To Kill a Man

“Could you kill somebody?”

“Yeah, like, totally!”

“Oh my god! You’re, like, so sick!”

“Well, I mean, if someone, like, did something bad to someone, like, you know, like, in my family and stuff, then yeah, totally.”

“Yeah, totally! Me too!”

Who cares? Of course you could. Anybody could. If some John Holmes endowed crack head nigger rapes little Mr. Wonder Bread Jr. in front of you, you will turn from the grey mouse you are into some merciless terminator motherfucker and rip said perpetrator to death like he was so many bags of meat through a meat grinder. Insta-Killer. Good job there, Mr. Smith. You would rise to the occasion and utilize whatever form of violence necessary to set the world right again. In your eyes, at least. Your little brat is still bleeding from the asshole, but justice has been served, right? That sentiment should comfort you through many cold and sleepless nights in Sing-Sing.

No, the question is not whether you could kill a man, but rather if you can kill a man. Big fucking difference, actually. Killing because you want to kill, instead of just killing in a fit of useless blind rage.

I think about this quite a lot. I guess it’s a good thing that I don’t talk to friends and colleagues about this, since pondering homicide is regarded “rude” in most social circumstances. During business meetings I usually doodle decapitations and burnings, but subtly; my pen scratching away underneath whatever circle chart the head honcho is laying down the smack on for the moment, of course. It’s not like I’m crazy or anything, I just like to give this subject matter some serious thought every once in a while. Everybody should.

I have come to the conclusion that only through utter indifference for your fellow man can you achieve the peace of mind necessary to carry out even the most gruesome of murders, without ever losing your cool, and thusly escaping the long arm of the law. The second you feel even the slightest twinge of hate, anger, lust, love or disgust for your victim, you should put down the meat cleaver and go back to reading your Koontz books, because you will get caught. You are just not cut out for this business.

I think I am.

I would make an excellent hit-man, because I really don’t care about children, old ladies or pregnant single moms who have to work 24-7 to feed their starving families. I am immune to your whining, begging and pleading. The fear on your face and the cracking of your voice is not even amusing to me. It’s just interesting, I guess. I would perhaps ask you what you would do if you had one more shot at life, or if there is anything you always wish you had said, and to whom – and just as you opened your mouth to unburden your emotional load, I would end your life. I would sleep all right, and I wouldn’t think about you tomorrow. Your big final moment meant nothing to me. I am not even sorry about it.

Sometimes I sit behind you, when I take the last train home, and wonder what it would be like to just snap your neck before I get out at my stop. We’re the only ones in the whole car, and I am wearing my collar up over my face. It would be fast, quick, and totally painless on your part. Sometimes I let the point of my knife rest one quarter of an inch away from the back of your neck, waiting to see if fate will intervene and let the motion of the train bump it into the base of your skull. One day maybe. Hopefully. Usually you pick up on the vibe and change seats, or even get off five stops before yours is up, just to get away. Hey, if they have their way with you in the ghetto, on an abandoned platform, it’s not my fault. Just sayin’.

I don’t even discriminate. You could be any random person in the world, and it wouldn’t mean a damn thing either way. I don’t have a preference or some crazy agenda. You will do just fine.

Ted Bundy, Sam Berkowitz and the rest of them were all a bunch of amateurs. Even the Zodiac Killer, in a sense, even though he remained undiscovered. I hate that whole shit when serial killers leave messages in blood, and riddles in stupid backward code for some Dilbert at FBI to ooh and aah over, or the public to freak and speculate about. Fucking third rate psychos on a Da Vinci Code killing spree. How do they pick their schticks anyway? “Hey, I wanna be the “Knock-Knock Killer – Oh, no! It’s taken already! Bummer. Maybe a talking dog? No, done to death. Hmmm?” If you’ve got something to say, fucking chain yourself to a tree and cry for the children of El Salvador, or start a Big Cat Rescue Shelter in the ghetto for runaway pimp tiger pets. Who gives a shit?

Nobody on this earth should care about the machinations of the mind of a serial killer. He’s got something to say? He carved parts of an obscure poem into the chest of his victim and strew lily petals in the shape of a happy face around the body? That must mean something! I wonder what? Well, duh, it means he’s insane. Crazier than a shithouse rat, if you ask me. Normal people don’t do shit like that, and the ones who do are for the most part locked up in the psych ward, or making careers as street corner preachers, dressed in cardboard. None of whose opinions should mean a fucking thing to anybody. What is it with you fucking people? Seriously? I mean, you take the words of some alcoholic dead beat dad rock star for gospel and donate a buck to the rain forests in Guam, or vote for some guy, just because Bono or Mick Jagger said so? Fucking idiots. What the fuck does some rotten-brained pop singer know about the real world? You’re all a bunch of star-fuckers, when it comes down to it. That’s why these serial killing assholes seek the spotlight you provide them with. They don’t kill for the joy of killing, they kill as a form of entertainment for you. They are stars and you are the adoring fans. You make me sick.

Death should be pure, single and solely between the killer and the victim. It’s a private matter. Stabbing somebody in the milling throngs of Central Station on a Friday afternoon, or choking some infant in a baby carriage with a fucking Pokemon blanket, should be held in higher regard, than the acts of the OJ Simpsons and the Jack the Rippers of the world. Killing without a motive, other than for the purpose of killing, is always better than some fuckhead with a hidden agenda, acting out his insecurities. “Boo-hoo! My crackhead mom burned me with cigarettes when I was five and then made me watch her sell her ass to strangers for a rock, so now I have to kill all prostitutes and send their heads to Philip Morris.” I don’t care about people enough to even pretend to be interested in shit like that. Your mother fucked you over? Tough luck. Either off yourself or suck it up. I don’t want to fucking hear about it. There is virtually no difference between Ted Bundy and that soccer mom on Dr. Phil who beats her fucking kids. They are all just fucking victims of their own boring lives, and we should all just fucking ignore them.

One of the first articles I ever read on DRS was Grace’s diatribe on the American Justice System. OK, we suck and all that, fine, stupid bloody Americans as usual, but then he went on to describe the perfect murder; listing times, places, methods and escape routes – like we were taking notes for some Agatha Christie Writing Circle. With all respect for Grace, he would make a pretty lousy killer. Too many ifs, maybes and narrow escapes made his killer recap a most unlikely scenario – at least as far as success rates count. Not that most of you would know, wrapped up in your fucking safety blankets of ignorance and naïveté.  Hey, come to think of it, I have a bridge in New York I could sell you all, and if you don’t want to buy it, you could all take a fucking jump from it.

Idiots. I would hate you all, if I cared enough to muster up the emotional fortitude to do so.

I have, however, written a manual of sorts on how to kill a person, get rid of the body and escape suspicion, and I might even share it with you people down the line.

Or I may just keep it to myself. I wouldn’t want to get all famous and shit, now, would I?

/

Ash