Meet Your Favorite Serial Killer Read online

  David stood next to the door nervously. He was afraid to step out. He could hear several different voices, including Pam's, try to calm the angry man.

  "Sir, if you give us a change to remedy the situation."

  "Mr. Smith, please, we're going to do everything to straighten things out."

  "We have to meet downtown now. I know it's not a place that represents our normal high standard. It's out of necessity. And secrecy."

  "The industry has changed, and we have to change with it, sir. This location is only temporary. Every month, we have to relocate. As our company grows, we must make smart decisions. What we do is illegal, and obviously, against the law."

  "Mr. Smith, please listen. This is all for your safety, and most of all, to protect your anonymity."

  "If you allow us to make you a drink, we could sort this mess out."

  "I promise you, Mr. Smith, that you will walk out of this building a very happy man. Please grant us the chance to straighten this out."

  "Right now, I'm willing to upgrade your package to the gold standard with no extra charge. Your family can attend free of charge. That savings is HUGE."

  The voices started to calm down. The man wasn't raising his voice anymore.

  David caught one thing the man said under his breath.

  "If we're really going to move forward with this interview, I must insist the wrong Mr. Smith be handled accordingly."

  "Of course, Mr. Smith. He won't be allowed to leave the building. We've already got a plan."

  "Very good. Then get to it. Then we'll talk business."

  David heard several people stalk towards the door.

  They were coming in after him.

  What are they going to do to me?

  David reached for his cell phone and dialed the police. He wasn't getting a signal.

  There was a light knock on the other side of the door.

  It was Pam.

  "Mr. Smith, you can't use your phone here. We have jammers blocking any signals. We're very careful with our business dealings."

  She was right. He couldn't use his phone. He grabbed the fold-up chair and clutched it like a bludgeon.

  "We can see you, Mr. Smith. That chair won't help you. There are two ways we can handle this situation. A big mistake has been made both by us and yourself.

  "You're on the wrong floor. You got turned around. Two floors down, you were supposed to be interviewed for a data entry job. Two David Smiths in the world in the same place at the same time, can you imagine? Your timing is really bad, Mr. Smith. It's a one in a million mistake.

  "Whatever. It is what it is. Here we are, regardless of why. You can put down the chair, and let us do what we need to do, or you can keep that chair in your hands, and we come in there and really hurt you. What's your pleasure?"

  What's your pleasure?

  Bitch, what kind of a question is that?

  "It's no surprise you're quiet, Mr. Smith." A jovial, cocky businessman's voice spoke up. "What is there to say? You're up against the wall. The only way out is through us. I wouldn't want to be you. No, sir."

  Several new persons entered the hallway. Their profiles crowded the door. He could see their feet along the bottom crack of the doorway.

  Pam spoke again. "I'm giving you one last chance to put down the chair and make it easy for both sides."

  He refused to let go of the chair. He searched the room for any other way out. There were no windows. Only four walls, and one doorway, and that spelled trapped.

  No more time.

  The door burst open.

  Four large men dressed like night club bouncers charged in at him. Before he could swing the chair, two of them lifted up the table. They came in at him with it, pinning him up against the wall. He dropped the chair and used his arms to push back against their force. Pam, and several other men in business suits, came in closer behind the four men. She pricked his neck with a syringe.

  Half a second later, the walls blurred together.

  David went unconscious.

  The interview was terminated.

  I'm going home, was the first thing David thought. The turn of wheels, and the steady, gentle rocking of his body told him that much. He was going somewhere.

  "Wake up, Mr. Smith. I need to have a word with you. We don't have a lot of time. We're almost there."

  The voice was one of pomposity. He opened his heavy eyes to the speaker. Who he saw belonged on a GQ cover. He was a carbon copy of John F. Kennedy, Jr. The man was in his early thirties. He was full of cocky energy. This was the kind of man who got his hair cut every week to maintain that fresh look, and he arranged for someone to shave his face with a straight razor and paid too much for the service. It wouldn't surprise David if this punk had someone wipe his asshole and chew his food for him too.

