Happiness & Homicide Preview 3

 Sometimes you just have to wrap somebody in clingfilm. It's easy enough to get and nothing can really beat the serenity that washes over you as you see the light in their eyes go out as they slowly start to suffocate. Sometimes I like to poke air holes in the wrapping over their mouths; Sometimes they have the most colourful things to say, but there's always the usual boring dribble. "Why are you doing this?!" "Let me go!" "You sick motherfucker!" Or they cry out to God, Jesus, Homer Simpson or whatever other deity they've given their lives over to. Me? I  don't give my life to anyone. I mean, what's the point of being alive if you're just going to give your life to someone else? 

I lean over and look at the bloke taped to the table. "Doing alright there, mate?" He answers with muffled screaming. "That's the ticket." Now, what was I talking about? Oh, yeah right. Life. I light a cigarette. Some people like to believe that in life, the universe settles the score or that God will grant them special voodoo powers for revenge, but not me. I'm a man of action and I like to be hands on. Take Tommy over there, for example. 
Oh shit, maybe I shouldn't be smoking here, but whatever. I always do a throughout clean before I go. Sometimes I get exhausted thinking about life. Death is easy. Well, not exactly, but in a way it sort of it. There's no practice. You just die once. There are thousands of ways to kill somebody, that's what it gets complicated. Sometimes I just can't choose a method. That's never good. It's sort of like writer's block. Just when I almost have it another method comes to my attention and I have to start re-planning everything. I flick my cigarette. It's a real hassle sometimes. Oh, and for the record, this wasn't Dexter inspired. I do admire some of his neatly wrapped work, but to truly be successful in this line of work, you need to be able to improvise. Get creative and keep those creative juices flowing. When things become too routine, too mundane, that's when you start to make mistakes; mistakes that can get you caught. 

My mobile rings and I turn my attention Tommy quickly before answering it. "Don't you worry, I'll be with you within three shakes of the disco stick." I clear my throat. "Hello?" It's Nick. Of course, it is. Arsehole. "Yes, I can bring home skim milk. Yeah, yeah I know. Hell no! You know I won't have Ranch dressing in my home!" I roar in the direction of the mouthpiece and Tommy quivers in fear on the table. Nick is going to ruin this night with his salad dressing bullshit! "I don't give a flying fuck who it's for! It could be for Jesus Christ himself and I still won't let it in my house! That's right. You can tell your mother to shove it up her wrinkly, powdery fanny!!" I hang up on him before he has the chance to say anything else. "How dare he question me! You'd never do that, would you?" I ask, walking over to Tommy. He shakes his head vigorously and tries to communicate. "Shame you can't be my roommate instead of Nick, but alas, the show must go on."

I slam the cleaver down into his arm, cutting through through the tissue and the bone. "Sorry if I said this wasn't going to hurt. I'm just in one of those moods, you know?" I look down at him and see the pain screaming through his muddy brown iris. "Sorry, this is going to hurt a lot more, but only for a short while. You'll bleed to death before I finish. Oh, and don't worry about your girlfriend, Jennifer. I've got a date with her tomorrow night."

>>>
I drop the cleaver and I sit on the floor. I feel unfulfilled.  Was it really necessary of me to hack that guy into small pieces? Probably not. I really did get my anger get the best of me there. Ah, well, there's always next time. I'm tired and I need to get milk...I suppose I could leave this for tomorrow afternoon. Go home, catch up on some sleep and come back and clean with new vigour. It's only a little bit risky, I mean we're in the basement of an abandoned warehouse 35 miles from London. No one is gonna tie this to me if on the one in a million chance he's discovered. Ah, right, the cigarette butt. I walk over and pick it up and admire it in the light for a few moments before slipping it into a plastic bag. Ah, he can wait until tomorrow. Nothing's gonna happen. I stretch and prepare to do some limb shuffling. Bleedin' wounds of Christ, I'm out of bin bags. How could I have forgotten to check the supply? I've got an extra tarp though. I race out to the car and pull out the tarp I have folded and tucked under one of the back seats. It's important to prepare for a rainy day. HAHA! Rainy day! It's raining blood, hallelujah! I sprint back into the building and lay one section of the tarp down. Carefully, I lift the plastic sheeting so I don't spill anything on the floor. It would be a bitch to clean this dirty floor if I spilt anything on it.


It doesn't take me long to complete my task. "Goodbye, Tommy." I mutter to the limbs neatly stacked in a corner or the room covered with a black plastic sheet. "I'll see you in a few hours." I shut off the construction lantern I brought with me and carry it back to the car. I set the lantern on plastic sheeting I'd lined the boot of the car with. I'll have to remove all this before I get back home. Nick can't see what I've done to his car. I'll take mine out here tomorrow. It's less suspicious that way. Someone might think somethings up if they see the same car around an abandoned building two days in a row.  I pull on a fresh pair of gloves and wrap the lantern up in the plastic sheeting. I won't need this tomorrow. I can dump it somewhere.

