Happiness & Homicide: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words Part 2

I'm sitting in the corner of my cell when I hear the outer doors opening. I know he's coming and I really don't want to talk to him. I'm gleeful that I scared Peter off and I've caught word that he's in need of some highly focused psychological treatment after his run-in with me, but it doesn't take away the sting of Phil's deceit. It's been a while since Nick the Judas has visited as well. He's no doubt busy playing shuffleboard with his mum or participating in some arse-kissing scheme to ease his guilt about being friends with me. Guilt is so overrated. 

I don't look up from my book when Phil enters my cell. "Morning, Wil." I don't acknowledge him. I don't know what I want to do with him yet. He sets down his bag and a case on the table. "You brought your camera," I say without turning around. "Oh, well, I yes. Peter said that you didn't mind...it's for my-" "Your fucking book?" I spin around in my seat and stare at him intently. The small amount of colour that usually calls his cheeks home disappears. "So you.." "Yeah, I fucking know about it. I'd have been keen, you know? All you had to do was ask. I thought we were becoming mates you and me." I don't say anything else and turn around. "I like your shirt. What's that say, there?" "Jesus was wrong. Don't lie to me and say you like it, I know you're one of those Christ sniffers." He clears his throat. 

 "I mean that I like that it expresses who you are." "What? Going to make a feature film to go with the book? Maybe a little docu-series?" I can smell him moving closer, despite his careful and quiet footsteps. "We are friends, Wil. I wanted to make sure that I had the proper paperwork in order before I told you about the book." I turn and look him dead in the eye. I know he's a piss poor liar and I'll be able to read the truth on his pale face. He doesn't appear to be deceitful. "Why didn't you tell me you were at least thinking of writing a book if that's the case?" "I didn't want to get your hopes up." I laugh. "Going with that old chestnut, are we? You know how many times I heard that one growing up? If I had 10 pence for every time I heard it, I'd be a millionaire." "Aren't you one anyway? I heard your latest album sales went through the roof despite your incarceration. How'd you manage a new release when you've been in there for a while?" "Unreleased material, you dope. I had Nick do it. He was my bassist. I told him I wanted to do a new release of the material we had but hadn't put out yet. I wanted to test a theory." "What was the theory?" "That people really aren't bothered by violent crime unless they're personally affected by it. They see it as a form of entertainment. Just look at murder memorabilia. Takes in millions every year. I get fan letters in here, you know. Women asking me to sign their knickers, send them some of my sperm, the guys do that one too sometimes and men asking for one of my paintings. It's interesting how one becomes a celebrity with something that's so clearly against the moral laws of society and in some ways against the moral laws of one's self." 

Phil sits down on my bed. "As insightful as ever." "Don't be a wiseass. All of this is just casual observations. Anyone could make them." "People rarely do. They always want to ignore what's right in front of their noses for their own personal comfort." "Now you're beginning to sound like me, Phil. If you get the urge to start killing co-eds, indulge yourself. We can be roommates." He laughs. "I'll be sure to ask for your advice. Do you mind if we pick up where Peter left off with you?" I shrug. "He was a wank stain." "I heard he was disturbed by you and that's why he's decided to take a short leave of absence." I snort. "We had an hour together and that fucking wallflower couldn't handle it? No wonder there are more of me running around these days. Police are too soft. They let everyone in, that's the problem. Policing and politics are not for the soft, ignorant and weak-minded, but that's exactly what this PC bullshite has let in. Then the higher-ups all wonder why the country is going to the bloody dogs."

