The others are missing.
What are you doing, fine sir?
The killer stops abruptly.
The killer seems angered.
Data recorded.
3.
The killer notices the email.
The killer watches the footage.
The killer breaks down.
Sobbing and silence.
Flat packing sounds, the sound of the killer tending to her body.
Sliding and then disposal.
Miss Whatever Number wasn’t enjoyable at all.
Screams.
The killer screams.
Anger.
The killer is shouting.
The killer is begging.
The killer is shouting her name in anger.
The killer is shouting her name in apology.
Data recorded.
4.
The killer receives phone calls from women late at night.
Different voice every time.
The killer loops the video footage.
The killer can’t get rid of the smell of perfume even though the smell of the freshly dead body overlaps, overpowering the entire apartment.
The killer picks up the phone.
A familiar tone, the way she talks.
His face is expressionless.
What is he thinking?
My pet serial killer, my pretty, pretty pet.
The killer remains seated at his laptop.
The killer picks up the phone and listens to her talk.
The killer watches the footage.
The killer does this all day.
Like the sound of the rain outside, the killer is steady and constant.
Unmoving.
The killer answers the phone without looking at the number.
Listens to the masked voice reciting the same thing.
“This is your fault. This is your fault.”
Over and over again until master hangs up.
The killer watches the footage.
What’s most important is what the killer is thinking about, but that can’t be recorded.
The killer sits still. The killer might be playing dead.
Data recorded.
5.
Sometime late into the night, the killer begins moving again.
The killer takes out his cellphone.
The killer sits there a moment, considering his options.
The killer begins inputting numbers.
The killer dials, hangs up before saying a word.
The killer hits play on the video footage.
Leans in close, analyzing what he sees.
The killer narrows his eyes.
Crosses his arms, uncrosses them. Sighs.
The killer stands up.
The killer starts taking off his clothes.
First the shirt, then the pants.
Lastly his underwear.
He is erect, stroking.
The killer looks up directly at one of the cameras.
The killer, instead of sitting back down, he walks off camera.
The killer doesn’t appear on any of the other cameras.
One by one the cameras go black.
Spray paint across the lens, the hissing of an aerosol can. Nothing is seen, only heard.
The killer moves around the apartment.
Only sound remains.
The killer is typing something on the keyboard.
The killer is talking to someone on the phone.
The killer hangs up.
He curses to himself.
Tries again.
Sounds like a different number.
The killer is talking to someone.
The killer is talking to someone.
He is talking to someone.
Voice muffled, difficult to determine who it is.
It’s enough to disturb the master keeping track of his every move.
Data recorded.
6.
So this is where things start to lean more in his favor rather than mine. I hadn’t expected him to resist, or at least I hadn’t expected him to resist so quickly.
I’ve barely pushed him, yet he’s passing me over.
Doing something I would never, ever allow.
I’m. . .I don’t know what I’m feeling.
Shouldn’t I be angry?
I should, right?
I should be angry.
But I’m not. I’m feeling like I should go to the apartment, like right now, but I’m also wondering if he sprayed the cameras as a means of getting me back.
Do I ignore or pursue?
Nothing about this is easy.
I shouldn’t go.
If I do he’ll have the upper hand.
We have to remember our roles and what each side brings to this relationship. I am master while he is pet. It’s fair. Right down the middle. He does what he does and gets what he needs. I give what he needs and get what I want in return. I used to think this was acceptable enough but then. . .
I should go.
No.
Yes.
I should go because if I don’t there’s no telling if he’s going to stay. I don’t want to track him down. I know as much about him as he knows about me. So in a way. he can’t just leave. The look on his face. . .
He knows something.
I’m going.
I’m going to pack up my things and ditch this motel room.
Yes.
That’s exactly what I’m going to do.
It’s what I need to do.
He is my pet.
He is my pet.
I am master.
I am master.
Yes.
I’m leaving.
I’m on my way now.
Right now.
Yes.
7.
There’ll be a movie about a killer that meets another killer who is destined to be a future killer—while the concept of another killer is forever a possibility, capable of being found, and that’s where killer and killer assume another source. The killer inside is a fight that runs in circles. How does the audience know which one is the main killer? The audience has to figure it out. That’s the mystery. That’s why the movie will be a mystery. This movie will sell well, as with any other graphic crime-thriller. This movie is called. . .
After the movie there is nothing.
Before the movie there is nothing.
The movie is about a killer, and the one killer that transcends the hour-and-a-half long story to continue as a killer like so many others.
Man, woman, and mystery.
