Meet Your Favorite Serial Killer Page 11

  That last question he could answer.

  "No. Hitler never shows up."

  "Yeah. He's such a pussy."

  Bert read into Luke's concerned expression. "What's wrong, pal? This is everybody's favorite time of the year. You should be all shits and giggles by now. I know you, Luke, and you're not having as much fun as you should be. Wanna tell me about it? That's why you came in here, didn't you?"

  Bert was a good friend. Luke only saw him a few times a year. That was during the meetings the Bloom family arranged with the crew who put together the killing rooms and made sure the arena was secure.

  There were other meetings too. Victims acquisitions. How to inject more death into the game. There was choosing people to play in the game who could fight worth a damn. Then there was the food and beverage arrangements; add to that accounting, payroll, sending out invitations, and adjusting the date of The Event to coincide with the Satanic calendar.

  Bert stayed long after the meetings to talk about his favorite killers, or to shoot the shit. He mostly talked to Luke during that time. That's why it was easy for Luke to speak freely.

  "My dad's acting funny. And so is Bliss. It's like they're trying to leave me out of something."

  "Maybe they're planning a surprise for you? It can't be bad. Those two love you. I know it for a fact."

  "Yeah. You could be right. They could be planning something fun. But I'm not sure. It's just my intuition is telling me it's something else. Something wrong."

  Bert checked his watch.

  "Only one things can make you feel better."

  "And what's that?"

  "It's ten minutes until you present the next part of the show."

  He checked his watch. "You're right. Who's conducting the orchestra?"

  "I'll leave that as a surprise. Cheer up, Luke. Things will get better. By the end of The Event, you're going to be all smiles."

  He hoped Bert was right.

  One thing he decided just then. He wasn't going to wait for the end of the night to understand what was going on with his wife and father. A little bit of detective work couldn't hurt. That would have to be put on pause temporarily.

  Only temporarily.

  He had another place to be in five short minutes. The next bullet on the evening's docket was about to begin, and it was Luke's job to make the announcement. He rushed to viewing room number six. A two person crew handed him a headset and pointed at the television screen against the wall.

  The choir had been assembled.

  It was a happy surprise who was conducting that choir.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm standing here in viewing room number six. We're ready for the next piece of evening entertainment."

  Luke beheld the dozen audience members in the room who were toasting the air and watching the screen in eager anticipation. This was many of their members' favorite part of the show, besides the actual game.

  "It's time for the Suicide Choir to play their number. This year's song choice will be "Bloodletting in the Key of C". I'll let our maestro take it from here. I welcome tonight, our conductor, our maestro, DR. KEVORKIAN!"

  Dr. Kevorkian tapped his sheet music post twice. The room was a small chamber in the arena. It was on a raised wooden platform. The choir in front of the good doctor sat in their seats, each holding onto the large cellos in front of them. Pulley strings were attached to their arms, legs, and heads. A machine controlled their movements, plucking the strings to turn the orchestra members into human puppets. They each had a swath of duct tape stuck across their mouths. Horrified expressions rose and fell with each new verse. The cellos played in unison as Kevorkian guided the rise and fall of the song.

  Dr. Kevorkian turned around to face the camera and winked.

  The maestro motioned with his wand, throwing his whole body into the act.

  This wasn't music anymore.

  This was violence.

  The forced cellists raised their bows, and one-by-one, each of the twenty-four musicians used that bow to slit their throats from ear to ear. Their throats were gaping, spurting yawns. The overhead strings kept working, as the music increased in frenetic energy. Heads swayed and throats sprayed.

  Dr. Kevorkian was hunched over his podium and going wild. The musicians were jerked by the strings to keep up with the music. The stage was dripping with bright red crimson. Slowly, each player died gasp by gasp, note by note. Their bodies were dead and limp in their seats as the strings continued to give them motion and a false sense of life.

  When the song was over, the strings were cut by the machine.

  The corpses slammed onto the stage.