I stand up and walk over to our usual seats. "Are you coming or are you going to make yourself at home on my bed? I'm not complaining, just curious." "Your un-conventionalism never fails to make things fresh, Wil." "I do what I can." I light a cigarette. "You said you wanted to pick up where Pussyboy Peter left off? Are you sure? Did you watch the tape?" "I did." He says, sitting down across from me. "That's why I want to pick back up there. I want to see if you have the same response or not." I ash my cigarette. "I have one thing before we start." "Shoot." I laugh. "Are you really going to say that, knowing my love for firearms?" He offers me an odd chuckle. "I didn't think about it that way. You never fail to make me see the world in a different light. What did you want to ask me?" "Why didn't you tell me that you were a doctor of psychology?" "I'm not yet. I'm about to get it. Actually, you're helping me. You're my dissertation. I mean, if you want to be. I've not really decided what I wanted to do, I should have  I've been busy with my regular job and speaking with you, that I've not really given it all that much thought." "Yes." He opens up his case to get out his laptop. "Yes, to what, Wil?" "I'll be your dissertation. One condition though. You let me read it before you hand it over. I want to make sure that you've depicted me accurately and not taken too many Hollywood liberties." His professionalism cracks. "Really?? You mean it? You'd really let me-Oh, this is amazing! How can I ever thank you?" I put off my cigarette. "Stop wearing that fucking pug tie in here and we'll be even. Do we have a deal about me reading it over first?" He extends a handout. "You have yourself a deal." "I don't shake hands, but you have my word." "Good enough for me." "Thank God, that thing is uglier than sin."

He sets his backpack on the table. "I brought you a little something." "Drugs?" He gives me a look of disappointment. "I'm kidding! Whatdja, bring me?" "Is that even English? I don't-he opens his bag and takes out a small stuffed plesiosaur. "I remembered you said it was your favourite." My heart nearly explodes with glee. "So the drugs are shoved up his arse then?" Phil rolls his eyes playfully. "You are really too much." I want to reach out, grab the plush toy and snuggle it, but something deep inside stops me. "Wait...why are you giving me this? Is this a bribe? Did you bring this in case I didn't say no to you asking me about your dissertation or to apologise for sending that oaf Peter who outed you?" He sits down across from me. "Nothing like that. Well, maybe. When Peter told me how you reacted, I realised that I had hurt your feelings by not being completely transparent from the beginning. I wanted to say sorry and also thank you for all the help and insights you've given me."

Is this what I've become? A softie being bought off by a plush dinosaur? I-What is happening to me? I kind of like it. If this keeps up I can start to rebuild my collection in here and be in dinosaur heaven. "Phil, I'd like another plushie, you know for helping out in addition to no more ugly tie." He looks at me, unsure. "What kind did you want?" "Triceratops!! He writes it down in his little notebook. "Okay, for next time."

...

"What did you do with the body, Wil?" I shrug and look over the top of my book. "Oh, right, I'm going to have to be more specific with you." "Diet Coke?" I crack one open and he shakes his head. "Even after all this time, I don't understand how you're so passe about all of this." I take a long drink. "Let me put it to you this way. Murder is kind of like riding a bike. You get the hang of it and you want to do it all the time. Oh, no, what's that saying with Pringles? Once you pop the fun doesn't stop? It's something like that. Everyone is different. Each rush is different. Different people, different reasons. Sometimes it's just what one needs." Phil snorts. "You compared an innocent childhood activity and a heart disease-inducing snack to serial murder." "Well, both can result in death." I crack a wide smile while Phil sighs. "Lorinda. What did you do with her, Wil? The family would like her back." "That's impossible." "DID YOU EAT HER?" Phil exclaims. The guard looks over at him and at me, both curious and disgusted. "No. But someone else did." "You...you fed her to animals, didn't you?" I close my book after poking a bookmark inbetween the pages. "No, I sold her to a cannibal. As to what he did with the remains, I can't tell you. What I can tell you is that he's one who likes to season his meat with a pinch of seasoned salt and cracked pepper." Phil's face falls. "William, you didn't!" "Philip, I did!" I mock his tone and take another sip of Diet Coke. Phil shakes his head and sets his pen down. "Just when I think I've heard everything you come out with this. You're sick, you know that?" I roll my eyes. "Obviously. I'm in jail!"