Meet Your Favorite Serial Killer

  Meet Your Favorite Serial Killer

  Alan Spencer

  It was official.

  David Smith had lost his fuck you.

  Fuck you was the ability to refuse to put up with anybody's bullshit. That was David Smith's working definition.

  When he was seventeen, he washed dishes for a buffet called The Big Round Up. This was a cowboy themed eatery junk trough for white trash to stuff themselves stupid. When he overheard the owner calling him a "useless good for nothin' son-of-a-bitch" for coming in ten minutes late on a busy Saturday dinner rush, David picked up handful of the nasty stuff they called "macaroni and cheese" and smeared it into Earl Mason's face. He exited the establishment with the parting words, "Eat it, and fuck you."

  When David heard he was being paid less money than his coworkers at Claymore & Son's Construction Company, he demanded equal pay, or he'd walk. Mr. Claymore himself said he wouldn't quit. At the time, David had a baby and another one on the way. Mr. Claymore knew this and gambled that he wouldn't resign.

  He did quit, and without hesitation. He didn't care about the paycheck. It was the principle of the matter. On his last day, he accidentally filled the back of Mr. Claymore's pick-up with wet concrete.

  Two weeks later, he was employed for Knight Plumbing under an apprenticeship. That gig lasted a year. Everything was good until his boss's wife came onto him. Annette told him she liked to swallow. He turned her down on that invitation in the most polite way possible. That favor was repaid by her accusing him of rape. His boss took the law into his own hands and charged at him with a fold-up chair with a one-way ticket to his cranium. The fat bastard missed, by barely.

  He bloodied the man's nose and broke four of his ribs. There was no lawsuit. David was fired outright. Nothing came of the trumped up rape accusation. The bitch probably cried rape every other dick that crossed her path, he reasoned.

  Then it was off to the next job.

  Fuck you.

  Fuck you.

  And fuck you.

  His resume was extensive. If you read that piece of paper, you would see a colorful variety of jobs. School janitor. Garbage man. Taxi driver. Payday loans officer. Nightclub bouncer. Bartender. Grocery store meat department manager. Mailman. Security guard. Meter man. Car salesman. Ice cream truck driver. Mechanic. Laundromat attendant. Window installer.

  If one thing didn't work out, the next thing would.

  That was until recently.

  Fifty-four years old, and that fuck you attitude had changed. David knew it too. It kept him up at nights in fear. It was like the world had removed one of his balls, and it was trying to snip off the other one in a big hurry.

  The real culprit to his problems, since David still had both his balls, was his recent heart attack. That event was the surgical excision of fuck you. Having a son drive drunk and wreck into a mini-van killing a mother of three made things even worse. Jacob was currently rotting in jail for vehicular manslaughter.

  His daughter, Noelle, wasn't much better. She was what they called a rehab queen. She got hooked on heroine during her amateur rock band's first tour. They were nothing more than small time dive bar players. She couldn't kick the habit, or avoid deadbeat men in the process. He only saw his daughter when she needed money. It was six months ago she came to him a mess and sweet talked him out of five hundred dollars. Then Noelle was right out of his life once again.

  Mary, his wife since he was nineteen years old, divorced him because he couldn't keep a good paying job long enough without screwing it up. She was tired of being stressed about cash and bills. She too was at the age when things needed to change, and Bruce, college professor Bruce, who was teaching a continuing education course Mary was taking, was that change.

  These events collectively conspired to turn David's heart into a big hand grenade. Everybody kept trying to pull that pin. Once that pin was pulled, BOOM, heart attack. BOOM, mid-life crisis. BOOM, he needed a job, any job, with health benefits, and quick.

  The job interview today was the tactic of a desperate man.

  The data entry position for a pharmaceutical company he was applying for today was all wrong. This wasn't the David Smith he knew himself to be. This was settling. Data entry was shit entry. Boring and monotonous entry. Put a gun to your head and blast out your brains entry.

  He kept telling himself he didn't have to do this forever. This was a fresh start. A steady paycheck and health benefits. He could keep looking elsewhere for work in the meantime. He repeated those consolations in his mind. This. Wasn't. Permanent.

  He put his best game face on up against the shit of the facts. He wasn't dead. His dick still worked. He was dating a fantastic woman named Charlotte, aka "Charlie". She still had plenty of fuck you in her. Enough for the both of them. If he could come home to that sassy brunette with the biggest tits ever, he could make this work.

  Though he might've screwed up that relationship already.

  What a knockout argument they had the other night!

  If he could get back home and talk to her, he knew what to say, because what he said to her before leaving for this interview was not what he intended to convey.

  He left things pretty God awful between them.

  If he could take it back, he would.

  Just thinking about it made him cringe.

  The foggy glass door across from him opened and ripped him from his thoughts. A young receptionist woman in a business suit asked him, "Are you ready for your interview, Mr. Smith?"

  He got up and shook the woman's hand.

  "Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith. I'm Pam Handelman. I'll be accompanying you through this process. All you have to do is follow me. We're very happy to have you here today."

  "Glad to be here. Thanks for having me."