  "Thank you for that moving number, Dr. Kevorkian," Luke cheered. "Now go back to having your fun, sir. Let's hear it for the good doctor and his choir. Really let him know how much you love him."

  The crowd in the viewing room, and all the other rooms, rocked the outside of the arena with thundering applause and high piercing whistles of adoration.

  Dr. Kevorkian took his bow, gave a thumb's up to everybody, and then exited the podium.

  Before he went out of the camera's eye, the doctor opened his black suit. Luke saw the row of syringes lined up inside the walls of his jacket.

  Oh, Dr. Kevorkian.

  Hell hasn't changed you one bit.

  You've still got your touch.

  The screens returned to viewing the ongoing carnage within the arena.

  Luke finished his part of the segment. He finally had time to do some investigating.

  That bad feeling hadn't gone away.

  The longer he would dig into things tonight, the worse he would feel.

  "You locked the door, didn't you?"

  David stood there behind the door frozen in shock.

  "Um...yeah."

  He wasn't sure what to think or do. There he stood across from him. The man who looked just like the photographs that played out in the news.

  Cannibal.

  Jeffrey Dahmer.

  In the flesh.

  Before he could look over the room, Jeffrey lunged at him. Something that made a hollow thonk sound struck him across the back of the head. He sunk to the floor. Everything went blurry for several minutes. He was weak and couldn't react to what was being done to him. He couldn't completely process what was being done to him until it was done.

  "It's okay," Jeffrey cooed to him. "I'm not going to have sex with you. You're not my type, honestly. A little too mean looking. But everybody's my type when it comes to something else. I'm only going to eat you."

  "Whuuuuuuu?"

  He only understood half of what was said to him. He blacked out for a few minutes. When he woke, he was sitting in a giant cast iron pot. He imagined something a witch would use. The water level was up to his chest. Onions, carrots, peppers, and random spices turned the water into an orange brown bullion color. The water/soup was ice cold.

  Coals burned in a steel pit below him.

  The bottom of the cast iron pot was nestled in the coals.

  The facts slowly sank in for David.

  Jeffrey Dahmer was wearing nothing but an apron and a pair of stone washed jeans.

  The water was slowly getting hotter.

  Jeffrey Dahmer was going to boil him alive.

  David was about to lunge out of the pot when he noticed the giant knife on a broomstick poised right above him. It was set up like a spring trap.

  "Smart guy. You move, that'll come down and go right through your skull. I'd hate to have brains ruin my meal. You ruin my meal, you ruin my night. And don't worry. When the water gets really boiling, I'll kill you. You won't suffer. I'm not a monster.

  "And I kept your clothes on. I do respect a man's sense of decency. And you're welcome. No need to thank me with your words. You can thank me with your meat."

  David wasn't sure what to say, or if he should say anything, or if he should just flip the fuck out.

  When he shifted slightly to the right, he stirred up what was on the bottom of the po
t.

  He did his best to stifle his gorge.

  Breasts, genitals, and slices of the human body he couldn't identify floated and clashed together on the surface.

  David did his best to prevent himself from vomiting.

  "Don't you vomit! If you vomit, I swear to God, I don't know what I'll do. No. Scratch that. I know what I'll do. I'll let you boil alive, whether I can use the food or not, so keep it down, or you know what's going to happen to you, mister. You understand me?"

  David stifled his gorge.

  "Very good."

  Dahmer seemed to relax. He was chopping cloves of garlic on a cutting board. "Now I can work. You know, I can work and talk at the same time, so if you want to speak your mind, go ahead.

  "No? Okay, I'll talk. There's one thing that keeps bringing me back year after year to this game. Whatever meat I procure during the ceremonies, I get to take back with me to hell. It's my way of extending the fun. You should see the get-togethers I pull off. I'd do Martha Stewart proud. I'll invite her over sometime when she's finally dead."

  Dahmer extended his arms out and presented his kitchen. The kitchen itself was a rough design. The Blooms must've constructed it quickly. There was a rotisserie oven with turning buttocks and breasts. Fats dripped constantly from the slow cooking meat. Dahmer was pickling testicles in a wide jar on one counter. It was half full of bright white ovals covered in thick red and purple veins.

