Meet Your Favorite Serial Killer Read online

  "She wouldn't slaughter you."

  "No, but Bliss would probably hang me up by my cunt."

  "Is that possible? Can you be hung," he loosened his collar and gulped, "by that part of the anatomy?"

  "Oh son, it's possible. You just have to sink in the hooks deep enough."

  "You're a pill, Mrs. Alanson. It's always a pleasure to have you here with us."

  "Call me Claire, you hunk of meat."

  Claire reached for his belt buckle.

  "Oh now, Mrs., I mean, Claire, let's focus on The Event, okay?"

  "You bet I will. It doesn't mean I can't get a handful of something nice in the meantime."

  "It's official, folks. I think she's having a good time."

  Everybody in the room laughed.

  Luke directed Claire to the large screen TV up against the far wall.

  "You've been attending The Event for the past nine years. You've seen many killers do what they do best. I wanted to take a moment and reflect on the greatest kills throughout our history. Can you remember your favorite demise during The Event? Something that's extra special?"

  "Oh gosh," Claire said. She threw back her wine flute and finished her finger of scotch back to back. She was already loaded; now she was really good and going. "A lot of deaths come to mind. That's a hard question. I'm stumped."

  "Try and pick one, Claire. Imagine a real stunner. What's taken your breath away? Think about the kills you remember time and time again. The type you share with friends at work around the water cooler. The kills that inspire you to become a better murderer yourself."

  "It's so hard. Oh, I don't know."

  "The best kill. The greatest ever. The spectacle of the slaughter. The gem of a gory moment. The axe of your eye. A kill to really fill a body bag. I'm talking the meat and potatoes, dripping wet, split you open, bleed you out, eviscerate you, turn you into real mincemeat caliber of a performance. Really inspired."

  "It's always changing, but if you've got me on the spot, I have to say Bloaty's kill three years back has really stayed with me. I create oil paintings at home of my favorite kills. Bloaty I've committed to canvas many times. When Bloaty, that cannibal midget, crawled up that woman's thing and worked his way up to her mouth and stuck his head out of her lips was incredible. Bloaty's so strong. And he's so funny. His jokes are so dirty."

  The room clapped on the behalf of Bloaty.

  "Great answer, Claire. Bloaty is a true classic. He hasn't made an appearance yet, but the night is very young.

  "Now here's a track of our greatest kills. Please enjoy our compilation. It's because of our fine patrons like yourselves that we get to continue our pastime. Without you, none of this would be possible. From my family to all of you, I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart. May The Event continue for many more years to come."

  On the television screen, the compilation of kills began.

  Luke exited the room.

  Tonight's work was only beginning.

  The sound of Maggot Girl's pursuit faded until he couldn't hear her steps anymore. New noises covered any evidence of her original pursuit. Explosions mostly. Giant blades swooshed and sliced. Violent screams rocked the air. Fists bashed victims into wet meat. The crackle of unseen fires raged. He coughed against the grit and smoke spread thin and coming in all directions. David almost tumbled in his haste to run the other way when a rush of blood flowed down the hall. He imagined a short-lived tidal wave of hideous black cherry. He clutched onto the cave wall in order to remain standing. Blood splashed against his boots and the back of his legs as the red passed.

  When the tide thinned out, he wasn't sure where to go, or not to go. Everywhere could be a wrong turn.

  You're out here all by yourself.

  What's your next move?

  The thin cavern channel was bathed in darkness. He kept moving forward slowly and carefully. Caution was the name of the game. One foot in front of the other. Eyes focused on everything.

  Up ahead, flood lights from the ceiling and around the large open area illuminated everything in harsh ultraviolet. He gasped in horror. The area was a giant jungle gym. The metal bars were shaped into a giant hideous steel monster's back, or dinosaur bones meets deer antlers. It reached up to the vaulted ceiling and appeared to have no end from his low perspective. People like him were climbing the metal bars and fleeing from killers clutching axes, power drills, chainsaws, soldering irons, hammers, wrenches, nooses, brass knuckles, and choking wire.

  "You better stay where you're at, Mr. Smith. Things are awfully hairy down there. You might get caught up in something that won't let you go. Me personally, I don't care for dismemberment and blunt force trauma. My preference is melting flesh. The sizzle and disintegration of skin. I like to see what's beneath it all. And the screams. The screams I enjoy very much. Especially when it's from tough guys like you."

  He knew who it was before he turned around to see who had snuck up behind him.

  Mickey McGrew, aka Mickey Acid.

  Acid thrower.

  Mickey Acid made headlines in the news five years ago. He was a meth maker in Missouri. When he overindulged on his drug of choice, he drove up and down the town of Fedora kicking open the front doors in a suburb, sneaking into houses, and throwing acid on people's faces.

  Mickey Acid stood there now adorned in only a pair of torn up blue jeans, bare feet, and no shirt. He was in his early sixties with only four teeth in his goofy mouth. He had a yellowish white bird's nest for hair. His skin owned a brownish nicotine tint. His cartoonish smile brightened when he knew David recognized him.

  "I melted one hundred faces before the police shot me down. There's nothing greater than watching flesh melt to reveal the skeleton beneath. You ever watch a body melt down to the bone? It's breathtaking.

  "The cops were slow to catch on to my crimes. I had a lot of fun before then. I made people drink acid. You ever see a liquid bullet eat away the lining of someone's stomach, slide through their intestines, and blast out of their asshole? Can you guess what color comes out of their shitter by the time the acid's made it all the way through the human body? You'd think red. And you'd be wrong! Ahahahahahahahahah!"

  Mickey Acid raised the steel mug in his right hand. The mug was popping with super acids. Lines of sick steam were rising up from the deadly concoction.

  "Here's the deal, Mr. Smith. I throw this at your face, or you drink what's in my cup, or you run straight across that battle ground to the other side and see if you're fast enough to lose me. I know you're eying that yellow box across the way."

  David hadn't seen the yellow box. Now that Tate had pointed it out, he noticed it. It was one of the safe boxes Luke mentioned before the game started. If he was fast enough, he could reach it. As long as the box wasn't a lie or a trap.

  He didn't think.

  He sprinted.

  That was the only direction he could go.

  Forward.

  Away from acid.

  He was halfway to the yellow box already. Another explosion nearby pushed him off of his feet. He slammed into the ground. He was rubbing dirt and stars out of his eyes. Two more blasts resounded nearby. Demo was nearby lighting up dynamite stick after dynamite stick.

  David was so close to safety, and now, he was backtracking the other way to avoid being blown to pieces. He hid in the corner nearby. There was darkness there, but also a hint of light. He stayed crouched down, and hoped to be out of sight.

  The explosions continued. Demo was having a ball. How many people would that son-of-a-bitch kill, he wondered.

  The small flame dancing in the corner of his eye stole his attention. He pivoted around to stare at what was hidden in the darkness. He couldn't see the person yet, but there was somebody standing there.

  Why hadn't they attacked him when his back was turned?

  He was careless, and lucky.

  David took a hesitant step forward. When he did, he stepped on something odd. It wasn't a severed appendage or a
pool of blood. It was a chocolate bar.

  The light he caught earlier was one of many from both ends of a strange alcove carved out of the cavern wall. Dozens of candles burned. Those lights were housed within jack-o-lanterns.

  Now he knew he was in trouble.

  A killer waited in the darkness.

  David squeezed his fists. He readied his body for anything.

  "What do you want from me?"

  Dumb question. He wants to kill you.

  The hider didn't respond immediately. He heard a reluctant shuffle of feet. Feet that didn't take any steps. Feet that fidgeted and redistributed weight. A reluctant silence followed. David was about to say something along the lines of, "Well, what's it going to be, asshole? Me starting it, or you starting it?" when a soft voice spoke. He thought of a child talking through an adult.

  "Trick-r-treat. Smell my feet. Give me something good to eat."

  Right when he said that, the candles in the jack-o-lanterns burned four times as bright. Candlelight acted as a floodlight. He faced the hider in clear detail.

  He wore a tattered and greasy brown trench coat, jeans, and a plain red t-shirt. Oil stains covered the material, or was it actually old blood? The killer wore oversized tennis shoes that weren't tied. The guy had to be six four, at least. The man was a giant who was as wide as a linebacker and as powerful as a gorilla. In his hands, he clung onto an orange trash bag. On his face, disguised by dangling strands of ratty black hair, and a beard that overtook his face, he wore a Zorro mask.

  David stood in awe of the man who had to be mentally retarded.

  He didn't answer David's question. The man didn't like it. There was a new urgency in his voice.

  "Give me something good to eat. You have something good to eat, don't you, mister?"

  David could see the empty candy wrappers strewn about the ground. He picked up the chocolate bar he stepped on. When he extended it to the strange costumed man, he was outraged.

  "That's my candy! Put it down now."

  David didn't mean to throw it back on the ground.

  "You're going to ruin it! Now where's my candy? Come on, mister. I dressed up. Now where's my candy? It's Halloween."

  "I, I don't have any candy. I'm sorry, I--"

  The large man stomped his feet and huffed. "Trick-r-treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat, OR GIVE ME YOUR HEAD!"

  The man shoved his hands into the orange bag and removed a sizeable lumberjack's axe. He was about to charge in on David when he heard a gun cocked.

  To David, "Don't turn around. Don't move a muscle."

  To the strange man, "I cleaned this gentleman out of his candy. But I know the others out there have plenty of tasty treats for you. And trust me, it's worth venturing out of your little cubby hole to find. The sweetest things, believe me. The best candy.

  "And if they tell you they don't have any candy, they're liars. And liars deserve to get their heads chopped off. Now go get your candy. Go, before the night's over. Now. Get going."

  David gasped in fright when the giant man/kid rushed at them. He was shoved aside. The man couldn't get out there fast enough tromping along in his untied shoes, oversized Halloween bag, and lugging around his heavy axe.

  "Now turn around slowly. I saved your life. You owe me a favor. What I ask is not unreasonable in these circumstances. Different and unexpected, sure, but not unreasonable."

  A gun was poked into his back.

  David did as he was told and turned around.

  "Walk forward. Take it nice and easy. You start running, I start shooting. And I won't shoot to kill. I'll wound you just enough so my friends out there can have a field day with you. There are some sick individuals out there way craftier and sadistic than I."

  He took slow strides forward. The darkness returned, though he could hear his feet thud against a wooden platform. He pushed aside a hanging tarp, then another tarp, and he was then told to stop.

  "You see that stool?"

  "Yes."

  "Sit on it. Stay there. Don't move. Breathe easy."

  "What are you going to do to me?"

  "I'm going to paint you."

  Three different studio lights came on. There his captor stood. David didn't expect it. He had to take it in for several minutes before accepting it.

  The clown make-up. The vibrant multi-colored clown outfit. The giant red shoe shoes. The butterball body. David recognized the famous killer instantly.

  John Wayne Gacy.

  "I know what you're thinking. You're worried I'm going to rape you. I'm going to kill you. I'll do one of those two things. I won't bullshit you. But one thing I'm going to do now is paint you. It's one of my favorite hobbies."

  You escaped hell just so you can paint?

  The clown sat behind a blank canvas positioned on a tripod. Gacy was busy squirting oil paints onto a flat piece of plastic. The clown began work on a portrait of David Smith. His brush was dabbing the paint and striking the canvas with the zest of a practiced artist.

  The clown talked while he painted.

  "You met that kid back there in the corner. We like to call him Halloween Man. I know, the name is simple, but it gets the job done. His real name is Tommy Blunt. He suffers from mental retardation, and a special love for Halloween.

  "Tommy was prone to fits of violence when he didn't get his way. He was as strong then as he is now. His parents wouldn't let him out to go trick-r-treating on Halloween. You see, during previous years, Tommy would steal other kids' candy. He would wrestle them. Sometimes beat them bloody. He broke one girl's arm, and that was the final straw. No more Halloween for Tommy Blunt.

