living hell to the best of his ability.
If you want a true assessment of someone, you must go to his detractors, his critics, his naysayers. The ones who see past your bullshit facade you put up every morning like clockwork along with your power tie and stylish watch. The ones who can see past you are the ones to give an honest unbiased opinion of you. It may be negative, but then again perhaps you deserve it. If you really want people blowing smoke rings up your ass for the remainder of your life, then your life is without worth.
I am one of this man's detractors. I am a critic. A naysayer. One of those who saw him for who he really was. And looking at him now, he's just as much a mess physically as he is mentally.
It was a scenario that could have been spit out by the Powerbook of the laziest screenwriter: a young executive staying alone late at the office working for a change. However, I didn't have climb through any air ducts to get into the building; I smashed in his frosted glass window with the sledgehammer I bought from the heroin-skinny kid working the overnight shift at the Home Depot last week. After I drove it through his ancient walnut desk that set his daddy back a few grand, he was very interested in what the big long-haired stranger in the black leather duster who was currently befouling his pristine office with his presence had to say. He was a smart young man; he knew this was not WWE and that this sledgehammer was not a prop...it killed his furniture, and could very well make his own well-groomed head nothing more than a stain on the Oriental rug that graced the front of the kindling-suitable desk. However, the butt of the hammer held my end of the conversation, and he felt the impact of at least a triple in his high school sport of choice.
I used his tie as a gag, because after experimenting a few times, I've found it's best to do this sort of thing with a muted victim. You have no idea how loud some people can gurgle when they've got a jagged chunk of a priceless Ming vase lodged into their throat. And of course there's the arterial spray of blood that paints the wall in a thin streak of crimson. The first time I did that, the spray hit me in the face. Although I kind of liked the way my face was coated in blood as I finished my job, these were people who I really hadn't bothered to study the sexual history of, so the fewer needless risks, the better.
Apparently Home Depot will card you for wanting to buy a can of black spray paint to cover that ding in your mailbox, but there's nothing even remotely interesting about a man buying not only a sledgehammer, but also a roll of electrical tape and three gallons of paint thinner. I used the tape to secure his gag and bound his hands and feet together firmly
He lay prone on the floor, looking up at the bad man with the sledgehammer. In movies you'll see the rich man try to negotiate with his assailant, promising him an obscene amount of money. What most of these Hollywood hacks don't seem to realize is that if people like me want money, we'll rob a damn bank. But these are movies we're talking about here; the stars have to earn their obscene paychecks by spewing their lines and retiring to their trailers.
I found his Bose radio and tuned it until I found a pop station playing a flash-in-the-pan act that had caught the attention of millions for a brief fifteen minutes. I twirled my sledgehammer because that's ostensibly what's supposed to happen, to build up the drama. I lowered my weapon of choice with all the force I could muster onto his left kneecap.
My victim's eyes bulged as he let out an anguished, strangely effeminate muffled scream. His bone crunched, eerily reminiscent of the sound Doritos make when you eat them. I wedged out my sledgehammer from the ruin of his shattered bone and repeated the process to his right knee. A higher-pitched muffled scream was my reward. I picked up my wrath-enacting tool and threw it down again onto his crotch. The pain and glaringly obvious jokes that would ensue should he survive unbearable, he passed out.
I uncapped two gallons of paint thinner and splashed it around the room in strong, even throws. The last gallon I dumped onto my unconscious victim. The odor was not enough to wake him, which was an unforeseen tragedy. Time was short, and I did not have the luxury of being a great literary villain like Hannibal Lecter, who turned his murder into art. This was simply a real-life situation of me giving this kid the ass-whipping he had coming to him. I lit a match and dropped it onto still pile that was once one of God's favored.
He ignited quicker than I thought. I couldn't stay and observe him cook to a crisp with a symphonic overture playing in the background. I had done what I needed to do, and now it was time for me to make my exit. There was no room for flair in the real world.
I dashed out into the empty, poorly lit street. I jogged slowly through an alley and made it to the subway. I took a seat across from a wino who had soiled himself numerous times throughout the evening. He gazed at me with his glassy eyes and smiled a slack-jawed idiotic yellow grin.
This would by my cue to deliver a clever one-liner confession to my felony to this unfortunate who no one would believe. Instead I popped on my headphones and turned up the volume, letting the riffs of Megadeth echo in my brain...