Deadjournal
This is a blog from a serial killer on a mission from hell

I couldn’t believe her stupidity. With all the headlines about internet predators, who would give out a home address to a stranger? I laughed quietly to myself when I thought about it in her driveway. People do foolish things when they are lonely, and this being Valentine’s day most likely added to the longing for human companionship.

As I watched her adjust the striped thigh high stockings through the crack in the bathroom blinds, I pictured what it was going to be like to bind her wrists with them. I always liked to start out playful, leaving a hint of doubt in the victims mind. It entertained me to give a bit of hope, the slim possibility that the violence was just a joke gone too far. Funny how the human mind clings desperately to denial when death is near.

She applied her eyeliner, thick and black like in her profile picture. I liked the darkness she embraced with the choice of clothes; a white blouse tied over her midsection, paper thin and showing a black bra underneath. The skirt was short and black as well, leaving several inches of bare flesh exposed between where the skirt ended and the black and red thigh highs began. Her legs were thin, and I let my eyes follow them up to the curve of her waist, her smooth back elongated as she stretched over the sink to get closer to her reflection. Candles burned all around her, causing shadows to flicker against the walls as she put the finishing touches to her hair. I could almost feel the heat of the flames as they reflected the paleness of her skin.

She stepped away from the mirror, satisfied with what she saw. Adjusting her skirt, she walked past the window and out of the bathroom. She was close enough for me to see the light hint of green in her eyes, and images of the surrounding candles were dancing in them as she went by. Having her so close, almost near enough to taste, caused my heart to beat excitedly.

I told myself to relax. I wasn’t even through the front door, and already my teeth were clenched and my jaw was painfully tight. It was better to be invited in, rather than enter by force, but the latter wasn’t out of the question. It all depended on what Marissa wanted to do.

Marissa. Her profile was full of images relating to death and murder, creating a sad, almost suicidal feeling. Poems and song lyrics reflected a broken heart and a disdain to all things beautiful, yet she was so quick to make a connection I could tell she was simply lonely . Her pain was apparent, but it made her seek love rather than dismiss it. That made my job so much easier. Almost too easy.

As I made my way to the front door, flowers and wine in hand, I pictured how the night would go. I was hoping for a challenge; something to make me push my game up to the next level, but not a fighter like I had last week. Who would have guessed all that kickboxing talk was legit?

You never could tell when it came to serial murder. Everyone is unique. Some fight, some cry, some beg for mercy or plead for an explanation…it varies.

One thing is for certain, though. It always ends in pain.

Sweat burned my eyes, and I had to run my hand across my forehead for the umpteenth time. It was hot and confined in the small bedroom closet, but I had nowhere else to hide. The air was heavy and thick with humidity, a warm day in the middle of spring. We get some funny weather here in Pa.

Roommates. I ask about them, I try to predict them, but it’s tough chopping someone up and keeping an eye on your watch. We cant all be as meticulous as the fictional killers all you suburban housewives get off on.

There was a body bleeding in the bathtub, and an unaware individual wandering around my stage. I really wanted to get back to what I was doing, but I restrained myself and waited patiently to see if he left. I just hoped it would be soon, or I would taste one too many drops of sweat and kill the son of a bitch out of sheer principle.

He finally found whatever it was he was looking for, walked out the door, and locked it behind him. As I heard the key turn, my blood began to flow again. What kind of reaction will he have when he hears that her “Time Of Death” was six hours before he came home looking for his wallet?

That’s gotta really screw somebody up.

Her face still reminded me of how bitchy she was when I got back to the bathroom, so I cut it a few times for good measure. Slashing the skin of a corpse is kind of boring, but it still carries emotion in all my photographs.

Thank God for digital cameras.

The Phillies played the Pirates a few weeks ago, and I decided to check it out.* I really like crowds. So much easier to disappear surrounded by 40,000 people. A baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses made me just another face in the crowd. It was a good game, Phils won, but I got distracted around the fifth inning. Her and her friends must have moved down from the nosebleeds, and I couldn’t keep track of who was at bat after that.

I caught her eyes a few times, and each glance spoke to me about how sweet her death would be. Sure, it would have to be a quick kill, but sometimes a blitz attack left adrenaline coursing through my veins for hours.

I watched her cup each time she drank from it, and got up for some boardwalk fries around the time she had just a few mouthfuls left. I payed the $87 dollars or whatever ridiculous amount they charged, and took my time at the condiment stand.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her as the black and purple streaks of her hair moved forward in line, her bright tattoo sleeve doing nothing to take away from the glow she so strongly emitted. As she walked away with her beer, I turned with the cup of fries raised just high enough to collide with her hand, and beer cascaded all across her chest. I flashed a look of surprise, and quickly changed it to an apologetic one and waited. This was the moment that either spared her life or ended it.

I told her I was sorry, and when she said “no, its my fault”, I almost smiled. Why was it so easy to find them? The ones with “victim” stamped so visibly on their foreheads? I am sure there is some psychobabble to explain it. Whatever.

I bought her another beer, and made a comment on getting her out of her wet clothes. She was caught off guard, but only for a second. She looked in my eyes and then laughed, immediately reassured that she was safe. I have been told I have kind, soft eyes. I take their word for it, but I wouldn’t know. The only thing I see when I look in the mirror is the same emptiness I feel all the time. Unless I am killing.

Getting her to step into the deserted corridor took longer than I anticipated, but watching her blood cascade across her chest, just like the beer did, made it all worthwhile. Her eyes were sad for a moment, and I loved it. She was so trusting, so caught up in the thrill of a brief encounter with a stranger that she didn’t bother to take her personal safety into consideration. The adrenaline stayed with me like I had hoped, and so did the glow I first noticed when she sat down. It was all over my hands, even after washing off the bit of red she left behind.

My fries were cold by the time I made it to a new seat, but the taste of beer on the first few kept me in my “happy place” long enough to finish them, and the game. I barely even thought about the $87 bucks for a cup of fries.

*By the way, I am not in Philly anymore. I have moved again since then, so anyone with the P.P.D. can get some rest. I am done butchering your flock. See you again some time.

Oh, and stop boo-ing Jimmy Rollins. He IS the reigning MVP, after all

I am in another new town, sitting in another strange hotel. It’s a pretty nice one, too. Large fountain out front, long bar with minimal lighting inside. I wish I could tell you more about it, but some of you might be just as entertained by my capture as my killing. Gotta keep some details secret.

I sat in the lounge for a while, surfing the net and gathering details on my new location. I never pick a place ahead of time, knowing how important it is to stay random. It may seem difficult, but really it’s not. Everything about my new town was at my fingertips, and it only took me a few minutes to study a map and find the ideal places to make some new friends. I found a few rooms for rent, too, thanks to craigslist. I have my fingers crossed about one in particular. Two young girls, both in college, with an extra bedroom and enough nieve trust to invite me to their place before first meeting me in public. Whether I get the place or not, this should be fun. I hope they’re cute.

I never jump right into action in a new town, so I had time to kill, as opposed to people. I got up and made my way into the darker bar and logged on to my website to do some writing. I am not sure why I started blogging, but now that I have opened the flood gates I have an overwhelming desire to share my escapades with everyone who cares to read. I want to share my passions, show what is inside me, to the world. I dont know why or what I thought would come of it, but now I cant stop. Maybe I wanted to drive people into a panic, everyone locking their doors and afraid to log on to the internet in fear that the monster will show himself. I know that would never happen, though. Fear and intelligence are directly correlated, and most people are too stupid to know when to be enticed and when to be terrified.