This is cause for celebration. What’s one scene have anything to do with another?
Flicker. Cue the booming, rhythmic bass of rave music. Flicker. It’s a club, Saturday night. Flicker. DJ bobbing his head. Flicker. A certain shot is desperately trying to be seen.
The audience is receptive to a number of flickering, establishing shots of the club’s clientele—bar, people drinking, people dancing, people mingling, people making out. Flicker. An empty lounge. Flicker. A three second close-up shot of a pool of blood, dark enough to look like spilt oil. Flicker. People trading numbers. Flicker.
A familiar man talking to a woman. Flicker. Then another woman. Flicker. Yet another woman. The scene starts fittingly with this man. He’s quite the player. He’s in a good mood.
It must have been a good day.
The audience watches him whisper something in a woman’s ear. She smiles. She nods when he asks her something inaudible, blanketed by the rave music.
The audience hears nothing but rave music.
No laughter. No sound effects. Nothing but the rave track throughout the entire scene.
The audience watches the man with a series of women—jump shots, making it appear like girls are being interchangeably swapped in and out like templates with a seamless charge. The man finds a woman on the dance floor, talks to her, seduces her, walks with her to the edge of the dance floor, up the stairs, and out of
sight.
When the man returns, he returns alone.
Flicker. Close-up on the young man’s face, a look of fear.
Flicker. A naked woman on the dance floor.
Flicker. The woman standing, splitting the dance floor like the parting of a sea.
Flicker. Accelerating, rapid second-long still image shots of the man trying to get closer to the woman. The woman is fully nude, wandering around the club. The man runs away and hides within a group of people. The woman looks at the audience and smiles.
The music stops. Complete silence.
The audience doesn’t notice.
The people at the club don’t notice.
No one misses a step.
Why don’t you dance?
Anything behind a locked door is there for a reason.
1.
For the first and last time, I found myself in the position of being a patsy.
I went back to the apartment.
He wasn’t there.
I saw her, face down with the skin of her back missing, but he wasn’t there.
“He left her.”
One of the most important rules—if there were rules—would be to never leave her.
Never leave me.
But most importantly, “Don’t ditch the bodies!”
I made sure to bathe the bodies I collected. Dispose of them promptly. Yes, the night club with the seemingly forgotten basements and nearby storage units. Leaving the body there for a little less than a day, bathed in powerful chemical, there’ll be nothing left.
Set them side by side, each in their own plastic carton, and they’ll be primed.
But he’s leaving her here, thinking they’ll disappear.
At least this is what I first thought until I checked around, inspecting everything in the apartment for clues—I am a woman of forensics—and what did I find, oh, what did I find. . .
I went back to the apartment and found that he hoped to flee, making me the prime suspect. A woman responsible for the Gentleman Killer series of murders?
Now that makes for a great news story.
It makes me laugh.
Not the story, but rather the fact he thinks he can turn on me.
Me.
Master.
2.
But of course he wouldn’t get that far without having to go back and he wasn’t really trying to run away. He enjoyed the freedom of fleeing only to grasp that endless series of mistakes, every single one of them stringing together so beautifully, no one would have to fill in any of the plot-holes. It wouldn’t be a mystery. But what’s the fun in that?
Before his return, I cleaned up the apartment. Why not?
I’m not done with him yet.
The neighbor next door, I had to tend to him before everything could be set into place.
But that’s where it started.
The breaking-up.
The betrayal.
Let it be recorded: He broke our agreement.
It was he that started it all.
I wanted to give him everything. I thought I saw the inner fight inside.
But I guess not.
What do I see?
I see someone masquerading as popular device.
3.
I’m knocking on the door and there’s no answer. I’m about to break in when the neighbor opens the door. He’s staring blankly at me, head rocking back and forth ever so slightly, and I’m pushing him aside, walking into his apartment.
He’s barely there. He’s laughing, calling me a witch because, with my hair wet, it curls at the ends and takes on a frazzled look. I mean, I guess that’s why he’s calling me that.
According to him, “You’ve been living in the woods or some shit!”
He offers and why not. I breathe in and cough.
He’s grinning widely, “Good shit huh? I know where to get the good shit!”
I’m telling him he needs to go.
Amid laughter, he can only manage to repeat the word “go.”
“Yes, go, and here, take all this, stay away for a week. I only need a week. If you accept this, you are officially homeless for a week, get it? I’ll change the locks if I have to.”
The sight of the money straightens his face and sobers him instantly, “Whoh hey now.”
