My Pet Serial Killer

by Michael J Seidlinger

  Look me in the eye. Type out the words that come to mind. Don’t think. Just type.

  —He won’t look away.

  I lick my lips when our eyes meet. Don’t worry about the lag; we’ll meet when we moan together. Let me hear you moan.

  I’m already touching myself.

  Why do you think we’re all prone to deviance? Deviance reminds us of our mortality.

  I’m close. Are you?

  We grow closer with every breath. Every stroke. Every thrust. Every second I get wetter, you get more and more tense.

  Release. Release me.

  —He wants to be free.

  I stop and watch your body tense up from head to toe. And in the seconds after you’re spoiled, I grin a fiendish smile and get myself to climax too, right on command.

  I know my urges.

  I know my body inside and out.

  Call it experience. Call it stability.

  I don’t regret a thing. When you know yourself so well, you don’t worry about whether what you’re doing is right or wrong. What’s right feels right. Whatever makes you feel alive, live it and be like me. The first thing a person does after coming is close their window.

  Don’t you flee me in fear. Not until I tell you to. Come and go, you’re mine.

  —He pledges to be my pet.

  If you’d look at me, you’d find yourself.

  Hello my name is. . .

  —He’ll never know my real name.

  Calling. Oh, I am calling. I’m calling your name the way you wish I would.

  I’m telling you I’m fine. I’m saying nothing but bittersweet phrases out of a romance novel I’ve never read. I’m whispering your name when you’re resisting because I know well that any resistance is really an act of instinct and survival.

  That’s just the kind of person I am.

  I’m your little girl, if you’d like.

  I’m your mother, if you’d like.

  I’m your dream, if you’d like.

  I’m your nightmare.

  —He withers when I want him to.

  I’m anything you’d like me to be as long as I remain master.

  As master, I can never be your victim.

  You want to talk. Really talk? Fine, let’s talk.

  I’ll do as you say but on one condition—

  I’ll meet you halfway and I won’t be wearing a thing.

  The last thing that’s going to bring me down are cotton fibers and other forms of elasticity. They are tethers; they are daggers digging into my shoulder blades. The body was never meant to wear those trendy clothes.

  And when people see me walking naked down the street—how is it a crime if everyone’s enjoying the sight? I turn the heads of every man and more than a few women.

  —He wants me.

  We’re comparing curves. Everyone’s aligning to their standards and wondering where I’ve been all their lives. I’d have them too, but only if you’d be a gentleman to them afterwards.

  We meet halfway. I’m listening to you, yes, don’t deny that I’m not. I am myself. I can’t be anybody but “me.”

  —He dominates me.

  This is me. We can go anywhere you like.

  If I go missing it’s because I chose to go missing. This isn’t a kidnapping if I’m the one agreeing to go somewhere more secluded. I’ll go to your apartment.

  It’s okay to look at me there. I don’t mind.

  This is all about satisfaction and I’ll soon be getting mine.

  You tell me it’s insanity, but I’m telling you I’m perfectly fine.

  Somehow I already know your name, but you claim you don’t know mine. Or rather, you’re telling me that you don’t know who I am anymore, like we’ve known each other for quite some time. It’s quite the night for a little fun, don’t you think?

  I need the satisfaction and you need whatever it is you need, so how is it any worse than what I’d do on webcam on any given night?

  But you’re the resistant type, and you’re telling me I’ve gone too far.

  —He says only what I want him to say.

  What I’d say is we haven’t gone far enough.

  If this is the case, who’s owning who?

  I won’t be the one to deny that I didn’t expect the feeling to be mutual. Is it possible to go missing in the night when you didn’t mean to? More so, is it possible to be the kidnapper of someone you hadn’t yet taken?

  Just like sex it comes in so many different varieties.

  If there’s any reason to keep going it’s to see what else is out there, being created as we speak, while you tell me to calm down—but I’m calm it’s you who isn’t calm—and to put something on. I’m ready to leave.

  Your that kind of client that wants to rationalize your own version of dignity with me, and I’m the person who says there’s no argument. I’m leaving.

  I’ve got the rest of the night to make up for the disappointment.

  —He climaxes too early.

  —He is ashamed.

  —He knows I’m disappointed.

  The disappointment, it’s you.

  Shh, don’t say anything you’ll regret in the morning.

  1.

  He wanted me to call him Victor.

  I only call him my pet.

  He wanted to know my name.

  I’d never tell.

  He’d only know me as master.

  Master observes.

  Master finds real fighters.

  Master makes him a better serial murderer.

  Remember to thank me, my pet. . .

  Without me, you would have already been caught.

  The pickup game is a deadly switch of sex and violence.

  2.

  I know firsthand the anatomy of a scene.

  She’ll look you right in your eyes. She’ll grip onto you so tightly it’ll make you blush. There’s nothing like such a girl to make you feel alive, just as there’s nothing like a girl to mess with your head. Stay focused. She’ll remind you of your first time. She’ll make you feel like you’re inadequate. You’ll begin to think you’re not ready, but that’s just part of the game.