I decided to sign up for a Myspace account and describe myself as honestly as possible. I wanted to see how people would truly respond to what I am. I would say I searched my soul for hours to find the answers to the “about me” section, but I really don’t have a soul to speak of. A few seconds inside my head was all it took to let the hate spill out. With no regard for the opinion of others, self dillusion becomes unnecessary. I know myself one hundred percent. Its everyone else that I lie to.

Time to see what happens when I stop.

Once I was satisfied with the content, I started sending out friend requests and waited to see the reaction I would get. I knew blind panic was not going to happen, but what did happen wasn’t really in my realm of predicted outcomes either. Within two hours I had 40 friends, and in another two it doubled. Mostly girls, each one more beautiful than the next. Hell, Kat Von D even added me. Thanks, Kat. That woman is spectacular, isn’t she? I don’t even think I would kill her, and that’s saying alot. Eh, who am I kidding. I would have to cut her open too.

All the girls were glorious in their darkness, so alluring that each photo spoke to me in volumes. They were a mixture of fallen angels and the walking dead. The angels I wanted to penetrate, first with my knife and then with my hands, finding their power and making it my own. The living dead, the mindless automatons adorned with trendy tats and “scene” sunglasses were also appealing, but without the promise of power. The only thing I wanted from them was an opportunity to cut their skin and hear them scream. I wish I could board one of these “trains” they ride and slice them up one by one, making my way from the front to the back of each car and covering their “hello kitty” backpacks with streaking arcs of blood. Maybe that would wipe those stupid emo expressions from their faces.

There were a few guys that added me too, which I thought was great. Maybe we can get together some time, if any of you are reading my blog. Round up a group of girls , dress them like baby seals, and go clubbing. Make them slide around on their bellies for a while, grunting and flapping their useless flippers, and then smash their face in with a bat. Let me know. I will put something together if anyone is interested.

I found hundreds of groups on there, too. Ones for fans of serial killers, true crime, and murder in general. Most of them were pretty vanilla, but others definitely had a collection of some seriously disturbed individuals. The more group descriptions I read, the more I saw that there were some pretty fucked up people out there. I started joining groups and posting the link to my blog. I also posted a bulletin saying that any girls out there that wanted to be murdered could send me a pic and tell me why I should kill them. I had ten responses almost immediately! There really is something wrong with people these days. Isn’t it great?

Online communities and social networking places have always been my favorite place to quietly find a victim or two, but now I see so much more potential. I am going to keep killing, of course, but now I want to do it in front of you. No more hiding my work, no more keeping my beautiful trophies to myself. So many out there have a taste for bloodshed, and I am here to give you what you want. Go ahead and add me at www.myspace.com/ericmolds.

And keep an eye on my blog, people. I am just getting started.

It’s been a busy week. My second appointment to see a place for rent paid off pretty nicely. It’s a large loft, hardwood floors and thick concrete walls. Just what I was looking for. I was pretty dissapointed when the girls never showed up about the first place, but once I got a view of this one I was over the dissapointment immediately.

Moving in was no big deal. I travel light and buy everything brand new with the help of stolen credit card numbers (who knows, maybe yours). What took long was laying the plastic tarp and temporary flooring above it. I have no objections to leaving a room full of blood, as long as none of it is my own. I have no prints on file, no governmental photos or ID. I havent even used my Social Security number in over ten years. Last thing I need is a sample in some DNA database.

I havent been able to have any fun since leaving Philadelphia. I had no idea how much attention I was drawing to myself when I started blogging. I have gotten enough responses to know that I have to keep things quiet for a bit. I gave too much information in the blog about the baseball game. I dont think there is a team of feds hot on my trail or anything, but I am sure there are a few watchful eyes trained on this website. I gotta be more careful if I really plan on doing this.

So, I have a digital camera. I am sure I can get you some good stuff with that. What I really want to do, though, is get you something on film. Something beautiful and wet. All I have is my shitty pre-paid cellphone camera for that, and I just dont think that will do. Anyone out there want to buy me a camcorder? Maybe I should put up one of those donation boxes. I have a few friends out there that enjoy what I do and might want to support the arts.

There’s a few haters out there, too, though. I wonder how many times I have been reported to one agency or another? I should post some of the emails I got on myspace. People are really upset, like I am supposed to abide by some unwritten internet code of conduct and be good to those in cyberland. One lady even asked me why I cant “just be nice to people”. The answer is simple. Because I want to bring an end to your kind.

I did get some positive responses, too. Some of you have been great. Thanks for the emails, Heather. And Fiona, I love the comments. Keep em coming. The three of us in a soundproof room would be exhilarating, don’t you think?

Nobody is sending me their home addresses, though. I cant figure out why.

Doesn’t anyone want to play with death

I took a walk after my last entry. I was feeling kind of restless and needed some stimulation. I haven’t been able to put my hands on someone in an long time, and it was making me insane.

There are a few overpasses down the street from my place where the local degenerates tend to hang out once the downtown decides it’s late and chases them away. I took a stroll this way a few times and was offered crack three times and a blowjob twice. I turned both down, but stuck around a bit to enjoy the scenery. I returned there today, not sure why but very glad I did.

She was tucked up beneath the overpass, moaning loudly. I looked around and made my way up to her when I was certain nobody was around. When I knelt beside her, she reached for me and whispered “help”.

I breathed in deep when she said this, almost like I was drawing the words inside me. I remember gazing in her glazed eyes, watching the foaming spit bubble up around the corners of her mouth as she overdosed. The syringe was at her side, and whatever she had just pumped inside her veins was killing her. I loved the poisonous feeling of betrayal as she begged me to save her, taking pleasure in the change of her expression as she realized I offered no salvation. She twitched one more time before her heart had too much drug and her eyes went dead. I wanted to touch her, to kick her, to burn her face and pull out her tongue. But I didn’t. I just relaxed and let both our blood cool for a bit. After I while I got bored, so I went home to make Ramen noodles.

Too bad she didnt have any cash, or it could have been chinese take-out.

I like my present location. Its fun here. Things happening every weekend, little festivals and celebrations. A trolley runs through the center of town. Tons of good looking girls running around. Some stand out more than others, drawing my attention, but this is my temporary home for now, and it would be unwise to mess things up. This town is my coffin used to hide from the harmful rays of the sun and the searching gaze of the law.

That doesn’t mean I cant have fun elsewhere, though.

I saw her a few hours ago as I walked to the market. She was headed down the street, short grey dress and hair so blond it glowed. I wonder if she will ever read this before I get a chance to kill her. My veins were flooded immediately, but I made my way across the street anyway and planned on letting her pass. I couldn’t believe it when she stepped off the sidewalk the same time I did.

I paid and pocketed my change, the whole time watching her subtly as she browsed the potato chip isle. All I needed was another minute or two, so I made small talk with the store owner till she approached the register. When she addressed him by name, I was satisfied and walked off. A regular at this market would either live close by or be catching a train at the station a block away. If she was a local, I would see her around town, so I went with the train possibility and walked that way before she exited the store. I grabbed a free paper from the rack and waited on the metal bench with the best view of the long concrete stairs leading back up to the street.