I jump onto the A130 and start heading home, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel and humming along to Scar Tissue by The Red Hot Chili Peppers. God, the 90's were fucking great. I'll stop off in Wickford to get petrol and some milk. What kind did asshole want? Skin? Who wants chunks of cow skin in their milk? Then again, I did drink breast milk before so, to each his own. But most humans have consumed breast milk, but as infants, not as grown adults. I digress. I argue with myself over the nutritional values of human breast milk and cow milk all the way to Wickford.  The till attendant is a tired kid, half slumped over. I look at my watch. It's only 10:45. "Oi." I wrap my knuckles on the counter. The kid snorts awake. "How can I help you?" "Petrol. £15.00." "Are you seriously paying with cash? Don't you have a debit card?" What the fuck has happened to society? "Do you want to be a slave to a piece of plastic for the rest of your life?" He tilts his head and stares at me. "And I bet you voted." I mutter. "What does voting have to do with debit cards?" "Everything has to do with everything, boy!" I push the money across the counter at him. Then I remember the milk. "Ah, fuckin' hell. I'll be right back, I forgot milk."

I stare at the rows of milk in the coolers. Why do they have to make this shit so goddamn difficult? Milk is milk, isn't it? If I go home with some random type Nick will have his panties in a twist and I'll have to deal with that. Usually, it wouldn't matter, but tomorrow I've got a date. It's skim milk, not skin milk. I dunno how I confused that shit. Eh, both are gross as fuck. I put the milk up on the counter and hand the clerk a £5.00. "I don't know if I have enough change for this." "What?! It's a fucking £5.00 note!" "Cards, bro." "Bro? You know what? Fuck this shit, I don't care about the change. Keep it if you've got it." Little smart-arsed fuck. 



The road is silent and empty as I speed along through the darkness. I love driving when it's like this. I never feel freer than when it's just me, the moon and a cool summer night. Appreciate the little moments, you know? The soft, welcoming scent of your sheets, the glow of your favourite candle illuminating the hidden parts of your world, a juicy double cheeseburger and bottomless chips... Ah, I'm fucking hungry. I really worked up an appetite with all that. Tomorrow night is my night to cook too, that reminds me. I'm really in the mood to do a pork roast, garlic mash, steamed carrots, homemade dinner buns. Before I realise it, I'm already home. That was faster than usual.
I slump into the house. "Your milk." "I didn't think you'd even remember this. Good on ya, Wil." Nick says, taking the milk from me. "I had my mum bring some over when she came over for dinner." "Your mum was here?" "Yes, I mentioned it like 8 times last week. You were supposed to be here for dinner with us. Where did you pop off to?" I reach for a beer. "Wouldn't you like to know?" I start to chug. "Well, yes, I did just ask you where you were, so...." "I was helping a mate of mine move. He lives out near Ilford." "You don't have any friends!" "Remember Len?" I sit down at the breakfast bar. "No, not really. You met him a few times here. Tall, sandy coloured hair and usually wearing an olive green t-shirt." "OH, MY GOD!! YOU WERE FRIENDS WITH HIM? I thought he was just some creep who kept following you home!" "Then why would I have offered him a beer? And why would have he and I spent an entire weekend playing Pokemon on my Nintendo 64? Why would I do all this if he wasn't my friend?" "Who knows why you do have the shit you do! I stopped asking myself this question years ago!" 

>>>>
"And then it's out to Uncle Abner's farm where the piggies will feast upon your flesh. Isn't the circle of life neat?" I ask the arm as I make it wave at me. "Yes, Wil it is!" "And those self-righteous vegans will tell you that animals are innocent victims. There are no innocent victims! This is the natural order of things. Veganism is a half-assed way of playing God." I stuff the arm into a bin bag and tie it. I think that's all of it. I take a second look around. Nice and clean.  Too clean. Someone would notice this. I shift some of the boxes and spill some of the contents of the small crates around the room. It almost looks like the same space that I stumbled upon weeks ago.

I make a mental note of things to do when I get to the farm. Burn gloves in the fireplace, wash clothes while piggies chow, make that apple pie I promised Uncle Abner...I should probably change the number plates on my car again. It's about that time. That's one of the good things about living in London, nobody notices your number plate. Though the CCTV cameras everywhere might. Big brother has made my work increasingly hard in some areas. Only a subtle change then.

LINKS
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/anjathesickboy
Twitter: https://twitter.com/darkdreamingdan
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/darkdreamingdaniel/

Images:
Image 1 is a still shot taken from a YouTube video.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFCTnQHkWkw