The carvings that he hammered into that man left him wriggling in agony, we could see in his eyes that he was begging for the end. He thrashed and moaned until the very last, a finality that came when Jack was just finishing up on the Alsatian, a picture of one of the dogs from this pseudo human’s abhorrent act just a few weeks before.

One of Jack’s strikes with the mallet seemed to be that final injustice that let his mind finally release his cold soul to the universe. He went completely limp, the evil quite literally stripped right out of him.

“Let’s do the shading and then it will be perfect.”

“Sounds good. We’ll use a little less alcohol this time on the parts we want lighter.”

I was happy for the cold outside, because I knew it would keep the artwork pristine for a longer period of time. I didn't want the bugs and worms to destroy what we had worked so hard on, I wanted the people who found him by the road to be awed by our skill.

The question is....does Mike Haven live?

Goodness, I hope I haven't gone too far, lol.

BTW, when I finish this story, I am going to go into ATF and show you a magic trick that will amaze you. Be prepared...

As we carefully posed his body on the side of the road so as to most effectively display our craft, I saw in the moonlight a shiny flash of chain that must have been hidden by the tape as we worked. I spun the tiny links around and saw that attached to the front was a little gold crucifix, which I immediately tore off his neck. It was an ironic symbolic, but ultimately futile plea for redemption that I reverently placed on the ground.

No one understands me! Every news media was railing against the horrible crimes that we had committed, while barely even mentioning the heinous acts of our prey. Again, they chose not to report on the words that meant so much to us, but that was to be expected, as Jack and I laughed at the disturbing fact that we alone among the forgiven knew the secrets buried deep in the art.

“That went well, I don’t think anyone has a clue. I wish they would say how great we are. Why don‘t they talk about how we are ridding the world of the unwanted?”

“Did you really expect others to be able to see our vision? That’s what separates us from the masses, we are standing by ourselves on the mountain top looking down on everyone else.”

“I suppose you’re right. I just wish that somebody, anybody could understand.”

I was a bit discouraged as I took a long walk through the hills by the house. I wasn't sure that I would ever be able to convince the chattering masses that what we were doing was precisely the right thing to do. How could any thinking person really believe that these people weren't getting exactly what they deserved?

Several of those “talking heads” on the news were actually calling us serial killers, an obvious ploy to get under our skin and elicit an ill thought out reaction that might lead to our capture. With these dismal thoughts racing around in my head, I walked on. October nights are very cool, with just a hint of frost in the air. They also talk of prophecy to those who are willing to listen, a very quiet, but distinct reminder of the freezing white bleakness soon to come.

It is Winter that drives me to hatred, toward an almost maniacal frenzy of distaste for my fellow human beings. Indeed the very term “fellow” makes me long for release from this horrid bond to others, a release that can only come in the form of another project, dispassionately sending one more villain to a well deserved early grave. I feel compelled to do my unique form of art, something powerful and life enhancing to take my mind off the approaching storm.

It was while pondering our next piecework, that it occurred to me that perhaps the less intelligent just needed help understanding our cause. It was during that lonely wandering that I decided I would send the news media a well reasoned missive, perfectly explaining what we were doing and why they should support us in the future.

It would be a profoundly powerful letter explaining that if they were always kind to animals then they had nothing to fear from us; we only attacked the unrighteous, we were the avengers of the good.

Seriously, if you have enough left of this story to bring it to novel length, you should stop, here, now, and contact a book publisher. (Maybe PP would give you advice to that end?)

You have a wonderful and unique style of writing that makes it a very easy and most enjoyable read; and this particular story draws in the reader to find out what is going to happen next, gruesome as it may be. All together, a definite blueprint for success.

Thank you, it’s nice to know you are enjoying this first one, I wasn’t really sure how things would go. Interestingly, I could easily write a thousand pages just on this story. I don’t really have a plan, I just dump the stuff out of my head each morning and it just comes out like this. (a scary thought!)

I don’t really know what’s going to happen until I write it down and I don’t have any idea how it’s going to end. I assumed most writers wrote this way, but who knows, lol. I do like this style of daily crafting short, almost stand-alone pieces, it has been fun (and very easy) to write. I’ll contact PP, but it feels a little strange, I’m just the very odd retired guy who likes to write for fun.

Life is certainly interesting.

Who am I kidding? My mind would drive me insane if I don't finish I've started. We'll call this a precursor of things to come in the future...

“What do you think about my idea?”

“I don’t know. They might be able to use that to catch us. I think that‘s how they've caught other people. I think that‘s how they caught BTK.”

“Well, I think we‘ll be okay. I want to use the little cut out letters glued on paper, just like I saw when I was a kid. Jack, you sure know a lot of stuff. How did you get so smart?”

And when he looked me right in the eyes, I knew exactly what he was about to say and even if he might have been joking, I still laughed and said,

“Thanks.”

I had no intention of writing an overly wordy manifesto like so many others had done before me. Those lengthy screeds had smacked of hubris, belaboring point after point in a vain effort to drive their beliefs home. My letter, on the other hand, would be short and sweet. A simple plea to their self professed consciences, a plea to at least try to understand that what was happening to these people was exactly the right thing to do.

It was a narrow path that we walked, sadistically torturing our less than human subjects, while asking for understanding and compassion from those who might worry that they very well could be next. It was drawing that line in the sand that we felt could never be crossed that was so difficult, a never ending dilemma in our minds.

We agonized over the conundrum of whether that line could ever be moved to include others in our little drama and how we could go about informing those people that they were now to be an integral part of our wrath.

i don't care for the future...you can find me chillin in the past.

“I think the next one should be out of state again. But, this time I want to take the guy using his own car, it took me too long to clean out my car after the last time.”

“Sounds good. I also think that after we send the letter to the press you should stop reading and watching the news. It only upsets you.”

“I suppose you’re right. Their lack of vision disgusts me.”

So the letter went out to the multitudes, carefully sealed in a random envelope, using paper that we took from a dumpster. Cutting out and gluing on the words was more difficult than I thought it would be, because the rubber gloves were unwieldy and hot. The job quickly became boring, so I shortened the message to a few pithy, but enlightened words.

I explained to the uninformed that we meant them no harm if they stood on the side of the guiltless, but if they weren't careful and reverted to something less than we hoped they could be, a ferocious repayment in kind would be forthcoming. We would put them through a living agony, a grim foreshadowing of their life after death.

It didn't really matter in the end, because we never heard about our letter again. Jack told me that there was never a mention that it was even received. It was a conspiracy of silence, which made it absolutely clear to both of us that the rest of the world stood on the other side; we were alone in the wilderness, the sole avenging angels for our animal friends.

Most people might think that our having committed these bizarrely unlawful acts would leave me feeling confused and distanced from reality. That couldn't be further from the truth. My mind was becoming more focused, completely fixated on the goal, in fact it took on a gem like hardness that left me feeling on top of the world. My computer research led me to a plethora of subjects, anyone of them perfect for our devoted undertaking. But all these horrible stories left me terribly angry, ever ready to settle the score.

I found a farmer in Nebraska who had become infamous for his mistreatment of his noble charges, a man most deserving of the best of our inestimable skill. He had proudly bragged of being able to do whatever he wanted with his property, a boast that I planned to rip right out of his mouth.

“We’re going to a farm just outside Omaha and I bought the perfect vehicle for the trip. I think it will also come in handy in the future.”

“What did you buy?”

“I bought one of those trucks with a big back seat and a couple of cowboy hats to go along with it. We’re going to go work in a slaughterhouse for just one night and I’m sure we‘ll fit right in.”

We began driving though the flat lands, past the interminable dust and weeds of Eastern Colorado and mile after mile of Honey Dews ripening in the sun. Everything felt like an atmospheric movie, all grey and grainy bleak, as we swept by decrepit signs on forlorn looking schools that read, “Home of the Meloneers State Football Champions - 1972!”.

We were making good time, cruising along in our perfectly disguised rig (which was certainly big to me) and the whole time I was whistling the theme song from “The Beverly Hillbillies”, something that I always do on those rare occasions that I inexplicably find myself riding in a truck. Jack liked trucks, he thought my distaste for those loud, shaky things was strange, so he just drove on with that smile on his face that he always reserves just for me.

We came upon two hitchhikers stuck out on that lonely road, a young couple looking tired and thirsty, trying their best to look harmless, so that we would trust them enough to give them a ride. Of course, their innocent looks appeared faked to the practiced view of us pros, but we let them in with happy looks of our own and sped off in the evening gloom..

“That’s a funny song you’re whistling,. What is it?”

“Don’t ask, he’s nuts.”

“Thanks Jack…”

They explained that they were going to a farmhouse about fifty miles up the road and asked if we could give them a quick lift since it was directly on our way. I suppose it was the fact that I was wearing the requisite hat and chewing on a piece of straw that led them to believe that they had nothing to fear from us. It was an affectation that made me smile as I sat there thinking about the pigs.

“How do you feel about these new giant meat producing farms?”

“Oh we hate them, we’re vegetarians.”

“That’s nice.”

And with that, Jack and I exchanged glances and gave them the thumbs up, because that was the very moment that saved those two young people from becoming practice for our scorn. I wonder if they ever had an inkling of what they had barely missed that day, how close they had come to the unimaginable and how a few simple words had saved them from a terrible agony? It’s funny how life works and most of the time we never really know why.

I was tempted to ask them if they knew the man that we were hunting, but that would have opened us up to scrutiny when the news came out that he died. It seemed better to leave the topic alone, knowing full well that they might very well be happy when they learned of his final hours, suffering horribly, as was his fate.

I still had the passing thought that they could have come along as some sort of mystical Greek chorus, chanting out a soulful message as they watched us working passionately on our art.

“That’s my parents place on the right. Do you want to come in and meet them?”

“No, we need to keep moving. We have a long way to go tonight and important business to attend to. Thanks anyway.”

And with that our kind “companions in fate” left us to travel on. Though Jack and I aren't vegetarians, we had to admire their powerful beliefs that led them to end up on the innocent side of our myth. We sped away from that farmhouse into the bleak darkness, each mile carrying us closer to a self perceived salvation in a reckoning that all three of us would deserve.

Two and half more hours of talking in the truck, as we flew past nothing at all, left us in front of a rough looking farmhouse on one of those sorry dirt roads that go on for miles. The place was lit up in the moonlight and we could see animals wandering around in the fields nearby. They were thinking about us in their animal brains, cheering us on in their sorrow.

“Maybe we should go up to the door, tell him we’re lost and then force him to get the keys.”

“That sounds good. I think that I should make him drive his car out to a deserted cutoff since we don’t have a place to do it. We can just use flashlights and do him on the ground.”

“I don’t think we thought this one out enough, maybe we should wait for another chance.”

“I’m not getting this close and letting him get away. Maybe we should just shoot him dead in his doorway and plan the next one better. I hate these out of state projects.”

Sorry T. Been away. Will actually read. Cant expect it today. All the hearts.

Welcome back. This story, my first foray into fiction starts on Post# 499.

It's been fun being able to write whatever I want without having to stick to a script of the truth. If I feel grumpy, somebody dies and if I don''t then they live, lol. I don't know why I was initially afraid of fiction, it feels totally freeing. (Although, some may wonder at the evil that is spilling out of my head when I'm allowed to write whatever I want, oh well...)

I hope all is well.

And that’s exactly what we did. While Jack sat in the idling truck, I walked up to the front of the house, rang the bell and when he opened the door, I shot him in the face. As he fell back in the hallway, I heard a scream come from inside the house, so I calmly walked back to our shiny black steed and we drove off in the night.

As we sped back to Colorado, I did wonder if maybe he wasn't the right person, but I didn't let that disturb me too much. I assumed it was him by the cruel look on his face and even if it wasn't him, I’m sure that guy deserved it as well. The only really bad feeling that I had nagging in my head was that I wished that we could have made this one as painful as all the others.

It was an interesting, but strange trip home, because Jack and I rode along dispassionately discussing the differences in each murder. While we had to admit that this was certainly easier, it didn't have that same feeling of accomplishment, of having completed a true piece of art; we knew that going forward we would have to demand more from ourselves to leave us feeling satisfied and complete.