When she started descending, I immediately took a running mental image of her. She was so poised, so confident in her mannerisms that the illusion of strength surrounded her. Faerie glamour, though. Thats all. I see straight through that shit. Her designer handbag and her large trendy sunglasses, her too short hemline screamed “look at me! Look at me! I need your attention!” I am sure that if I let her talk about herself for more than half an hour, her panties would be off and she would be begging me to tie her wrists with them. The problem is, though, ten minutes into hearing her superficial nonsense I would be biting my lip just to keep from killing her.

I let her board the train without a word, but I gave her a casual smile before she left. I had a target, a time and a place. Now all I needed was patience, a thing I find harder and harder to come by these days.

I know I can’t kill everyone, but man do I want to try.

I had my nightmare again. The same one I have had for years. I woke up shaking and feeling completely powerless as I clenched the thin comforter like a fistful of some sluts hair.

Each time the dream is the same, but with enough differences to keep the fear fresh and alive. This time I am walking through a shopping mall. Nothing about it is familiar, but I feel like I have been there before. There are hundreds of people walking around, and everyone is smiling. Smiling to the point of being blinding. I hate the bright shine of their teeth, want to smash them out and watch them spit their blood covered chicklets to the floor. I reach behind me to draw my knife, excited for a moment about savagely moving through the crowd of grinning sheep and cutting off their lips to put an end to the smiling, but every time I bring my hand back there is just a box of Girl Scout cookies. Not even a good kind. Just those plain shortbread or butter cookies or whatever.

Every time I throw the box down to the ground and reach for the strong steel blade I end up with another box of those fucking cookies. The stupid happy people start getting all excited, reaching for the cookies and surrounding me from all around like a pack of zombies. I start kicking and throwing elbows, giving up on the knife-that-is-cookies, and usually wake up at this point, but sometimes they just keep grinning and reaching for snacks as I smother beneath them.

One of them hugged me last night. HUGGED me. I started clawing out his eyes and biting his face. Man I hate that dream.

I gotta go back to work. This laying low shit has got to stop. Its been over a month since I snuffed a flame, and it is making it hard to concentrate on anything else. I think its time to start planning a date with my new friend.

I need to get out of town for a bit. I have to go somewhere safe, where my actions wont cause me too much trouble. If I dont feel a struggle underneath my body soon I will definitely go crazy. It feels like I am useless.

I am so angry. I see all these people walking around thinking all this shit matters. A dented fender, trans-fats, name brand sneakers. What the fuck? How can people put so much importance on living when on a daily basis it is the most hated thing of all? Who really wants to be alive, aside from breif moments of pleasure? Why is this stupid, played out circus so important to so many people? I say fuck it. Show’s over. Just because we were able to evolve past shitting outdoors or laying eggs doesn’t mean we arent still just animals. We simply took top of the food chain and cant stop patting ourselves on the back for something nature did for us. So what. Bring on 1,000 years of hell.

Yeah, I know. I have a lot of opinions, and opinions are like assholes. Everybody’s got one, and yours would be better with a broken bottle shoved inside it. I am definitely pretty stressed, though, so I am taking a trip to a place I like to keep. Secluded, soundproof, and a city nearby where I can definitely find someone to play with. I dont like to use the place if I dont have to, but I need to get wet bad enough to warrant a little getaway.

I know I have a few readers now, and I am feeling inspired. I hope you guys are looking forward to this as much as I am. Time to show a bit of my photography skills and listen to the critics for feedback.

Its been a few days since I blogged. I struck up a few conversations over the last few days in this small college town, but nothing really panned out. Saw a few lone stragglers on their way home from a bar, too, but something didnt feel right about either one so I let them stumble on home. Almost kicked some homeless guys face in for fun as I stood over him while he snored from a lot of cheap vodka, but that would have been counter-productive. I need something to take home. Something warm and wriggly to play with for a few days. I figured if I could make it last for a while, I could get by another two weeks without heating things up too much.

So anyway, I was frustrated and bored, so I headed over to Starbucks, figuring I am bound to hate the majority of the corporate fuckheads that frequent that particular establishment. I approached the counter and looked for a list of herbal teas (caffeine makes me crazy), but couldn’t find one. I pleasantly asked the cashier to tell me the different kinds they had, and the little brat looked at me like I asked her to change my tire or something. She gestured with her head , showing me where the teas were located on the other side of the counter, and then waited for me to lean over and read them myself.

I smiled at her like I was retarded, figuring the brain dead girl could understand that better than spoken word, which I already tried. Eventually it worked and she started reading the names off to me with a subtle but obvious tone of irritation, and then turned to me with disgust.

I made her repeat them three times before I turned and walked away without another word. Hey blondie at Starbucks, I think you just caught my interest. Something tells me we will be seeing each other again soon. Looking forward to it.

I decided I didn’t want the Starbucks girl. The only allure with her was how much I hated her, and that would conflict directly with my plans of keeping one around for a while. I would probably end up pounding her face with a brick until it was something void of shape and the brick was dust in my hand. No, let me find something weak and lovely to talk to while I make her sing to me. Let me know if you want to hear it. I can probably figure something out.

I needed someone else, and the busiest place on a Saturday morning would probably be another coffee shop. I knew just the place and headed over there, and immediately saw my target. She was cute and curvy, her white hair and even whiter skin just begging to be my canvas. A few tasteful piercings adorned her flesh, but she was simply riding a trend. I am sure a year ago she looked like Paris Hilton, and Britney Spears the year before that. Just the type I love to torture.

There are two kinds of girls I notice out there. There are those so strong inside that they spit in the face of conventional beauty, modifying themselves and defining the word “beauty” on their own. Then there are those so weak and empty inside that they think some metal, some ink and a few streaks in their hair will change them and make them appear less ugly. The problem is, that ugliness resides inside. I worship the first group, tasting them and drawing their essence whenever I can. The second I despise, and expose their inside whenever possible. I love killing both, but in completely different ways.

This girl was definitely in the second group.

I got a mug of some really good coffee (Burlap and Bean. 100% fair trade certified, by the way), and took a seat two chairs over from her outside on the porch. i took my time starting our new relationship, enjoying a hand-rolled smoke and taking in the moment. She glanced a few times, wondering if I would speak to her, so I decided to give her what she thought she wanted. I opened with a joke.

“Whats the difference between a dead baby and a hamburger?” I asked. Before she had a chance to cut me off, I let her know the answer.

“You don’t jerk off all over a hamburger before you eat it”.

She nearly choked.

I knew she would be disgusted, but there wasnt any fight getting this broken soul to go home with me. I needed to increase the difficulty level, handicap myself so to speak. She was so turned off that she started gathering up her things and mumbling about a trolley so she could move away from the “creepy guy” sitting next to her. I laughed for the both of us and then feigned sincerity when I apologized. I told her I just heard it from my friend in a band and immediately started talking about how cool they were. Then I started getting a bit excited for her sake, talking with my hands when I told her about them maybe getting signed.

Her neediness, her desire for acceptance ate it up, probably thinking about meeting some hot rocker guys and getting her tongue in their mouths and her pic on their Myspace. I showed her some shots on my phone of some small time band I saw play a few months ago, all skinny jeans and torn punk T’s. Her apprehension wore off completely when I told her I would leave her some tickets and backstage passes for the next show and she could pick them up at the door.