  David didn't say a word. He wanted a read on the man first. It didn't take long to remember what had happened to him back at the interview.

  Pretty boy's smile gave way to the possible psychotic juices boiling in his brain.

  "Nice to meet you David Smith. I'm Luke Bloom. You, my friend, are the poorest son-of-a-bitch there ever was. Talk about bad luck. You're one in a million. One in ten million. I mean, come on! This is incredible.

  "What are the odds that our interview today was with David Smith, and you, David Smith, had an interview two floors below our temporary office at the same time, and you show up in the room wrong and the right time? I've been talking to the boys in charge. They were all rolling. Talk about a case of irony. That's what we call a happy accident, and you, Mr. Smith, you're one big happy accident.

  "We can always use another body for The Event. Yours will certainly do. I can tell you've got workman's hands. You don't have a gym membership. Yep, that muscle is all natural elbow grease, grade A, fuel-injected, blue collar, dirt poor, underprivileged, malt liquor drinkin', down and out attitude. A happy accident indeed. Well, Mr. Smith, you've joined us, and your life is in my hands now."

  He imagined a hundred ways to pummel this ass wipe. He would've, if it weren't for the plastic twine binding his arms and ankles together. That, and the giant leather strap across his midsection that kept his back up against the wall. They were sitting in what appeared to be the back cab of an armored truck.

  "Oh, he's snarling at me!" Luke raised his hands in mercy. "You got fire in your eyes. We need more like you. Most of the people we get on our team start crying, and boom, it's over. All of our hard work wrangling you up, disappearing you, and keeping you fed and sheltered before The Event is wasted. You, my friend, have yet to shed a single tear. You're a tough boy."

  He wasn't sure how to read a man like Luke Bloom. Luke was talking to himself, or at least talking in a way that didn't require David's input.

  Stay quiet.

  Let the man talk himself silly.

  Douche bags like this love to talk about their accomplishments. He'll slip up and tell you something useful.

  "I know what you're thinking, David. You're waiting for your chance to escape. Understand this. We won't mess up. That's the point I really want to drive home. Everything from here on out is a well-oiled machine. Nobody gets away. You must fight. You give up, you break down, you think if you resist, you'll make it harder for us to do what we do, you're dead wrong.

  "Keep your mind focused. Don't get emotional on me. Tears mean dick. I'm counting on you. You'll be the last man standing if you play your cards right. I'm putting my money down on it. Don't disappoint me. I like to win. I hate losing. I've never won The Event. You don't know how bad I want this, Mr. Smith.

  "Something tells me you're one in a million. You're sure to win. This is my year. You don't know how great this is, Mr. Smith, that you're here with me."

  The vehicle stopped.

  Luke bumped the wall with his fist twice. The back doors came open. Bright sunlight flooded in and blinded him. Several figures lunged in at him after Luke made his swift exit. A leather hood was forced over his head, and David was esco
rted helplessly to an unknown destination.

  Being kidnapped, David expected a variety of threats. Violence, for sure. Luke Bloom said he would have to fight. Would he be released into a cage, or a boxing ring? Would he be attacked by random people who were also fighting for their lives?

  Here was another scenario.

  He imagined being dumped in the middle of the woods, while a group of rich hunters gunned for his ass. One of them would have him stuffed and mounted and placed in their living rooms for parties.

  The longer he didn't have the answers, the harder his imagination worked.

  As he was being guided forward, he heard people say, "Hello, Mr. Bloom." "There's the young man with a big smile on his face." "I already know what you're thinking. We'll see who wins come next week, pretty boy. You're not the only one with a winner." "Everything's been prepared, sir." "All ready, Mr. Bloom." "We're set to go, sir." "Just this way, sir."

  David was walking on gravel. He was walking on grass. He was walking on stone. He was walking up steps. He was walking up tall winding stairs. He was walking across a doorway and stepping onto linoleum. Voices echoed throughout a wide room. Everybody was in an upbeat mood.

