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

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?