NUMB
1989
Dear Julian,
Maybe you remember. In the early to mid-'70s we used to fuck and hang out for a few years, then you moved to Paris. Years later I ran into you at a club called The Open Grave in New York when I'd renamed myself Spit. We wound up fucking in your hotel. For the record, my first name is Dennis again. Spit was a really brief thing. He existed for maybe a year at most. I'm writing because I suspect you're the one human being I've ever known who'll understand what I'm trying to say, since I feel like I learned virtually everything when we were lovers. I know I seemed weird in that Spit phase, sorry. I'm writing in part to let you know how important you were and still are to me. I should have said so that night, but as you could tell by the pseudonym, I wasn't into connecting with people. I cut off everybody I loved or who loved me. I had to. I'm not sorry I did. I think you'll probably understand why if you just keep reading.
As you can tell by the stamp on the envelope, I live in Holland, Amsterdam to be exact. I originally came over here, meaning Europe, to find you. I spent a couple of weeks down in Paris. My address for you was two or three years out of date, but I eventually located your boyfriend who said you were vacationing in Morocco or something. I trained up to Amsterdam planning to kill time until you got back, but I ended up finding a place.
Anyway, the point is I'm writing to the Julian I imagine you to be. That's a guy who'll relate to the strange, ecstatic situation I'm in. Mainly I'm going to tell you some things because I'll flip if I don't. And I'm going to tell you my story chronologically, to keep myself clear. See how this sounds.
Okay, a year and a half ago I met someone in a coffee shop here where they sell marijuana and hash. They're both legal in Holland, as you probably know. He said he knew a place where I could live for a while. I felt so carefree or insane at that point I thought, Sure, why not live abroad. You'd done it. So this guy guided me to a man who was trying to rent out two floors in a windmill. Problem was the ground floor housed a small brewery, so the upper floors smelled like beer all the time. It's huge and incredibly cheap. Still, the smell's unbelievable, especially during the summer. All I own is a futon, a clock, and some cooking utensils. There's a stove, refrigerator. The floors are two large round rooms stacked on top of each other with a spiral staircase in the center and little porthole-shaped windows. The brewery keeps the rest of the building warm. My mom sends me cash every month via American Express, out of guilt for my fucked-up upbringing, I guess.
At first I just hung around clubs, bars, boy brothels (prostitution is legal), thinking I'd make friends or something. But Dutch guys are impossible, even the hustlers. They have these childishly beautiful faces that lead you to think they'll be open and sweet and so on, but it's a fluke because they're actually closed, repressed, insecure, arrogant people, all of which makes them more devastating to me, for some reason. I've never been hornier. For months I just walked around slackjawed and hard, since every second or third guy's perfection by my standards, but whenever I tried to begin conversations with them, they'd shut up and seem overly intellectual and chilled inside. Still, one year ago this extremely cute, sleepyeyed guy about twenty-one came on to me at an after-hours club. He said I reminded him of an American ex-boyfriend. He was a ditsy, androgynous angel with brown hair, brown eyes, and big lips, just like every guy I've ever fallen for, including you. I forget his name. Call him Jan. When we got back here, Jan couldn't believe I actually lived in a windmill, the ultimate Dutch cliche. He found that hilarious. I toured him through the little brewery, which I'm allowed to keep an emergency key to. There's not much to see, just these four stinky tanks with open tops. After a while Jan said the smell was like sex, so we went back upstairs. He was tall, skinny, big-boned. He didn't smell very much, even inside his asshole. I've always been heavily into rimming. I got that from you, as you probably know. What's rimming about? I can't tell. I'm too obsessed. Anyway, I got wilder about Jan all during the sex, instead of more tired and bored like you're supposed to. It seemed really late. I think I was fucking him dog-style. He was stunning. I think he was moaning. I was about to come. I picked up an empty beer bottle without even thinking and hit the guy over the head. I don't know why. The thing broke. He fell off the futon. My cock slid out. He shit all over my legs and the bed on his way to the floor, which made me weirdly furious. I grabbed hold of his neck and ground the broken bottle into his face, really twisting and shoving it in. Then I crawled across the room and sat cross-legged, watching him bleed to death. I stayed there all night, worn out, vaguely wondering why I didn't go phone the police, or feel guilt or sympathy for his friends. I guess I'd fantasized killing a boy for so long that all the truth did was fill in details. The feeling was already planned and decided for ten years at least. I've never felt less than amazed and relieved about the whole incident. Hours passed. At some point I dragged Jan upstairs to the top of the mill. There's a smallish room shaped like a bell that nobody's gone into for hundreds of years or whatever. I stuffed him inside and washed the stairs, floor. What- ever's left of the body is there. I've never checked. I'm not interested in a dead body's smell, no matter how cute it was. Nothing smells rotten down here, probably because of the brewery, like I said.