  He followed her behind the foggy glass door and began the job interview.

  Pam Handelman was a tall striking blonde with a pixie hair cut. She wore black rimmed eyeglasses, blue eye shadow, and lipstick that was a shade hotter than cherry. She was very sexual in appearance for a job involving data entry.

  Maybe it wasn't her appearance so much, but the way she talked to him that really grabbed his attention. Something was jilted. Was she trying to seduce him, or was that her personality? Some women were like that. They didn't realize how much sex they were bringing to the table in normal mundane situations. Not that David minded. The ladies could pour on the sex as much as they wanted.

  "Would you care for a drink?"

  His throat was dry. "Sure. A water would be great. I had a really hard time finding this place. I was running around like crazy. There's so many offices and floors in this building. It's hard to know where you're going. The layout map downstairs is confusing."

  "This building is full of odd twists and turns. We get that a lot. We've had others in the same situation. Don't feel bad."

  He followed her down a single hallway full of closed doors to other offices. Names came and went on gold nameplates. D. Pullman. R.H. Bedford. S. Builder. N. Cunningham. J. Whitney. C. Wheaten. Y. Prost.

  These were the names that belonged to fancy people in higher-up, upper crest society. If he worked here, he would be tucked way back somewhere hidden in a dusty shoebox coughing on asbestos dust and inflicting carpel tunnel on his wrists over a computer.

  "Are you sure you don't want something else to drink besides water? You're our welcomed guest. How about a highball scotch? Any libation you can think of, just ask."

  "Huh?"

  The question was so unexpected, he stopped walking. He must've gave her a bewildered look, because Pam's voice was suddenly nervous.

  "Oh, we've got much more than scotch. Any drink, really. I can have it served t
o you," she snapped her finger, "like that. We accommodate. Cigarette? Cigar? Anything to eat? Whatever comes to mind, Mr. Smith, please, let me know."

  This has to be a test. How I answer this question will determine if I get hired. It's all a part of the interview process. Companies like Google are doing it all the time. Group interviews, phone interviews, online interviews, trick interviews. This is another step into the bold new future.

  I'm onto you, Pam.

  Nice try.

  This is the highest paying gig I can get my hands on right now with the best benefits. I can't screw this up.

  Keep it coming, Pammy. I got curve balls of my own.

  "That all sounds great, but a water would be fantastic. Thank you."

  She opened a door to reveal the inside of a small office. It had one wooden table with a fold-up chair. There was a file folder on top of the table, and next to that folder was an ink pen.

  "Sorry for the simplicity of the room. It's not up to our normal standard. We've had to make changes within the company recently."

  Pam was having a hard time explaining herself. She was breathing hard. A line of sweat snaked down the side of her head. Was she expecting him to get upset over something? What could that be?

  "I hope you understand our situation, and it won't affect your decision to join the team. We have be a lot more careful these days. It's not easy doing...what we do. Please bare with the surroundings. Rest assured, we're the best at what we do, and you'll see that in the product, I'm certain."

  "Sure," he said, not really understanding what Pam was talking about. "Not a problem. It's a room. So what? I'm the idiot who almost got lost in this building. I could barely find the stairs, never mind the right floor. I thought I was going to be late to the interview just because of that. Now that I'm here, I'm doing good. No worries, Pam."

  "Let me get you that water." She almost left the room, then she abruptly stopped. "Do you want mineral water or bottled water? Any preference?"

  "You could give me tap water in a Styrofoam cup, and I'd be happy."

  She wrinkled her nose.

  The air in the room was suddenly tense.

  "Any bottled water would be fine," he said quickly. "Thank you."

  Maybe I'm not right for the job. I've been here three minutes, and it's already going south. They want one of those millennial kids. They'll ask me if I want a nap, a free lunch, and a cool phone to diddle on all day. Do they not realize I'm not a twenty something fuck-up?

  Watch them not call me back.

  I'm too old.

  That's what they all think.

  I'm too old.

  Pam returned with two bottles of water. "I forget to ask if you like your water chilled or room temperature. This is my first time doing this part of the job. I'm so very sorry. I'm super nervous. The people I deal with, I mean--"

  He didn't mean to laugh.

  "Take a deep breath, Pam. Then take three more. You can do no wrong. I have nothing but good things to say about you. You'll be the best reviewed person when I talk to your superiors. I'm talking about accolades."

  You're laying it on a bit thick, pal.

  She seemed to calm down. "Thank you. You're being very nice. Other applicants, they wouldn't be so understanding. So what would you like then?"

  "Huh?"

  "Chilled, or room temperature?"

  "Oh. Hah! Sorry. Chilled, please. Wonderful. Great."

  She handed him the cold bottle.

  He threw back the biggest chug of chilled water.

  "Are you ready to continue, Mr. Smith?"

  "Absolutely. Do I interview with you?"

  "Not exactly. Sit down at the table, please. We give you all the time you need to fill out the form. Fill it out honestly. Take all the time you need. You're not being timed. I will soon leave the room. Once you're finished, just step out into the hallway, and we'll continue on with the process. Any questions?"