  A toaster popped, lifting out two sizzling severed hands. A great dull BOOM sounded close by. David saw a running microwave blow up from the inside. The door opened, and it spit out a smoking, deflated, human head.

  "Goddamn it! These microwaves are all different wattages. If I had my way, I'd stick with cast iron cookery. The problem, time isn't on my side. You make do with what you got."

  David was experiencing shock after shock. He imagined his hair had changed into a bold shock of white by now.

  One thing overcame the sights in the room.

  The boiling water.

  It was getting hotter and hotter by the second.

  He would soon be boiled alive.

  The killer was pacing about the kitchen nervously. He had too much going on at once. Pies filled with cherries and human eyes were cooking in another oven. He was canning liver paste, creating gall bladder jelly, and removing the brains out of three different heads. A toaster oven was kicking out thick acrid smoke. God only knew what was cooking in that thing.

  The water was close to boiling.

  The knife above him would come down and strike him if he moved, and he didn't give a damn. He would rather be stabbed than cooked.

  He had one idea.

  It was his only shot.

  While Dahmer was shuffling about the kitchen in a frenzy to prepare his human treats properly, he started to rock his body back and forth. The water sloshed, creating a forward push. Faster and harder, he kept rocking himself. When Dahmer caught on to what he was doing, he shouted, "No--don't!"

  The giant pot tipped forward. Hot water splashed down. David spilled out onto the floor. Water flooded the kitchen. When he got to his feet, Dahmer faced him head on with a hammer in one hand and a thick bladed steak knife in the other.

  "I've been meaning to try the raw foods diet. I'll slice you up nice and tasty. Now come here before you piss me off even more!"

  David didn't mean to smile. He couldn't help it. He had evaded death once again, and he was pissing off the opposition.

  It hit him all at once why he couldn't hold a single job for too long. When people pissed him off, he loved getting even. Many put up with people's shit. Not David. They could take their shit and shove it right back up their asses. His fuck you was in full force, and Dahmer was going to learn it for himself what that truly meant.

  "Why are you smiling at me like that?"

  "You wanna hear my favorite Jeffrey Dahmer joke?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "What's your favorite food?"

  Dahmer's face was locked in anger.

  He wasn't going to guess the joke.

  "No guesses? Last chance. Okay. Your favorite food is moo goo guy in a pan."

  Jeffrey's face exploded into rage. "That's not funny! I'm going to cut you up raw. Come here! You fucking son-of-a-bitch! I'm going to chop you up into bits!"

  The door to the kitchen burst from its hinges and slammed into the floor. Chomps stomped into the room. His mouth was wide open with spinning drill bits for teeth. Lizzy Borden was beside him, with half a head. She clutched a giant axe that made every muscle in her arms and shoulders bulge.

  Chomps pressed his drill bits together and shot sparks out of his mouth.

  Dahmer wasn't impressed.

  "Get out of my kitchen, Neanderthal!"

  David grabbed the eyeball and cherry pie from the counter and shoved it into Dahmer's face. The blinded man struggled to remove the dessert from his face. Lizzy Borden sliced the corner tenth of Dahmer's head clean off. Chomps moved in, chewing the top of Dahmer's head by drilling, biting, and mining deeper and deeper for brains and blood. Dahmer's face was morbid twitches and contortions of agony.

  This was his opportunity to escape.

  David dodged the three killers locked in battle, retreated out of the door Chomps had busted down, and decided his best bet of survival was to try and locate another safety box.

  "Mrs. Ferdinand, you've won a spin on our famous prize wheel. Come on down. You're going to win big. I can feel it! The energy in this room is fantastic."

  Luke was standing in a special and private viewing room. Guests were crowded around the small stage. Those who had paid a large chunk of cash for a shot at a chance to win some serious prizes were allowed full access to this giveaway.

  The crowd went wild when the winner was finally chosen.

  Mrs. Ferdinand was the big winner. She was in her early seventies. Her son had to help her up the short set of stairs onto the wooden platform.