The next few hours were agonizing torture, but nothing compared to the discomfort I had in store for her later. We finished coffee, got ice cream, and she talked. A lot. Three years after high school and all she could talk about was how popular she was back then. She was president of this, and captain of that, and knew this guy and that guy, and fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I must have said, “wow, you’re SO COOL” enough times it would end up embedded in her skin like a label. The more she talked and the more I complemented, the closer she would lean towards me. I finally asked her back to my place after my fingers brushed her skin and she smiled instead of frowned.

I made sure to keep the conversation going to prevent her from asking too many questions. As long as I asked my own questions and kept them about her she was clueless to anything else. I could feel her nerves tingling with worry, but I kept the mood light and her small mind was easy to placate.

We pulled up to the farmhouse, and then the alarm inside her head grew so loud even I could hear it. As the roads grew smaller and the trees got thicker I knew she was starting to worry, but when she saw the dark, remote place I had taken her that worry grew into fear.

I didn’t shut the car off just then, letting the strong engine rumble soothingly, and turned the radio up a bit. I talked about the house, ignoring her fidgeting and making up details as I went along. I told her it had been in my family for twelve generations, even though anyone with an ounce of intelligence could see it was no more than a hundred years old. That ruled this girl out, though. So, I went on and on for a bit. I even improvised a funny story of my grand mom and a family of groundhogs in the back yard. Its amazing how people relax when they hear about grand moms, like Dahmer or Bundy’s mom didn’t have mothers of their own.

I pulled out some grass and asked her if she wanted to smoke, and she seemed glad I had a relief to her anxiety. We passed the pipe back and forth in silence for a bit, but soon I could tell her spirits were lifting and the conversation began again. I was ready to get her from the car to the door now. This part is always tricky. Once inside she wasn’t getting out, but if she ran before that I would have to chase her down just to keep my ass from getting caught. I didn’t much feel like running, so I was as gentle and reassuring as possible when I walked her to the porch.

Once inside it was nothing fancy. The door closed and made an electronic buzz as the lock engaged, and the sound proof walls and lack of furniture sent her immediately into a tizzy. I let her run around like a Southern Baptist for a while, her hands raised above her head and calling out to God. I am sure he heard her, but there was no intervention for this one. Once I grew tired of her sobs, I showed her to her room and explained casually how her stay would play out. The ropes were secured, and I made sure they weren’t too tight. Not out of mercy, but to prevent circulatory issues. I needed her for at least a week.

As I left to go make my preparations, I thought it fitting to modify her a bit more. Something beautiful and appropriate.

I told you it would end up on her skin. I used a screwdriver, choosing to save the blades till later. She squirmed, but the ropes and her underwear around her neck held her in place well enough.

I think I will call this one “before”.

I’ll be sure to share “after” with you as well. It may be a while, though. I need to spend some time with my new pet. I can’t believe I drove all the way out here just to blog about it and share it with you. I got it bad, dont I?

They deleted my Myspace account. Guess murdering people violates the “terms of service”. Fuck you, Tom.

Dont worry, I will make a new one. They need to find a better cure than that, because this virus is going to spread like a virgin on prom night.

HEY KIDS, IT IS NOT COOL TO TALK TO PREDATORS. DONT MEET SICK FUCKS FROM THE INTERNET. THEY WILL GRAB YOU AND SMASH YOU INTO SUBMISSION, TAKE YOU SOMEWHERE DARK AND DIRTY, AND THEN TORTURE YOU UNTIL YOU DIE. YOU WILL SCREAM UNTIL YOUR THROAT BECOMES RAW. YOU WILL CRY UNTIL WHAT IS LEFT IN YOUR TEAR DUCTS IS SO THICK THAT IT SEALS YOUR EYELIDS SHUT. YOU WILL RE-LIVE EVERY MOMENT OF YOUR LIFE, EVERY MISTAKE YOU EVER MADE, EVERY TIME YOU WISHED YOU SAID “I’M SORRY” TO SOMEONE, AND THE WRETCH STANDING ABOVE YOU WILL GET TO LIVE IT TOO. HE WILL LIVE IT THROUGH YOUR PAIN AND MISERY, THROUGH THE TORMENT IT WILL CAUSE YOU WHEN YOU SEE THAT NOTHING WILL EVER BRING YOU BACK FROM WHERE HE IS ABOUT TO SEND YOU.

There. That might work. Or, people will continue being trusting, needy and stupid regardless of what I fucking say.

So there’s a public service announcement for you, Tom. Now can I log into my Myspace?

I was pretty tired yesterday and I felt disconnected when I couldn’t log into my account on Myspace. I even drove into town at 2 am to try again. I can’t believe how hooked I am. Even with a living, breathing toy at home I still had to check my apps and messages. I miss Fiona’s comments. I was striking up a conversation with a hot little freak from Austrailia just before they blocked me. I was hoping to meet her when I took a little business trip I had scheduled recently. One girl said she wanted to have my baby. A little Zom-b baby. I wanted to finish that conversation, too. What fun. How I love the internet.

I have always stayed to myself, having only brief interactions with people unless they caught my attention and end up in my basement. Internet chatrooms gave me a chance to meet the girls that were hoping to end up noticed, no matter what the cost, but I was still alone. I didn’t connect to the other chatters, I didn’t open up. But with this whole online community thing it’s almost like I can be myself and still feel accepted. Almost as if I had friends. I might even thing about changing my ways. Turning over a new leaf, so to speak. Being good to people instead of killing them.

Hahahah. Yeah. Fuck that. I was just messing with you.

The girl won’t eat and I still have a few days left in me before I get bored, so I am off to get a turkey baster and some Slimfast. And maybe the new Dresdin Dolls cd. I wish I was the one who killed Amanda Palmer. It may take some time getting the nourishment down her throat, and I rested up last night so I can break out the nice German cutlery I enjoy using so much. If she doesnt eat, she will spend the whole time passed out and be dead by morning, which would be no fun at all.

Time to get back to my pet. I will be sure to let you know when I am done.

My pet died today. I was surprised how long she lasted, to be honest. The diet shake helped, giving her a bit more energy and making it possible to coax a few more “why”s and “please”s out of her. It was probably infection that did her in. I could smell it on her since Thursday.

We had a lot of fun, played all my favorite games. I put on some music when I got back and began the task of feeding her, which wasn’t easy. The CD I mentioned turned out to be a solo album, so I decided to download it when I get home and chose something already in my collection. Once she had some vitality again, I turned up the volume and began my lesson in pain.

She was a great student, going down all the paths I led her without much force on my part. One minute I was her worst nightmare, the next minute I was her closest friend. Every time I took her to the edge of madness I would begin smoothing her hair and speaking to her in reassuring tones, gently kissing her eyes and wiping away the tears from her cheeks. I told her over and over that everything would be ok. That everything would soon go back to the way it was. I told her how beautiful she was, how she lit up the room with her light. Her body would begin to relax for a moment, desperately wanting to believe that the illusion of asylum was real. That’s when I would fill her with something other than lies and bring the lightning fast onslaught of violence back into play . She was stuck somewhere in her childhood as of yesterday, calling for her mommy and trying desperately to suck her thumb. How cute. I even let her do it for a bit before cutting it off and putting it back in her mouth. That brought her back to reality, but only briefly. When she ran out of screams, I ran out of patience and shoved my favorite pen in her eye.

That, as they say, was that. I waited a few hours before taking this picture, wanting the eye to fill with some fluids and add a little bit of color to her drained and sallow tones. Eventually she stopped moving, and the game ended. I don’t think the pen was deep enough to kill her, but it sure didn’t help matters.