  You have to remember: You are taking her home.

  She isn’t yours to have.

  Her brown hair slips out of its ponytail and brushes his arm while they walk to the lounge in the back.

  She’s asking, “Where are we going?”

  Don’t ignore her. It’s better to talk to the girl. There’s nothing worse than getting her only to lose her halfway across the club because you were acting suspicious.

  You reply, “There’s a lounge in the back.”

  “Do they have a bar there too?”

  Nodding, “Yup.”

  She tightens her grip. Stomach tightens with her every touch. This is intentional.

  You get used to it. If you’re a natural, by the third time there’s nothing to it.

  Don’t think of the mystery, just think of the moment.

  The brunette reaches out and grabs your hand. The brunette holds on for dear life.

  What goes on in her head?

  Not sure it’s possible to explain. You’re someone she just met. You’re interesting, mysterious, and she’ll stay with you because you are just that: an enigma.

  You’re someone that’s come into her life. You’re maybe someone new, never tried before, but after a long stretch with a certain type, she’s ready to try something else. She’s desperate. Who isn’t?

  Not too long ago, you were another observer spending every dreary rainy night alone on the dance floor, watching, scanning, searching. You worry about the chances you’ll end up in the same situation again. It’s enough to try to make it worth it with him, and all sighs and gasps lead to a positive result.

  It’s why you’re out tonight, needing new streets and boulevards to explore.

  Another bit of advice is to never lead them on long enough for them to begin questioning who you are and whether or not you’re worth it.


  It’s likely they’ll decide that you’re not.

  Too many people end up going home with someone less just because they want to feel something, anything. The girl doesn’t think you’re less. She thinks you’re a catch. She’s excited. She wants to know more about you than you’re willing to show.

  This is about getting the girl as soon as possible. It’s that simple, okay?

  Don’t think about it. Do it.

  What’s going on in your head?

  The lounge is empty. You do what’s worked time and time before. You lead the brunette to one of the back corner booths and you sit with her.

  The brunette sits next to you, rather than across, and begins asking about your life, your loves, your losses—the little things. She plays with your shirt; she nibbles on your cheek.

  It’s all a game.

  You remain somewhat silent.

  The brunette begins to notice. “Perk up, why don’t ya? It was you that came to me.”

  Everyone is lonely. Everyone is desperate to have someone at their side.

  You act the part, getting her right where you need her.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “What’s complicated?”

  “What I’m going to do to you. . .”

  The brunette laughs, “Oh yeah? What are you going to do to me?” She runs a hand up your shirt and begins fondling your left breast. You’re not wearing a bra.

  If it gets too personal, too intimate, drag out each question until it’s time. Until it’s perfect. When will it be time? You’ll know.

  “You’re so tense. It’s good that we have the lounge to ourselves.”

  You respond, “The lounge is never full.”

  She rests her head on your lap. In a playful, half-interested voice, she asks, “Why’s that?”

  “Because people don’t go here to lounge.”

  “Well yeah,” and she is beginning to pick up the clue, knowing what you want.

  You say something like, “People are drugged here and dragged home.”

  Startled, you let her push away and fumble to her feet.

  No use going anywhere, girl. You drugged her so seamlessly it is without notice or description. It happened between actions and touching. A bit later, after the girl is in the cage and stripped clean, you run through a mental checklist—who might know her, and who might want to find her—you can’t have anyone searching around later.

  You checked her purse, right?

  “Right.”

  You made note of who might have noticed you and her together, right?

  “Right.”

  You recovered her car and all extraneous belongings and identification, right?

  “Right.”

  Then what else is wrong?

  “I want to know that she’s quality.”

  If she seemed to react the way the others did, she can’t be inferior, can she?

  “Just confirm that she’s capable.”

  Capable of what?

  “Capable of replacing me. Us.”

  What you don’t know is just cause for potential danger.

  Picture this—you’re tending to her and somehow she still stirs and manages a sharp metal object right into your hand.

  There should be some excitement accompanying that thought.

  “Yeah.”

  Look at him. Look. Look at your pet.

  He’s ecstatic.

  And this is how I can tell the fighters from the truly forgotten.

  This is how I turn number twenty-nine into number thirty-five in two nights trailing a series of clubs where everyone’s playing; everyone’s dying to be picked up.

  Me—I’m just another player looking to expand her horizons.

  Am I? Am I really?

  3.

  I went to class.

  My turn to make up for my absences.

  A letter grade lost because I wasn’t there to explain.

  It’s my turn to teach and my turn to show them how.

  A killer makes the victim feel like there’s still something left in life; a new “take” on it.

  A killer is often searching for something that is unrecognizable.

  A killer is adept at seeking the surfacing of its subconscious.

  I taught ten clueless forensics grad students and one associate professor about how the Gentleman Killer made the rounds:

  He plays flirtatious bachelor.