I’m not slowing down to explain it to him. I’m not explaining any of it to him.
He’s laying out the bills, counting the money like a first-grader still new to handling money. I’m repeating the same sentences until they stick:
“This is my apartment for a week.”
Repeat it enough times and he’ll get it.
“Shit, I’m gonna kick it at the beach.”
“Yeah, you do that. Just don’t come back here for a week.”
“Shit you can have this place. I don’t need it.”
“Only a week.”
“Yeah. . .”
“One week.”
I’m pushing him towards the front door; otherwise, he may never leave.
At the door, I’m asking, “How old are you?”
He’s not going to answer. We share an awkward moment before I start pushing him out the door and looking at him a moment longer, realizing he won’t be able to answer, I slam the door shut. Neighbor tries the front door but it’s locked.
Did he forget already? He did.
I’m saying, “Anything behind a locked door is there for a reason.”
But after jiggling the doorknob for a bit I hear him say, “Oh right, my bad.”
4.
I’m still ahead of schedule. I take my time with this apartment.
I’m aware that I’m not completely sober but that’s more than acceptable because what needs to be done might as well already be done.
It’s exactly how I want it.
What I want:
This apartment leaning as close to mine as possible.
And it is.
To hear every single thing that happens, as it happens.
And I will.
The cameras, newly repaired, backed up by a series of holes drilled across the walls, covered with a descending panel to prevent light (or smoke) to pour in from the wrong side.
And let it be.
Him, instantly confused and regretting every moment of his so-called life until he’s ready to give up and take his own life.
And believe in him.
Him, wondering why he did the things he did, betray the one he betrayed, waver and become withdrawn when it’s clear he still had some fight left in him.
And wonder too the worry this brings.
A killer is only capable of one kind of murder.
Is this true?
A killer is capable of knowing himself fully but after seeing yourself in true shape it might be true that you can’t ever retain form again.
You are knowledgeable of your every angle yet you cannot stand by one.
You cannot stand tall. You cannot settle for one.
Just as I can’t settle for you.
When you can’t leave me behind, returning defeated to the apartment, I will be waiting.
I will be watching, like before. This time, I’m next door.
I have seen, in the mirror, a million different faces looking back at me.
But what I am, what you might already have figured out, is what you are now trying to escape: If I am that who supports a serial killer, what does that make me? Surely I’m not just a student. I’m a scholar. I’m a practitioner of a particular hands-on kind of exploratory search.
I know what I want, just like I know what I’m studying.
Just like I know what I am.
And I know what I’m going to do with you.
No pet of mine has ever tried turning on me.
I’ve been attacked. I’ve been strangled. I’ve been in the position of having to give chase to one that simply ran and ran and ran but they all end with the same image:
A mystery wrapped around a serial killer image where the killer seeming
ly ended its own life. My last time, he found the intestinal tract of a human being fascinating, how it can run on for miles and how it can all be there, in that compact midsection of the human body. He wondered how long he was. As my last gift to him, I showed him. He stretched for miles like he said, wrapping around him like a python, strangling him until dead. See?
I am not new to this, my pet.
I have a big heart but you mustn’t cross me.
And why, then, must they always cut what they cannot straighten out? My, my, I only want to give those capable of taking the ability to take, but they always ruin it. Always. Never fail. It ends with entrails being uncoiled from a dead body by people like me.
The forensics team, they have a look, get a kick out of what they see.
Me, I’m the only one that knows the secret.
It’s stupid to think I do this for sinister reasons.
My reasons are my own. I must say—it’s amazing how people always assume that I’m troubled. I know what I’m doing just like I know what I want.
Perhaps it’s the game we play that’s perilous and full of pain.
Has no one thought about that possibility?
Either way, I’m still going to have to tend to him.
When he arrives, I’ll be waiting.
5.
The real mystery is that we’re able to get along at all. Is it possible to get to know someone without feeling the urge to murder them after seeing who they really are?
The audience demanded it and now they’re going to get it.
Skipping over rising action, it’s about time for climax and catharsis.
What is the audience looking at?
A park setting? No. The club setting? No. That dank alley? No.
Open wide on an apartment; no, make it two apartments.
Side by side, the shot is pulled back to fit both floor plans. And worse, to make the shot work, the roofs must come off; the element of reality must be disrupted all in the name of cinematic effect.
The mystery will be solved. Finally.
The mystery is hidden away, somewhere in one of these apartments.
But there’s more to the man. There’s more to the woman.
We see one apartment in the present, one in the past.
My Pet Serial Killer Page 12