It’s always a let down when they die. I mean, sure, that was the whole point, but I was enjoying the company. Now I have to get rid of the body, too, which is always a pain in the ass. Lucky for me, I am pretty resourceful.

There are 2,300 people every day that end up missing. 2,300. That’s a lot. There are 350 serial killers on the job at any given time in this country, all of them having to dump a corpse here or burn a corpse there, or chop someone up into sections and leave each one in a different Denny’s bathroom (sorry, inside joke). I do what I can to make sure bodies are never found, but I don’t worry too much as I float on this bloody red sea of obscurity. I think I will give my departed a bleach bath and maybe pour a few gallons of heavy duty glue on her, then drop her down into an old septic tank that still has room for more additions. Quite some room, actually.

I have no idea when I am heading home. I cleaned myself up well enough to take a ride and get online to share this with you, but the place is a mess and my car still has traces of her all over it. Got some cleaning to do, some football to watch, and a baseball game this evening. Go Phils. I think I will stay here for another night, and decide what to do in the morning. I like writing my own schedule. Punching lovely beauties until they are lifeless lumps of skin sure beats punching a clock.

I am heading home. I cant come back here for a long time if I want to stay a free man. I used to have a lot more control over myself, but I couldn’t resist another kill. I just filled myself to the brim for a week straight, and I just wasn’t ready to call it quits. I made up my mind this morning, and had a plan by mid afternoon.

love the internet. So faceless, so anonymous. There are millions of people hiding behind a computer, thinking nothing has changed after clicking their browser icon. They still think they are in their rooms, or the office, or wherever they were when they first logged on. They arent, though. They are in cyberspace. They are caught in the World Wide Web, spun from silk so thin they dont even notice it. I can be standing next to you within a few keystrokes and a well timed joke, but you think I am miles away.

Chatrooms work best, but these days they are so filled with cops and do-gooders that it’s foolish to just log in and start fishing. You have to find a nice secluded spot before you cast your line. One spot I find works great is a recovery chatroom. Very unpopulated, and the average user would most likely be against any kind of monitoring, which would go against the whole anonymity (which is the spiritual foundation of all their traditions, ever reminding them to place principles before personalities. Bla bla bla). I picked Narcotics Anonymous and found an online meeting for my surrounding area. I sipped my coffee (sleepy hollow decaf) and tried to remember all the silly jargon I picked up from mandatory meetings as a kid. As I watched the text scroll by, I eventually I saw what I was waiting for and leaned forward to pay closer attention.

There were only a dozen people in the chatroom, and the one with the screenname “Tib-Tab90″ seemed pretty upset. She had four months drug free, and she just found out her boyfriend got high and fucked some chick he knew from rehab. The other members rambled on and on with slogans and positive reinforcement till she dropped the talk about getting high or killing herself or dropping out of school and going home, wherever that was. She did mention she was going to “kill the fucking cunt that screwed her man” before she was done, though. That made me laugh hysterically. Maybe I could talk her into actually doing it while I sat and watched. We could make popcorn or something.

She started calming down a bit and began playing her role as a good little cult member by offering some recovery advice to a newcomer. I typed an IM and clicked send.

Now, some of you might be thinking, “OK, so some girl is doing the right thing and dealing with her problems. She’s not using drugs, she’s talking about it, and she wont fall for some sick guy in a chatroom”.

Wrong.

A drug addict with only a hand full of months clean just had her heart broken. The void filled by drugs still existed, and drugs were most likely replaced with the love of her boyfriend, who just put his dick in some whore. Her screenname had the number 90 in it, which could be random, could mean she was a senior citizen who used the term “cunt”, or it meant she was just a poor little freshman born 18 years ago and probably away from home for the first time in her life. She also had anger issues, talking about murder with venom and laughing at my sick twisted responses. She was in a very fragile state, and her taste in men leaned towards drug abusing cheats. So…see where I am going with this?

I told her “fuck that guy. He doesn’t deserve you. And you SHOULD kill that bitch. There’s nothing in the twelve steps about murdering little whores”.

I got the expected response of “LOL, thanks”. Ladies, do yourselves a favor and stop opening the door for strangers. I know you never will, though.

We went back and forth, joking about how to kill the floozy that screwed her man. The more I learned about her personality, the more my interest grew. This one was alive. Full of energy. I could see her aura around the words that appeared across my screen. I almost knew her immediately and it made the conversation seem like it existed between long time friends. It didnt even catch her off guard when I asked her what meeting she was going to tonight.

She said she wasnt sure, but probably one close by. A click of the mouse brought up the meeting schedule for the area surrounding her University, which she foolishly named, and I told her I would be at one of them just a few blocks from her school. I asked her to meet me there and held my breath. This is where things always get difficult.

Remember the alarms I talked about? The ones that go off in the minds of prey when they smell the wolf among them? Watch a nature show and see how the animals all look around, searching in fear but too stupid to get out of there before they get pulled to pieces. People are like that also. They can be pretty perceptive sometimes, but the magical thing about cyberland is that the prey never smell the predator till it is right in their face and grinning.

She was vague for a while, not committing to a place till the sound of danger quieted in her mind, but still responding to my jokes and kind comments. We traded pictures, and I was so surprised when her photo matched almost identically to the image I had of her in my head. If I had made a sketch it would mirror this exactly.

I opted for a pic of me I thought she would find most appealing. I scanned one from a few years back when my style was alot more bold, photoshopped just enough to blur my features and screw any facial recognition programs. I wanted to send it to her phone so I could take it back when she stopped breathing, but she said it was “photo first, then talk” so I took a risk and didn’t care as usual.

The conversation on the phone was fun, her so full of hate at the moment, and me that way since birth. We joked so much about violence and death that I didn’t even have to pretend I was anything other than what I was. Deadly, charming, and soul-less. I think she even liked it. I wish I could say I felt bad about wanting to kill her, but I didnt. I want to kill everyone, even ones as insightful and amusing as her. And man, was she cute.

I walked up at the cigarette break, pretending I got lost. She didnt mind that I was late and seemed relaxed, comfortable. She was probably used to keeping her cool in uncomfortable situations, being a drug addict and all. Cant get nervous when the dope man asks you what you want. At least, not unless you want a beat bag and maybe a pistol in your face. We made small talk for a bit, and before we knew it we were alone. Everyone else went back into the meeting, and she seemed pleased. I stole a kiss right away to make my intentions known, and it was met with a kiss of her own. We kept talking and I was careful not to let my hand stay too long on her knee or her hip as we leaned against the church and talked. Eventually we walked off to the street and she mentioned getting some coffee. I offered to drive and we ended up in my car for an hour without going anywhere. I told her I was hoping to spend some more time with her tonight, and she told me she was hoping for the same thing.

Tib Tab wasn’t hoping for the same thing, though. Not by a long shot. I knew we both enjoyed how her lip ring felt in my mouth as I kissed her, but only one of us enjoyed it when I bit it off. As our mouths filled with blood, she screamed and I sighed. I was careful not to get it on my clothes, but my mouth and chin were covered. I licked it slowly and then smashed my elbow into her long neck, breathing it all into me as her screams turned into wet coughs and chokes. I drug her out from the car by her beautiful legs, having to pull hard when her skirt got caught in the door. I just stood there and watched her choke on her blood, speeding up the process a bit with my hand across her mouth and my knee on her chest. When she stopped breathing, I opened her up to look for what I knew she had. It was everywhere, and now it was mine. I stood and looked at all the blood, wishing I didnt make such a mess but not wasting time on much wishing. The body was moved to my trunk, dripping and leaving a trail across the asphalt as I drug her, and then made its way to what I now referr to as my “glue ball”. Two bodies clinging together in a sticky adheseve sphere isnt much just yet, but the largest rubber band ball had to start somewhere, right? I got high hopes.

