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How’s this for a head fuck? It turns out that I’m a cold-blooded murderer and didn’t even have the faintest idea until last night. As you would expect, I didn’t take the news at all well, and have spent the past twenty-four hours in a state of rigorous denial. That said, evidence doesn’t get any more incriminating than a bloody hatchet being discarded beneath you bunk smothered in your own fingerprints. Needless to say, my very first consideration on receipt of this information was to prevent anything like this happening again. Thus I have decided to chronicle tonight’s hunt as it happens just to remind myself that resistance couldn’t be more futile. While this may appear suspiciously like self-loathing on my part, my only burning desire is for us to start working together. Many hands make light work after all.
So without further ado, please allow me to introduce you to Mindy Swinson. Mindy is a tall leggy unnatural blonde who has been renting a room at a local tavern mere blocks from my house for three days now. She is a little brow-beaten, weathered you could say, but this adds to her attractiveness. At 37 she is on the cusp of her second womanhood and her pores vent sensuality. She has never been married, despite two close calls, and has no ties to speak of. A career focused business woman, Mindy gets her kicks from watching boy-on-boy porn while guzzling back expensive Italian wine, in addition to the meticulously cut Class A smelling salts stashed away in her purse. CEO for an import and export firm, she is currently on a busman’s holiday in the UK while she attends conventions and networks with clients. For the entirety of her stay she has kept herself very much to herself, apart from the screams of pleasure as she pleasures herself night after night. I guess you could say that nobody would miss Ms. Swinson should she simply disappear.
So what do you think? I mean, I’ll have absolutely no recollection of my actions by dawn’s early light, so is this a suitable subject to cut my teeth on so to speak? She certainly seems to fit the criteria and I reckon I can do this low-key as there doesn’t appear to be another solitary soul on the streets to bare witness. Sometimes people just vanish into thin air and, with nobody likely to send out the search party any time soon, she would be ideal as my primary victim. I say primary, when I’m pretty assured I’ve been up to no good for nights now. But this is the first time I have actually been aware of my nightly wanderlust and recorded the findings. Writing on auto-pilot has its benefits, one of which being that my alertness need not factor into this. Thanks to blissful ignorance, I’m tucked up tight in my divan right now and as harmless as a newborn kitten. Of course, that couldn’t be farther from the truth but, what we don’t know, can’t hurt right? Try telling that to my intended quarry.
Currently Mindy is making her way through the back streets as she returns from a brainstorming session at the local wine bar. She has never been one to fret over traveling solo and, besides, this is a far cry from the savage streets several blocks from her apartment in Brooklyn. There is a slender slither of cobbled path before her as she begins to near her temporary accommodation. Poorly lit and steeped in shadow, this lonely A ordinarily never leads to a B after nightfall but this wouldn’t faze a woman of her conditioning. Having learned at a very tender age how to defend herself, Mindy has no qualms with defending herself should that be necessitated. As a safety measure, she carries a pair of razor-sharp hairdressing scissors which could gouge an eye out with the faintest glance and has had cause to use them twice before. Evidently, this is no babe in the wood we’re speaking of here. It just so happens that I like a challenge.
It is around the midway point in her excursion that she feels the shift in tone. The air appears to thicken and her movements are more labored almost as though moving in frames. With senses now a tingle, she stops dead in her tracks, stubs out her Marlboro Light with the business end of her four-inch stiletto and treads water while ascertaining the cause of her sudden consternation. Discerning movement to her rear, she swings around and, no sooner has she span half rotation, than a blunt object knocks her off-balance and careering into nearby shrubbery. I’ll offer up a clue as to what that blunt object might be – it’s only blunt at one end and has recently taken up residency in my sleeping quarters. As hatchets go, it looks like it would get the job done pretty well, and I guess there’s no time like the present to test this baby out on a hard target. It’s funny, I never considered myself capable of murder in the first, but it felt like an extension of my wrist as I swung it. Tough she may well be but my attack was well enough executed that she could offer no real notable resistance.
After my opening strike, her nostrils are bloodied and upper lip split wide open to reveal her blood flecked teeth and surrounding cavity. Many would pass out at the brunt of such a vicious swipe but not Mindy, she recoils but only long enough to gain her bearings and reach for her clutch bag. Alas, she doesn’t make it as the blade now marks its territory, doing a bang-up job of dislodging the lion share of her digits from their jutting knuckles. Deep red jettisons from the stumpy slag left behind and she catches an unwitting palate pool as she widens her jaw to release the pent-up scream inside her. It barely reaches her windpipe before being cut off at the stem by another meaningful stroke to her chest. This blow sends a flurry of claret sludge straight up into her eye sockets and she begins to bleed tears of sheer agony. I really couldn’t have executed this any better if I’d tried and it is critical that I not fritter such momentum. If a job’s worth doing and all that. While absolutely nothing personal, that is of little consolation to Mindy Swinson right now as things are about to get decidedly worse for her before they get better.
After carving away at the gristly trunk of her throat for a few moments, I achieve timber, and her teetering drum slides back to rest between her shoulder blades. Still connected via a thread of straining matter, it rattles around as her arms reach out, manicured nails clasping at the life which is rapidly dissipating from within her. Time for the hatchet to again become mobile, this time downwardly, as I relocate it to her lower calf. Fragments of cartilage and callously sheared tendon spill forth and the impact sends her plummeting to the ground, snapping the marrow wide open in a sickening spray. Her stiletto skittles off into the foliage leaving her well pedicured toes twitching as communications commence to cease. Several seconds after, there is quietude. Her eyes are still screaming, despite the life draining from her face as she involuntarily excavates her tossed prawn salad and around a liter of Gin into the surrounding foliage. The blade then leaves its final insignia, this time dead center of her brow, splintering her cranium as her dead limbs receive their last shunt. It glides from the gaping wound and I calmly stroll away from the carnage.
The feel of mink fur that last Cordon Bleu
Long assed serenades are now merely hazed
The missed class of Tai Chi and tang of a lychee
Those fresh everglades begin now to fade
Each lover departed the family not started
Each soft word he spoke every promise he broke
Now fading away like a crisp summer day
Leaving nothing behind but a life now reclined
So how does it feel having just robbed another of life? Slightly ethereal if I’m honest as, while fully aware of what I just did, by morning I will be left with only these footnotes and the bloodied hatchet beneath my bed as a reminder. No doubt I’ll be mortified by my actions as I would never ordinarily entertain laying a solitary finger on another, let alone hacking them into tiny pieces. But let it be stated that I enjoyed my outing rather a lot, and have already started planning my next expedition for the next time the sun bleeds away. As I lurch back into the snug confines of my personal quarters, I kneel beside my bedstead and carefully return the bloody hatchet in its sanctuary. One glance towards the blinking camera recording my every movement is then followed by a wry smile as I proceed to smudge my victim’s frittered entrails along the whitewashed wall before calmly climbing back between my warm sheets. Sleep restfully Keeper of The Crimson Quill and I trust you’ll enjoy tomorrow morning’s light reading. Same time tomorrow okay with you?
Sinning is compulsory,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013