  "No questions."

  "Okay. I'll leave you to it."

  The manila folder was blank, except for the tab labeled: DAVID SMITH. He picked up the pen and opened the file.

  Here goes nothing.

  Two white pages were stapled together. He was happy he wasn't in front of a computer answering a questionnaire or taking an online quiz.

  He didn't want to change the world. All he wanted was a job with benefits, food to eat, and a woman to screw. If it was up to him, the world would narrow it down to those three objectives. Everything else could take a hike.

  David read the first question.

  He re-read it, and re-read it again.

  The obtuse question refused to sink in.

  He remembered taking tests in school when the first question stumped him, and that sinking feeling immediately overtook him. That was the knowing he was going to fail the test big time.

  You're a smart guy, his mother told him repeatedly and emphatically throughout his high school years. If you didn't slack off and chase girls all day, you would be an honor roll student. Instead, you drag ass and you get by with a C average. I know you're smarter than that. You got street smarts AND book smarts. You're better than those kids who get scholarships. You can talk to people. Those bookworm kids have no common sense. The teachers will never know how smart you are, and that's a shame.

  There were kids who got those scholarships to colleges, obtained their degrees, and still ended up with a job David could get without a degree. He couldn't tell his mother he already knew this before graduating high school. It would break her heart.

  He could have book smarts, street smarts, and people skills out the ass, and none of that mattered here in this interview room. That first question on the page punched him in the gut and caused him to break out in a sweat. No life experience could prepare him for that one question.

  I get it.

  I really do.

  Interviewers have to come up with different ways to figure out if people are right for the job, but this, THIS, is not right. It makes no sense. Why ask such a question?

  He read question number one again.

  1) Who is your favorite serial killer?

  There was a large gap of space beneath the question. Did they expect him to give several paragraphs for an answer? If it was a leading question, what was supposed to be revealed about his character? If he didn't get angry, they would draw their brows up at him and think: Why isn't this guy pissed?

  What if he answered the question by saying, "All killing of any kind is wrong. I cannot answer this question, because I do not condone violence. This makes me a joy to work with in the workplace. Hire me!"

  Would they be impressed with his witty banter?

  This wasn't a question designed to illicit a certain gauged response.

  This was someone's sick joke.

  They had wasted his gas money, time, and energy for an interview that wasn't real.

  Maybe David was wrong about his present situation in life. He hadn't lost his fuck you, because that's what he wanted to tell the person who wrote that question. They had it coming, big time. Fuck you in bright neon lights. Fuck you across the jaw. Fuck you with a swift kick between the legs.

  He was about to launch out of his chair, and burst out of the room, and clothesline whoever got in his way, but he had to read the other questions first.

  His level of curiosity was too high.

  This was so unbelievable.

  The implications behind the questions only grew worse.

  2) What serial killer do you NOT want to meet?

  3) How old were you when you first murdered somebody? Please be detailed.

  4) Please list the number of people you've killed, and what it means to you?

  5) Has your wife or spouse committed murder? If so, when? and how? Did they enjoy themselves?

  6) How many warm bodies can you contribute to The Event?

  7) Does a lifetime commitment to our club sound like something you would be interested in?

  8) What is your annual incom
e?

  9) How much of that income are you willing to donate to The Event?

  10) We cannot guarantee the killer you wish to meet will show up for The Event. Does this limit your interest in our company?

  11) If you are to join us, you will be witness to one, or any, of the following: necrophilia, rape, disembowelment, bestiality, ritual and virginal sacrifice, and murders and murderers beyond your wildest imagination. As a company, we cannot be held liable for anything you may consider offensive. Please list the things you would consider going too far. If you welcome ALL of these situations, please feel free to leave this answer blank.

  12) When, and if, you join our club, you will give up certain levels of privacy. Your phones will be tapped. Your day-to-day life will be monitored at random. This is all to ensure the safety and future of our program. Signing on the bottom of this form indicates you agree to these terms and understand why we must take certain and specific measures to remain in business. If you disagree, please DO NOT sign the form, walk out of the room, and forget you ever came here.

  David stared at the spot where the psychos wanted him to sign.

  This has to be a joke. A really, really, hideously bad joke.

  Before he could sneak out of the room, there was a loud slamming of a door.

  Somebody, a man, was speaking incredulously.

  "I AM DAVID SMITH! Don't tell me who I am, and who I'm not. Do you not check identifications? Can any Joe blow fuck come in here and ask for an interview? If this is any indication of the quality or your service, you can count me out! I heard my friends talk about how great your company is. They gushed and gushed, but now I'm not so sure. You're a bunch of fools. There's nothing worse than incompetence! I'm not to trust my safety during such an event, or put my money down on something when the quality is so grossly suspect.

  "And what's with this meeting place? It's a dump! I had to drive downtown to get here. Downtown. This area makes me sick. The smells in the air are enough to make you gag. And the people on the street, they're all so nasty and pathetic. It made my wife throw up in the limo, and my daughter stepped in a pile of God knows what in the street. They've both gone back home. I expect a full apology."