  He targets semi-aggressive, equally-eligible females.

  The one he targets is the one he’s supposed to want.

  He waits for the female to open up, if only just a little.

  All he needs is for her to take one look.

  Gentleman Killer tells the women, “Any man would have you.”

  Gentleman Killer tells the women they are irresistible.

  He is an artist.

  He is a scientist.

  He’s popular news.

  Gentleman Killer might sit next to you in class. He asks for your notes.

  He stands in line for lunch with the rest of the students.

  He sells you your textbooks.

  The campus is blanketed in disclaimer flyers, his own doing.

  These words are his. The flyer you hold—you’ll wish you never read it.

  Treat this flyer by its would-be intention: A warning.

  Keep your eyes open and your hearts cold.

  He wants you by his side and, if he chooses you, you won’t be able to say no.

  Like any true gentleman, he will always be “your type.”

  You know it’s true. You know him better than you know yourself, just as he can see you better than you can see yourself in natural light.

  You’re squinting to have a look while he sees you plainly, and is at-present deciding whether or not you’re a worthy enough target, a worthy enough victim.

  Life’s flashing before your eyes and it makes you forget everything else.

  They are tamed, apprehensive about my profile of the killer-at-large.

  None in agreement, but they don’t know how to prove me wrong.

  I am satiated. The professor pulled me aside, explaining to me his thoughts.

  I told him what’s so bothersome is how he can be anyone and everyone. No one is normal; under the surface of our practiced social disguises exists a glimmer of fight.

  Humbled. Hasty with his reply. He told me about the possibilities of research.

  This topic, my thesis, a fellowship with funding to help find him—Gentleman Killer.

  I have better things to do. Professor said, “Think about it,” and handed me my grade.

  I went to class and recovered effortlessly the letter grade I had lost.

  4.

  I try and try and try, but he still won’t tell me what they taste like after. He’s eager to let me know what he did to her to make her, every side of her, unique, but when it comes down to the way they taste on second suck, second lick, second insertion, he’s stopping short, falling silent, moving on to the next one and then the one after that.

  What does she taste like after her breath falls and her heart stops?

  He’s eager to tell me about Melanie, who tastes like cinnamon. He penetrated her with as many insertables as possible before he saw tearing and blood.

  He’s eager to tell me about Stephanie, who he didn’t seem to enjoy as much.

  His second wasn’t as good as his first? But barring any disappointment, he still managed to try out his recent online auction purchase—a pear of anguish. That did wonders, I’m sure.

  He’s not waiting for my reply. I’m finding his sudden splurge of enthusiasm quite compelling. He’s going on about his third, Jessica, who really loved the phrase, “My dear,” and how she tasted like apple. She squealed like a pig when he used the expanding prods.

  Jessica screamed like no one else screamed before.

  When Mildred came around, he shocked her again in hopes of hearing the same squeal. Not to be, but it only fueled him more.

  He’s
smacking his lips when he talks about Christy, how she tasted of vanilla. He used razor wire pipe on every inch of her that cut like butter. Alexandra tasted like chocolate, and to celebrate the discovery, he treated her to stucco and plastic shards.

  He laughs when he talks about Lexis, Jenny, Christina, and Shannon, who all tasted like sour apple. He made a joke about how this must be why so many men fail to please a woman down there. They pucker up like a kiss when they should be loose, letting their tongues please every fold. He got used to the pear of anguish and used it on all four.

  He’s shrugging, “But then the pear became my ‘thing’ and I had to stop using it.”

  He’s talking up this Maggie because she was the first to taste like cherries. He treated her to an old fashioned cut of the knife, you know, just to change things up.

  Athena was a name to remember attached to someone who tasted and acted like everyone else. He shoved the barrel of a .45 inside her and pulled the trigger.

  I’m shaking my head.

  He’s pouting, saying, “Why?”

  I’m not upset about what he did, but rather where he did it. “A gun shot in a loft apartment downtown? Good thing you’re lucky because anyone else would have had neighbors and local cops knocking on their doors five minutes later.”

  He’s acting all confident and saying that he left her there a minute later, not bothering to examine her insides, but I’m still shaking my head. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he’s moving on to Althea who he expanded with a 2x4 after finding out she tasted like nothing.

  Lauren wouldn’t stop talking about computers, so after tasting her—he’s stopping for a moment to explain her taste, “It’s like. . . I think it’s. . . butterscotch”—he took apart an old computer and inserted pieces of a motherboard in that butterscotch tasting snatch, watching as she didn’t seem to notice at first, the small pieces before the bigger ones.

  He’s blushing, “She kept pleading with me, ‘Please, please no, please,’ and for the first time, I got hard.” Lauren’s squirming and victimizing pleas left a mark.

  He’s stopping to say how I look like her.

  “Like who?”

  And of course he’s saying, her, Nicole, a redhead who tasted like honey.

  He’s smacking his lips again.