  "Mrs. Ferdinand, congratulations."

  "Call me Thelma, you handsome man."

  Thelma squeezed Luke's cheeks, then she did the same to his ass.

  "Sorry, I just had to. You're so handsome."

  Luke played up the crowd's amusement.

  "Now Thelma, I don't see a notch on the wheel that says squeeze my ass. I guess you'll get that one for free."

  The wheel resembled the one from the game show Wheel of Fortune.

  The prizes were much different on this wheel.

  The prizes weren't cash.

  "Okay, Thelma, let me go over the rules for the sake of clarity. You get one spin. Whatever you land on is what you get.

  "The prizes vary from meeting your favorite serial killer in person, to winning a free ticket to next year's event, to trying your hand at murdering from our hand-selected group of victims. You pick the victim, and you pick the way you get to kill them.

  "Now, may I remind the audience, if you win the chance to murder one of our pre-selected victims, you don't just have to murder them. You have options.

  "You can rape them, main them, chop them, eviscerate them, drown them, or you can interrogate them and learn things about their loved ones. That's my favorite thing to do.

  Thelma snatched the microphone from Luke's hands.

  "I know the rules, Sonny. Now let me take my turn. I'm ready!"

  "Yes, ma'am. Hah-hah. I love your enthusiasm. She's ready to spin. You've elected for your son to spin for you."

  "He's a strong boy. He's come with me to these games every year. It's our bonding time. And besides, the old mare ain't what she used to be. I can't even sit on it and spin anymore. I need the help of three orderlies to even come close."

  The crowd was loving her humor.

  So was Luke.

  "What is it you'd like to win this evening, Thelma?"

  "All of its sounds like fun to me. I'll take whatever I can get. Let's get to it. Now Bernie, give it a good spin. Win something good for mama."

  Bernie didn't sa
y a word. His expression didn't shift. He could've been an embalmed corpse.

  These two are definitely killers, Luke thought.

  Bernie spun the wheel.

  The crowd doubled their cheers.

  The wheel eventually slowed, and landed on SELECT A VICTIM.

  The lights in the room shined on another stage. There was a tall steel barred cage filled with six persons. Three men. Three women. They were pleading and screaming at the audience to be released.

  "You've won the select a victim prize. Which one are you going to pick, Thelma?"

  "Well, my son and I have a system. He rapes them, and I kill them. So take away the men. Thanks, but no thanks."

  Thelma put both of her hands into her son's. Bernie didn't say a word or shift his expression. Thelma leaned in close to her son and spoke in a soft tone.

  "Which girl do you want? They're all pretty. You like blondes, right? Oh, what am I saying? You like 'em all. I never seen you turn down any female. You make every girl special. Even the ugly ones. We've pulled some colorful tramps out of the gutters. Oh, believe me, some real dogs have warmed our bed. But you're so sweet to them, Bernie. Bless his heart. He treats them with equal kindness. In the end, it's all about the plumbing. The face doesn't matter as long as the pipes aren't rusty."

  Bernie grunted once and smiled.

  He pointed at one of the women.

  "He wants the brunette, Mr. Bloom."

  Luke waved to the goons in the room to claim the brunette. "You've made your selection. Great choice, Bernie. What a looker! No dogs in this bunch."

  He tapped his headset.

  "Oh, wait! We have a special surprise tonight. In honor of our family's tenth anniversary of running The Event, not one, but TWO MORE people will have their shot at the wheel. Now how does that sound, folks? You like that? MAKE SOME NOISE!!!"

  The room erupted in thunderous applause.

  He absorbed every decibel of the crowd's pleasure.

  After the wheel spinning and prize giving was over, Luke returned to the issues bothering him tonight. The Event was supposed to be spectacular. Sensational. Orgasmic even. But where was Bliss? Where was his father? Nobody was going out of their way to talk to him. He was alone, walking the halls between the viewing rooms. People were cheering the death and devastation they had paid handsomely to witness live, and what was he doing?