I played with the lip ring the entire ride home, leaving it in my mouth and bouncing it around with my tongue. It felt much better attached to her full lips when I was kissing her, but I wasn’t complaining. I got what I needed.

Brutality. MY anti-drug.

I saw the girl in the grey dress again today (minus the gray dress. She wore a black pair of slacks and a white blouse). Her cute little ass swung back and forth as she chatted on her pink Blackberry and watched the eyes of everyone that passed, most likely seeking approval to counter her self disdain. Those eyes took in every glance shot her way and she would smile, but it would disappear as quickly as it arrived. She was empty inside and relied on others to fill her void. Many times, I am sure. I think I can fill it till she screams.

I boosted a small camcorder today. Maybe I will post some video of her and you guys can tell me what you think. I’m not in the mood for stalking anything tonight, though, so I will have to put it off for another day. Tonight is a bottle of Jameson and a nice bowlful of kush.

World Series tomorrow night. Go Phils.

I distinctly remember the last time the Phillies were in the World Series. I was so excited, I watched every game that year screaming about Dave Hollins and his late throws from third base or grabbing the edge of the seat cushion every time “WIld Thing” took the mound in the ninth. I remember hoping Eisenreich had the type of turettes that would send him into a fit of cursing during an interview, and how good it felt to finally beat the Braves. I remember it because it was such a fun team to watch, a collection of dirty long hairs out there finding some way to win every day. I also remember it because my second kill happened during that series.

Loosing my virginity and popping my “murder cherry” almost went down the same exact way. I was nervous and unsure, not very confident in my actions. When it was over and there was a mess on her stomach and a stain on the sheet, I saw that it was as natural to me as breathing. I had the same exact feeling after my first sexual experience, too. Very natural. The second time blended both sex and killing into the same scene, and I had the confidence to leave an impression on the girl, figurative and literal.

She was older, this girl, seventeen and very frisky. I had withdrawn a lot over the few years before, realizing I had something inside me that was different, but not everyone could see what I was. She sure couldn’t.

She was a freak, always running around and grabbing at the younger boys’ cocks and getting them to play doctor. Most of the guys either went along with it, too excited or ashamed to do anything, or they made an excuse and darted home. Not me, though. I was more than willing at thirteen to be the “on-call” surgeon. She could be my patient. Her hopes were for the other way around, me on my back and her probing hands all over me, but I am the one on top. Always. They say the bottom is really in charge, but I question this whenever I see their brain matter running down the wall.

She agreed to my examination, stripping off her pants and letting my inexperienced yet confident hands move back and forth, creating a rhythm and pattern that led her to the top and back several times. Then I climbed all over her, pinning her down and sending shivers from her toes to her head. When she was gasping for air and sweating in spite of the cold, she asked me something.

“Where did you learn how to do that?”.

I never forgot that question. I couldn’t come up with an answer since I didn’t really know, so I searched around for something to distract me. I found a hammer and chose to change surgical instruments, letting the handle work as a probe for a bit. She came again, laughing about how spent she was, and then I changed the entire procedure altogether.

The first swing brought the hammer across her pelvis, fracturing it immediately. She screamed something, completely shocked how quickly things had changed. She tried to sit up and gather her clothes, but the pain and then the second blow changed her plans quickly. The hammer connected with her temple, sinking a bit and leaving her unconscious and twitching.

I had nothing to tie her up with, so I chose her white lace bra and cute red panties out of convenience. The poetry of it struck me immediately, though, and has become my signature ever since. The sight of her garments strung around her, the clothing she had chosen to be cute and seductive now keeping her tied to the metal pole supporting the roof of my parents shed, was so significant in my mind that I knew right there I had found my calling.

That was the day of game five, Phillies won 2-0 on some scrappy plays by Daulton and Dykstra. I listened to the game on the radio, telling my parents I was working on a “secret project” and that I couldn’t be disturbed. I got good grades and they had no reason to doubt me, so my date and I were uninterrupted for hours. Eventually she was gone and I finished the game alone. Getting rid of the body wasn’t easy, but I was so excited about how things worked out I didn’t mind the extra work in the slightest. There were all kinds of questions asked when she never came home, but most of them were aimed at those above her height and not below it. I was barely even spoken to except to ask how I was holding up.

I held up just fine. The only regret I had was that it happened a bit too early. Joe Carter sure made me wish I had a little chippy to torture two days later. Lets hope this far more talented team fares better.

She wore the gray dress today. Fortunately for me I was there to get it on film for you. Check out the clip.

I saw her at the top of the hill and ran inside to grab my camera. I was able to get somewhat out of sight, but I know she still saw me. I couldn’t help it, though. Look at her. That walk…that hair…that body. She has a different pair of sunglasses on from last time, Chanel I believe. This is the first time I have seen her without a matching purse, though. Wonder whats with the big bag today…

I think I will follow her home on Friday.

That’s done. Phils win. No more distractions.

Time to get back to killing motherfuckers.

I took a little trip to Philly. I couldn’t miss seeing at least one game of the World Series. It cost me most of the cash I had left, but it was worth it. There are always ways and means to get more. I made sure to stop by the forgotten little spot where I killed whatever her name was, too. I really wish I knew I was going to be sharing all of this with you guys back in August. I would have clicked a pic. Believe me, she was hot.

Now that I am home again, I am making my plans for a quiet weekend with my latest victim in waiting. At least I hope it is a quiet weekend. An interruption would be terrible. I am not sure where she lives, but a little bird told me she definitely lives in an apartment. I followed her to work and waited to see what she did there, called later to get the name of the receptionist for an appointment confirmation, and then looked her up on twitter and followed her some more. A lot more. She updates that thing every ten minutes. I know she spends most weekends watching various reality shows and planning her lovely little wedding, which is coming up in June. I know all kinds of random bits of information thanks to the insane number of microblogs she has posted. Every time my phone notified me of yet another stupid update, I pictured carving large holes in her beautiful face. Hammering a collection of bottle caps from all my favorite beers into her forehead as the smell of hot, wet rubber from her gag carries its way to my senses and gets me fired up for whatever comes next. Yeah, time to get creative on this one. Tweet that, you self inflated mess.

So anyway, she has neighbors. Every reference to her place in her updates said “my apartment” and never “my house”. That makes it easier to plan, but I have no idea what the layout is like. I will follow her home after work tomorrow, size the place up like the veteran prowler that I am, and drop in on the girl while she sleeps. Then the art begins. I try to never unfold the session the same way, letting inspiration strike me and repeating only my favorite rituals as I bleed whatever is in front of me, but I do have some openings I cant resist repeating. For instance, I like to turn up the thermostat, stand by the bed, and wait till the place gets so hot they kick off the blankets unconsciously. Sexy girls wear sexy things to bed, and I like to watch them writhe around wearing barely a thing as the temperature quickly gets uncomfortable, just like their life is about to once they wake. It doesn’t always work, but when it does it beats any erotic moment I have ever had. Sometimes, when I am kneeling beside them, I can watch the first drop of perspiration run slowly across their skin. You have no idea how sexy that is. Well, maybe you do. Its what I do later, replacing beads of sweat with blood, that makes me so hard to understand.