  "This way, Mr. Bloom. Your guest quarters are ready."

  "This one looks like a promising selection. Good picking."

  "Don't forget the proper procedures, son. Just because you think he's as lucky as a rabbit's foot doesn't mean you get to skip the steps."

  "Dad, give me a break. This is the tenth year I've had my own guy to throw into the game. I know how to do this. I'm not a pro like you, but this isn't my first time either. I think you're worried I might beat you this year. You're shaking in your pants."

  "Son, you're overexcited," Luke's Dad, a deep, bellowing, double pompous voice scolded. "Keep your head on straight. I have to check in on you. It's my job. I'm your father, remember?"

  "Honey, is that the man? Oh, how exciting! He's so big and muscular. I bet he has a mean face under that hood. He could pass as one of the killers! You did great, darling. That's why I married you."

  Luke enjoyed the compliments. "I have an eye for quality, don't I?"

  Bliss's voice was bubbly, and obnoxious. "Oh stop it. Seriously. Who is this guy I married? I want a good look at our selection. Can I take a picture of him? I want to see his face."

  "I always let you take your pictures, dear. You have a wall full of ugly mugs. I get to look at them every year. It's those butt ugly faces that wake me up faster than any strong cup of coffee ever could. I can only imagine what you're thinking when you're alone with those pictures."

  "Don't be nasty! Promise me I'll get my picture, Luke."

  "I promise. Now let me take care of our guest. We only got a week before The Event. Normally, I get a month."

  "You'll do fine, son," Luke's dad said. "This guy's already got enough hard luck in him for ten men. He's tough."

  "Or he'll piss his pants during the first five minutes," Bliss complained. "They've turned out that way before. You get a real tough bastard, and he folds at the sight of the first butchered body or severed head. Not everybody can stomach it. Not everybody's as tough as they look."

  "He can stomach it," Luke insisted. "He will. I can coach him."

  "Coach him?" Luke's dad scoffed. "Are you going to explain to him how to handle himself when he sees someone's insides scattered on the ground? You're either made up of the stuff that allows you to survive war, or you're the kind who comes undone. There's no one to hold his hand during the event. They'll cut it off instead."

  Belly laughs surrounded David.

  Their guffawing lasted for minutes.

  He was sweating as he stood there, held in place by three different people.

  "Focus, everybody," Luke demanded. "We've had our fun. Now I need my time with him."

  "No cheating," Luke's dad insisted. His voice was fading down a hallway. "You can't tell him anything about what's actually going to happen. You've read the handbook. Remember the handbook. If you cheat, they kick you out of the game forever."

  "I know! Everybody leave me alone! You have your own people to worry about for the competition. Now I have mine, and he's mine to deal with accordingly. I know what I'm doing. I know the rules."

  After throwing his fit, Luke's voice was suddenly cool.

  "Follow me, guys. Let's get out of here before this goes on all day. Come on, Bliss. We've got things to do."

  David was guided through several other rooms until he was stopped again. The plastic twine at his wrist and ankle were cut. He was told to stand in place. When he heard the door shut, Luke told him, he could remove the hood from his head, but only after the door closed.

  When he did hear the door shut, and a lock mechanism clicked into place, David removed the hood, sucked in a deep breath, and stared in shock at what was on the table in front of him.

  A chrome .45 pistol lay on the table in the small room.

  The room was similar to the office where he read those terrible questions.

  One door, no windows, and a table with a firearm.

  That was it.

  There was one difference this time.

  The intercom speaker box in the upper right corner of the wall. He didn't notice it until the words crackled out of it.

  "David Smith, you have a choice. It's clear cut from my standpoint. Maybe in your head, it's not so cut and dried. The rules of The Event require me to keep you out of the know. That gives me a Herculean task when it comes to preparing you for what's ahead.