  "When Tommy grew old enough, and the defiance towards his parents changed into a psychotic rage, that's when Tommy stole his father's axe from the shed, lobbed off both of his parents' heads, and took to the neighborhood that Halloween night to get his cherished candy.

  "He killed over a dozen children. He broke into as many homes and killed the owners when they wouldn't offer the blood covered psycho his candy.

  "Tommy was dressed then as he is now in a trench coat and Zorro mask. Don't ask me why. I think he stole the articles from random people, because his mom wouldn't make him a costume. The police shot Tommy dead in the street that night, and that was the end of that. I almost molested Tommy, but of course, that's another story altogether."

  He couldn't believe what he was experiencing. John Wayne Gacy was painting him. The man in clown make-up was engrossed with the paintbrush and how it struck the canvas.

  What will happen when he's done painting your ugly mug? He's going to do other things to you, of course. The painting is a memento. It's only an appetizer to his main course.

  You can't let him finish that painting.

  The area around him was a wood floor bared to the grain. The darkness around the studio-lit area made it impossible to know where he'd be escaping to if he suddenly decided to run for it. His world right now was the murderous clown, the painting in progress, and that damnable studio light that was growing hotter by the second.

  I can jump the molesting lard ass. He won't expect it. I could knock him to the ground. It'd buy me enough time to find a direction to run. And if he did get up, I can fight him man-to-man.

  Wait.

  Where did that gun of his go?

  David searched everywhere.

  The gun was at the clown's feet.

  A .28 pistol.

  He pictured blasting the clown's big red nose off.

  "Your eyes are darting around in your head, friend. You're thinking things. I can make many guesses. You want to fight back. You're thinking about taking the gun laying at my feet. It's okay. You're human. All victims would do the same.

  "Keep in mind, by the time you reach this gun, I'd have already picked it up and unloaded a round into that ugly face of yours. And guess what? I'd still paint you with brains running down your face."

  David's body burned with that caught feeling. Every inch of him was covered in
nervous sweat.

  "Don't feel bad. This isn't my first competition. You know the people who are watching behind the walls? Surely you've noticed them by now. If you look to the left, far off in the darkness, you can catch the glint of glass. An audience is watching us. Of course, I don't get the same number of fans as say your chainsaw murderers, and that deplorable woman who wears guts for a bathing suit. Despite my clown outfit, I'm not that flashy of a killer.

  "Anyway, you know what the grand prize is for having the last player standing? They get to visit hell. Imagine somebody wanting to go to hell, right? Ridiculous. I guess these people will be given the five-star tour. They won't see the truth. Only the highlights of hell. Not the back roads and ghettos. They'll only see what Satan wants them to see, so they'll desire to go to hell when they die. They'll live a life in grand sin and carnal pleasures in the hopes of a hellish afterlife. They're all idiots. Hell won't be at all what they'll be expecting when they go there for real."

  There was a painful silence between them.

  Gacy was breathing hard as he was hunched over the canvas. His brush strokes were a frenzy of energy and passion.

  You can't let him finish that damn painting.

  Do something.

  You have a choice. Be a victim or fight back.

  David turned his fists into hammers. Now was the time to attack. Let the clown pick up the gun, he thought. The bastard was so engrossed in his work, that might buy him that extra split second to knock the clown on his ass and take the gun.

  His body was clenched. He pictured what he would do and readied himself. Lunge, push, grab the gun, open fire, and run like hell. That was the plan.

  He sucked in a breath and was about to attack when he saw the figure approach from behind Gacy. David strained his eyes to make out the mysterious person's features. He was shorter than Gacy, but also wider. He had almost one hundred pounds on Gacy. A butterball to the extreme.

  One other thing was very striking.

  This man was also dressed as a clown.

  This clown's features were painted on as a snarl. The red, blue, and white greasepaint turned the clown into a rabid, wild animal version of a kid's entertainer. His suit was white and gold and drenched in spatters of blood.