You think a crazy person would be less articulate, right? Less open. Unable to connect with you on any level because you know better. Any REAL murderer couldn’t get next to you and make you smile, right? I couldn’t make you laugh as I buy you a shot and “accidentally” kiss your cheek as you lean over to pick up your glass. I couldn’t make it sound like the best idea in the world to sit together at a diner if we are both there eating alone. I would never be able to convince you to have a cup of coffee with me even after we both visit the same art gallery every Sunday for weeks. You are smarter than that. Except for you, girl I bought a shot for last night. And you, lovely pale skinned hottie at the museum every Sunday for the last four months. You loved that comment I made about Duchamp. There is no way I could want to rip your skin from off your bones because I know a thing or two about art, right? I’m not complaining. I like it this way, I could not imagine how hard my work would be if my victims were any less easy to manipulate.

Have a nice Samhain tomorrow. I know I will. I look forward to it every year. One day those ghosts and gouls will rise up just like the celts said, but it wont be for just one night. There won’t be any candy, either, but you better believe it will be bad for your teeth. I just hope it comes in my lifetime. I would be proud to be a part of that administration.

I feel like an idiot right now. Especially with my own words staring me right in the face.

I was wondering what she had in that large bag of hers. I would have guessed a collection of bridal magazines or something. Not a large can of mace.

We both got off the train together, her a few feet in front of me. I took my time walking through the parking lot, letting her get far enough ahead of me to keep from spooking her but staying close enough to keep her in sight. Once we reached the apartment complex I picked up the pace a bit, and when she put her key into the lock I rushed the last couple steps to hold the door for her. What a gentleman.

So I was standing there behind her, smiling and reaching over her shoulder to hold the security door for her as she walked through, when it happened. I was dressed well enough to have lived there at the posh development, and it was so large she had no reason to question if I was a resident, so one second after she blew that can in my face I figured she must have saw me following her days ago. Three seconds after she sprayed me, I threw up.

I couldn’t bring my stomach back inside me, unable to breathe in after inhaling the mist. I was completely blind and the pain was pretty bad. I knew the distance between our bodies, though, and my ears were just fine. Having not heard the clack-clack of her pricey and painful looking pumps on the tile told me she was still inches in front of me, and she was probably so high on adrenaline that she wouldn’t move at all until it started to wear off.

I was high too, though. I also don’t need to breathe in order to take someone out.

I lunged where I knew her knees would be, and on impact I felt them buckle. The tiny reserve of air that remained in my lungs rushed out, leaving me dizzy, but I pulled breath in hard and moved on, wishing I had been able to draw more but glad for what I did get.

She was flat on her back and I was on top of her legs, my shoulder on her knee and my arms wrapped around her small but muscular thighs. I quickly slid my right hand up her leg and found her hip, rolling it hard to the side. I slithered upwards, getting position on her back, and as my left arm went under her chin my legs wrapped like clamps around her waist. All that was left to do was get my right arm under her head and finish the choke, but that is easier said than done when you cant breathe or see and your mouth is watering nonstop thanks to the mace.

I was really out of breath at this point. I thought I was going to pass out at any second. Her shock had worn off, along with the feeling of bravado which accompanied her derring-do, and she was fighting. Hard. Someone must have wanted this girl dead, though, because the cellphone rang at just the right moment. It was lying on the floor just inches from my head, falling out of the purse when I tackled her to the floor. “I Kissed a Girl” was her ringtone, and I found it so upbeat and cheerful, so unfitting for the mood, that I was completely amused. The moment was surreal, so many things out of place as I tried to choke her out in the foyer of her luxury apartment. My laugh probably sounded like someone with tuberculosis, but it felt good and I relaxed. The right arm slid in smooth as silk when I did, and she was out within seconds.

I was pretty pissed, so I smashed her teeth out with the can and gave her a healthy spray right down her throat as I held a fistful of her hair and took in those beautiful eyes of hers. Then I held her shoulders down and watched her die. All this took something like three minutes, and I knew I had to get out of there fast. I picked up her little pearly whites first, and tossed them over her like rose petals on a casket before snapping you this picture. I cant help it. I have a flair for the dramatic, what can I say?

I then gathered her things, took out her license for an apartment number, and threw her lifeless body over my shoulder. I kicked the teeth aside, hoping they would be overlooked for a while thanks to Halloween, and made my way up the stairs to her apartment. With every step I expected someone to enter the stairwell and ask me why I had some dead chick over my shoulder. Not a very easy thing to explain. Fortunately for me, though, that didnt happen. I made it to her place and dropped her onto the bed I had such plans for without being seen.

I fucked up. I took too many risks, following her around sometimes just for fun. I have a hard time playing it safe. I prefer taking chances, testing the limits. The payoff is so much more intense. This time it backfired, though. Now I have nobody to play with this weekend and a dead body that I have to find a way to transport. At least she has the internet and a fridge full of beer. I will just hide out here in her apartment for a while till it is late enough to steal a car. Then I have to get back here and get her body out without being seen, drive for hours without getting pulled over so I can add her to the glue ball, and then drive somewhere neutral to ditch the car and find my way home from wherever that is. Thats not going to be easy, but it sure beats what I have to do right now. She has about ten text messages I have to answer and I am sure her twitter friends wonder why she hasnt updated them to what she had for dinner. This is going to suck, but if I dont get back to these people, they will know something is wrong. This girl probably text messaged in her sleep. Now I have to answer stupid questions about which napkin would go best with the wedding cake.

This is not how I pictured my favorite holiday. Email me if you want to hang out with me and the dead girl. I think I will be pretty bored for a while.

You know, I dont think that girl talked on her phone. Ever. Not a single person found it odd that each conversation was through a message of some sorts. Between emails, chats, and texts I kept her alive in the minds of her loved ones for days. No one suspected she was dead, just maybe having a bit of pre-wedding psychosis or something.

She had her phone set up to receive email, chat signed in on several messengers, and a steady stream of texts flowing at all times. All the accounts had passwords saved, so I was free to roam through her sent emails and text messages, perfecting my replies by reading all of hers. I knew how to respond to each friend, and how to keep her fiancee happy and distracted by saying all the right things. I simply brought up a topic regarding the reception and he went on and on about his great ideas. He was having as much fun with the wedding as she. Who knows, maybe they would have actually been happy. Glad I put a stop to that. The one time he did call, I let it go to voicemail and texted right back with “Sry. In shower”, followed by some hearts and a smiley face. Since he was a moron like the rest of the sheep, he never questioned why she wouldnt call him to say goodnight, but was satisfied with some letters on a display screen to assure him his love was alive and well. At one point he may have had a slight feeling something was wrong and decided to tell her how much he loved her. It was hysterical. He probably had a grin from ear to ear when he got a nice reply, and she had been dead for 36 hours.

So all Friday night, all day Saturday and into Sunday I had to pretend to be a superficial fashion victim through various forms of communication while watching tv and playing video games. Ok, the TV and video games were optional, but you know what I mean. I began to smell the decay of her insides around Sunday afternoon and informed her inner circle with one group text that she was opening some wine and passing out early. She wasn’t, though. She was laying dead on the bed and showing small signs of bloating. This slumber party was over.