  "What can I say to convince you, and myself, that I can move forward with proceedings without worrying you'll lose your mind? I can ask you if you're tough, and you can say yes or no. I can ask you if you've got testicles of steel, and a backbone to rival any war veteran's, and you can say yes or no, but how will I ever know for certain?

  "This is my proposition to you. The Event isn't a game everybody can play. Can you kill a complete stranger? Can you kill somebody who's trying to kill you? You would think that second question would be an emphatic yes, but you'd be surprised. Some idiots just stand there with their mouths open like some inbred moron and watch an axe go into their head. I don't want my participants to die so easy. It's a disgrace.

  "This is my proposition to you. You see that gun on the table? You can either put a gun to your head, pull the trigger, and avoid what's coming your way, or you can--"

  He didn't wait for the cocky young man to keep talking. He picked up the gun, pulled the trigger, and blasted the intercom off the wall. He turned to open fire at the door.

  I'll show these dumb assholes.

  Big mistake giving me a gun.

  He was disappointed to learn the weapon only had one bullet.

  The door sprang open. Four people in suits, more goons, twisted his arm, kicked out his legs from beneath him, and wrestled him to the ground.

  "Yes! Oh yes! Fuck yes! Y-eah buddy! I knew it when I set eyes on this guy. He would have balls of ten-ton steel. I fucking love this guy. No one's ever shot themselves in the head, but they certainly didn't shoot that intercom. Wow!"

  Luke was cheering from the hallway. David could see him in his peripheral pumping his fist in the air. A woman with dyed clown red hair in a tight fitting black dress was standing close to him. That had to be Bliss.

  He was doing his best to make a mental catalogue of their names and faces. It would give a sketch artist something to work from after he escaped.

  "Lift him up off the ground, would you guys?" Bliss asked. "I need a picture."

  The goons lifted him up off of the floor. He was then pressed up against the walls. The goons acted as a barrier to protect Luke and Bliss.

  Bliss was pale white, with an unnaturally slim figure, and a face that suggested there was always something kinky on her mind. She looked at David as if he were blueprints she could modify. She held her phone up and snapped four pictures of him in succession.

  "He looks so mean. He'll scare the piss out of them."
r />   Luke and Bliss studied the pictures on the phone.

  "I'm starting to feel that way too. They won't know what hit them. He's my ace." Luke snapped his fingers at the goons. "Okay, boys. Let's get on with it. We're already behind schedule. I still can't believe what happened to the guy before this one. I thought we wouldn't be able to participate in The Event this year."

  Bliss rolled her eyes. "The fucker's heart stopped in his chest. And I thought the ex-Marine had it in him to take this on. I had it all wrong."

  "Not with this guy," Luke said. "Mr. Smith's the real deal. When you hold down jobs you hate, and you make scraps for a living, it changes you. He's tough. I bet he'll leave a trail of bodies behind him by the time the game's through."

  Bliss rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and we said that about marine boy."

  The goons were more focused on what the couple were saying than on what David was doing. One of them kept eyeballing Bliss's ample cleavage.

  This was his chance to catch them by surprise.

  They wanted to see some blue collar rage, they were about to get some.

  He snapped his head back and slammed it into the closest goon's nose. He was awarded by the sound of a wicked snap. Blood burbled out the ugly goon's nose as he let out a high-pitched note of pain. Next, he grabbed the golden vase on a fixture nearby and used it to bludgeon another goon's head. He kicked another in the balls, threw the other to the ground like he was spiking a football, and charged down the hallway in a mad sprint.

  He dodged maids performing their rounds in a giant mansion. They gasped in fright and shouted for help. "He's loose!" "Get him!" "He's heading towards the living room!" "Get everybody to safety."

  He thought he would get lost here. It was a maze of big rooms and high end fixtures.

  He entered a large party room. There was a fireplace, a bear rug, and above the hutch, a painting hung of a man dressed with big white hair like George Washington, except he had his chest exposed.

  On his chest was a bleeding pentagram.