“Maybe we should have killed everyone in the house, perhaps that would have made it more meaningful. I’m having a sense of something lacking with this one.”

“It’s just one, don’t worry about it. Next time we’ll do more planning and make it more vicious. Live and learn.”

“The guy described in the news was so mean that they’ll never know who did it or why. Nobody’s going to learn a lesson on this one.”

“There will be others, stop worrying.”

So, having just murdered someone in their own home, I was having sort of a hyper awareness that it hadn't been cruel enough for it to really count. If our subjects didn't truly and horribly suffer, then I had failed. Slightly dejected, but very conscience of what we needed to do in the future, I rode on in that weird big, “other worldly” thing, whistling the entire way home.

I vowed to myself that the next one would be perfect, a masterpiece in both planning and execution, an act so horrendous it would erase that silly shooting from my head.

As expected, we never heard about the misunderstood farmer shot in his quaint little farmhouse ever again, but in my dreams I like to think that his animals lived happily ever after.

The forensic psychologists, swearing on their self professed brilliance that there were no similarities between our crime and any of the others in a state not unfamiliar with killings on isolated farms, no doubt confidently declared it a one off. I can hear them all pontificating loudly that he was surely murdered by one of his many enemies, nothing else to see here.

That’s why it’s so easy to get away with what we do, because those “scientists” sitting in their lofty towers have never actually committed one of our grand deeds before. They are too stupid to realize that sometimes things go wrong, the best laid plans and all that. It’s the very random nature of murdering a stranger that ultimately protects the killer from that vaunted long arm of the law.

The police profess to get inside our heads, but the truth is they haven’t the intelligence to even get close. They can posture for their willing fans, but they lack our vision, our cunning and our skill. We are invincible. Their only hope is by getting lucky and there is not much worry in that for us.

Many times, Jack and I have laughed about how they congratulate themselves heartily, having finally caught someone who has been harvesting humans for more than twenty years. With foes like these, is it any wonder that capture rarely crosses our mind?

“Silly fools, why doest thou thus? Through window and pane look down upon us?”

And with that Jack laughed. He likes it when I paraphrase from the classics or at least he is really good at faking that he does.

We planned and we planned. This one would become the high water mark in our vision. We would have the perfect enemy, the perfect place, the perfect suffering, all in order to create a monument to our consummate skill. Hearkening back to our signature methods, while adding increasing refinement to our work of delivering the ultimate pain, our work became feverish, calling out to the monster within.

I vowed to go back to the words, carefully incised in the flesh, so the resident experts would know absolutely that their greatest adversaries were still lurking close by. This was our moment to excel.

It was decided that we would perfect our technique in our home state before we took our show on the road again, because designing complex tasks is made simpler on familiar ground. While figuring the various methods to use, we could again choose the ideal location, another hidden place so remote that we could work unimpeded and alone.

As we talked, I vowed that we would also kill anyone who got in our way. I obsessed on the frightened innocents who were relying on our efforts to finally set their souls free, I made a solemn promise to never do anything to let them down. Our condemned prey might have family or friends who were equally culpable in their complicity, would it be so wrong to give them a dose of a fitting punishment in a just world that demanded revenge?

If I ever decide to become a run of the mill psychopath, one who could never possibly get caught, I would simply drive around the country murdering complete strangers at will. I would use hammers and guns, knives and ropes, heck, I would even bash them over the head with garden gnomes, all in an effort to break the numbers record and place myself into the annals of immoral history, standing alone at the top.

It’s a good thing that Jack and I have standards, yes, you can even call them morals if you like, because of our commitment to doing the right thing, no one will ever call us run of the mill.

“I found another one, a predictably cruel piece of garbage that most certainly deserves to have us enter his life and tear out the evil within”

“Where does he live? Does he have a family?”

“He lives out in some podunk town near Watkins with a girlfriend and her kids. I don’t think he will be missed by anyone. This guy makes me so angry, I want to torture him, kill him, burn down his house and sow the ground with salt.”

“Do you know what he looks like?”

Yeah, he was on TV. They even showed him driving off in his car. We’re going to get this guy for sure.”

I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me.

- Hunter S. Thompson