I wrapped her in a blanket and secured it with several belts from her extensive collection. Let me tell you, they use the term “dead weight” for a reason. She may have only been 105 lbs., but it felt like a whole lot more as I drug her to the balcony in her little comforter cocoon. It would have been a lot harder while she was in rigor, though. You either move a body right away, or wait till the stiffness subsides. I learned that the hard way years ago. It was like moving a grandfather clock.

I left her just beyond the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony and prowled the neighborhood for a bit before finding an older model minivan. If you know what you are doing, you can have one of those running in two minutes. I know what i am doing and was pulling into the parking lot before too long. I made my way back up to the apartment, but first I checked to see if the mess I left behind on Friday was gone. It was, of course. You don’t pay thousands of dollars a month in rent for a place that leaves vomit and shards of teeth lying around.

When I got back upstairs, I wiped the place down for the twentieth time and gathered up my things. I propped her over the balcony and lowered a very long extension cord down to the ground. It was wrapped around her shoulders and waist, so when I got below I gave it a tug and down she came. The thud was loud, but not very, and I had her in the back of the van before I saw any signs of a neighbor.

it was a long drive to the waiting glue ball, but the ride passed by quickly as I thought about adding another corpse to my sticky mound of rot. A few hours later I was dragging her to the septic tank, grunting and sweating the whole way. My calves and thighs still burn, not to mention my shoulders where the extension cord was wrapped around me. I kept my eye on the prize and didn’t stop until I dropped to my knees a half hour later, finally at the access hatch to the tank. I had to take a rest, but I was so excited to see my shrine that I was opening the cover after only a few minutes. I lifted the lid and almost passed out from the stench.

I honestly didn’t think it was going to be that bad. I don’t usually keep them around once they die, choosing to get rid of them one way or another. That was before I was inspired, though. Now I am determined to create the largest, most horrific lump of decaying human flesh that anyone has ever seen. It will be magnificent. The fallen will rejoice from below, and the other two thirds will shudder from above. It will be my greatest work ever. I just need to figure out how to get past that smell. Fuck.

I shoved the girl down the hole, sealed it, and got the hell out of there. I ditched the van and hopped several busses, glad for the chance to reflect. I am pretty upset. That was a lot of work for nothing. No pain session, no torture, no undergarments wrapped around her neck. I didnt even get to add her to the glue ball. What a waste of time. Looks like I will be needing some equipment for this. There’s a new donation button over there on the right if you want to help out. Gas masks aren’t cheap. Neither are storage spaces. Turns out the access point is too small for the bodies to fit out of if I leave them glued together, and if they remain in the septic tank I wont be able to add more than two or three more corpses. What good is that? I wont even be able to make it spherical without a few dozen. I gotta do some homework and find myself a studio. I also have to see if the glue has anything to do with that rotten stench.

I have some work to do to get things right. It may take a while, but it will be worth it.

So much for a murderous rampage. I really got ahead of myself there. What did I think this was, the movies? I am actually grateful for what that skinny bitch did. She opened my eyes when she filled them with pepper spray.

I have spent the last two weeks covering my e-prints. There are now more than twenty names connected to this website, all of them leading to another twenty made up names. They all have multiple email addresses and myspace accounts and facebook accounts. Some of them even have credit cards. Subpoena the new host and you will have a weeks worth of headache and empty hands. The new web proxy accounts give me a lot of breathing room now, along with a few thousand dollars worth of computer equipment I liberated from captivity in some techies basement. All I wanted was some tips from him on how to cover my tracks, but when he decided to inform me that he was going away for the weekend I decided I would rob him while he was gone. Don’t feel bad. Consider it a life lesson handed out by yours truly.

I guess getting IMs for a few hours means you know someone these days. The techie had a two hour long conversation with Sergei from the Ukraine, though. Not me. I had to find a way to get information without raising suspicion, and playing dumb doesn’t work very well with computer geeks. They tend to jump at an opportunity to feel superior, most likely due to their utter inferiority compared to everyone else. In case you cant tell, I hate geeks too. Who don’t I hate, though.

My broken English made it possible for me to seem confused, but not due to lack of geekyness. He figured I was one of his own, covered with zits and dreaming of kite surfing or something, but I just had a hard time communicating due to the language barrier. It may have seemed a bit odd when I kept asking about IP cloning and connecting to wireless signals, but I just pretended I got the words wrong whenever the question of “why” came up.

The next day I had to pretend to be a slutty role playing freak to find out where he worked, though. There was no way he was giving that information to Sergei from the Ukraine. He had no problem telling Katie from Wyoming, though. All the details came spilling out with a few complements and a photo. He worked at a comic book store, which didn’t surprise me much, lived with his parents, and had one brother away at college. Following him home was pretty easy with me in my new legal car and him on a skateboard. Twenty minutes after he and his parents pulled away, I was clearing out his basement. Thirty minutes later I was driving home with a trunk full of gadgets that have proven very useful already. Its amazing what you can do with computers.

I will not be writing from home anymore. I canceled the wireless account at my apartment and am writing you now from the comfort of my drivers seat and the anonymity of some family’s internet connection. I had to drive around for a bit until I found a signal I could grab, but yesterday it only took a few minutes. It may seem time consuming but I have to start playing it a bit smarter. I was taking some pretty big risks for the sake of all my new readers. I wanted to give you what you wanted, and it almost cost me everything. I know I said I didn’t care if I was caught, but I am not going to be a fool and get myself busted by being stupid. I wanted to get that girl on film so bad I blew my cover, and if she didn’t freeze in shock after macing me I would either be in the county jail waiting to be processed, or I would have my face plastered all over the TV. I was lucky to get away, and luck runs out. I am so much better than that. I have gone undetected for sixteen years now, and I have been acting like a rookie these last few months. The pure excitement I feel when I envision my work of art got the best of me, but I brought it down a notch or two. This is going to take some time. I hope you aren’t in a rush.

Heres the plan.

Sometimes these four piece steel structures go on sale for only a few thousand. If I can get the right credit card information I can have it delivered somewhere and be gone before anyone catches on. By the time they process the transaction and investigate the purchase, I will be in another state. All anyone would have is a credit card number, the IP address where the order was placed, and a signature when it gets delivered. The crack head I pay a hundred dollars to sign for it won’t make for much of a lead and will probably be impossible to find anyway. The IP address will be from wherever I decide to park my car at that particular time. Purely random. Some sleeping account holder with no idea who I am or where I am will get a phone call in about a week. Big deal.

I might have to kill the crack head, but once everything is lined up I will have my studio with very few problems. A reader gave me a tip on how to seal it completely, so all I will have to do is get some sort of gas mask or oxygen tank so I can breathe while I work. No worries about the smell being detected by anyone that is not standing right next to my studio.

Putting the shed together, getting my bodies out of the septic tank, and moving the dripping mess to my studio, those ARE still problems. I have some ideas, but nothing concrete. Lets get this shed together first, then worry about that. The corpses aren’t going anywhere and neither am I.

Well, thats not entirely true. I am moving back to my farmhouse. I cant be so visible. The girl in the gray dress (yes, I know her name but you dont) saw me coming, so who knows who she told and what she told them. The police are running her picture and listing her as a missing person, but I am sure they know she is dead. I have no idea what kind of connections they are making with evidence or if the feds consider this isolated or serial. I am packing up my things this week and getting lost in the middle of nowhere.

I think I might want to taint the old place first. Leave a little ghost for the next tenant. I am starting to feel a little useless thanks to my break and I think I need to get a little wet.