About three months later I killed a young boy who was hanging around outside the mill for some reason. He looked about fifteen, but he could have been anything up to twentyone since the Dutch look like kids for a long time. Then, overnight, they turn into old hags. It's weird. I'd been smoking marijuana all day, so I was really relaxed. I found him standing in front of the door, looking up at the wheel, which doesn't revolve anymore and is locked into place. I asked if he spoke any English. He did, but not well. It was 8-ish P.M. Workers leave the brewery around 5, so I asked if he wanted to see it. He said yeah. He was thin and stoop-shouldered with spiked black hair, like a lot of Dutch kids, wearing loose pastelcolored clothes, which is standard attire here. I showed him around, then I led him upstairs. He didn't say much or seem all that interested. We shared my last beer. He must have wanted to ask about what it's like in the United States, but he was too insecure about his English, I guess. I was starving for him. I can't remember why, except that he was particularly angelic. He must have noticed my hard-on. My pants were all bulged out, etc. I asked if he was a rich kid, which made him laugh. Then I asked if he needed some money. He looked at his shoes. I offered him 500 guilders (about $250) to take off his pants and let me lick his asshole. He snorted, still watching his shoes. I asked if he understood. He nodded. I said it wouldn't take long and he needn't get hard if he didn't feel up to it. He snorted again. I decided to just sit there staring at him. Eventually he muttered, 500 guilders. His voice was high-pitched but very flat, like he was answering stupid questions all the time. I said, Sure. Then he shrugged. I asked him to strip. I stood a ways off to make him more comfortable. He took off everything but his undershirt, I don't know why. Would he rather lie down on his stomach or back? He said his back, and stretched out. I folded him into a ball, knees around his ears, weight on his shoulders, and told him to say if it hurt. When he answered, Okay, I decided to kill him for some reason. Then I got so emotionally weird that I almost broke down. I licked his ass for a couple of minutes, half sobbing. He didn't notice. I do this thing where I wet down two fingers and slide them into an asshole then move them apart so the hole opens up all the way to the rectum. I lean over and sniff someone's bowels, I don't know why. This kid's was rank. I closed it up right away. He shut his eyes and let out regular breaths through his nose. I worked my hands under his shirt, which he didn't notice or mind. I played with his nipples. When that made him grin just the tiniest bit, I thought, Fuck it, why not, and grabbed his neck. He opened his eyes very wide. Otherwise he didn't fight me at all. It takes a lot longer to strangle someone than you'd think. At some point his eyes changed. They got kind of empty, fake. I noticed that diarrhea had squirted out of his ass, trickling all down his back. It smelled gruesome. When he was definit
ely a corpse, I ran over and leaned out a window. Occasionally I'd check to see if he'd moved. He hadn't. He looked so beautiful with his eyes empty, I don't know why. I walked back to the futon, sat down, and gazed into their glassiness a long, long time, daydreaming and numb. I didn't know what to do next, with his body I mean, so I kept it around for a few days pushed up against one of the walls. His skin got this weird dusky color. It was a very rough winter. Maybe that's why he didn't smell the whole time. I had a million ideas how I wanted to carve up and study the kid. I couldn't do it, I don't know why. Eventually I dragged him outside late one night and threw him into a canal that runs by the windmill, assuming somebody would find him and I'd be arrested. I don't know what actually happened because he was never reported either missing or dead in the papers or anything, as far as I can tell.
What's weird is he didn't fight back. He just accepted death. Every single time I've killed a Dutch boy this happens. It must be a part of the problem that makes them so cold and unknowable in general. They're like rabbits, at least in the sense that when a rabbit gets scared it freezes up. You can threaten to kick it, it won't move. If one of these boys ever actually fought with me now, I'd probably have a brain hemorrhage I'd be so shocked.
I just realized that if you're still reading you must be the person I want you-to- be. God, I hope so.
After the second time I got more methodical. That's been facilitated by these two German murderer guys. Jorg and Ferdinand live in a squat not far away from the mill. They're as fucked up as I am, just not as intelligent. They kill guys because it's a kick, whereas for me it's religious or something. I met them at a bar. Germans are more knowable than the Dutch. So I was talking drunkenly about the idea of murder to them and they told me they'd strangled somebody, a drunk, in Koln. That's why they'd moved here to Holland, supposedly. They seemed really calm about things. When I was sure they were cool, I just casually mentioned the two boys I'd killed. They seemed amazed. They wanted to hear every detail. We officially joined forces that night, shook on it, all that. Since they basically don't give a shit who they kill just as long as it's gory, I get to handpick most of our victims and pretty much how the death happens. So I'm much more imaginative and violent now. They're big, muscly guys in their late twenties, but Ferdinand looks younger. Neither guy is particularly cute.
The weekend I met them we killed a guy who worked parttime at a fish market right near their squat. He was a typical Dutch yuppie guy who acted overly snotty whenever they came in to shop. They're kind of scruffy. Luckily for me he was almost my type. Except he was a dishwater blond and had a very light mustache. Stores usually close at 5 P.M.; Tuesdays they're open till 10. He worked on Tuesdays with some older guy. Ferdinand, Jorg, and I drank at a bar up the street. Jorg has a fierce-looking pistol he carries around in his belt. When the fish market closed, the yuppie strolled up the street, past the bar, toward a bus stop. We followed him for a while. Then Jorg yelled, Let's do it. We ran. Jorg put the gun in the boy's back. It was weird, very crime movie. Ferdinand told him to shut up. He stiffened. We walked him rapidly toward the mill. An elderly couple walked by. I don't think we registered in their eyes. He didn't try to escape for some reason. As soon as we got him upstairs, Ferdinand and Jorg started punching and slapping him. They said it was "payback" for treating them shittily at the store. All he did was breathe hard and look frustrated. Jorg broke the yuppie's nose. At least it sounded that way. They kicked every part of his body. As a favor I stood around letting them get their frustrations out. Still, they fucked up the guy pretty bad. It wasn't uninteresting to watch, except I started to feel sympathetic toward him, which could be a problem someday. So I never let them go crazy again. He didn't fight or yell out, which was the most extreme case of the rabbit-syndrome thing I've ever seen. I don't know if it was pride or whatever. He was semi-unconscious when they quit the battering, etc. At my request, they dragged him onto the futon and cut off his clothes with a Swiss army knife, "accidentally" stabbing him lightly here and there. The guy's eyes were rolling around in his head. Once he was naked the Germans went over and stood by the fridge. They opened a couple of beers and started blabbing in German. The guy was all bruised and sliced up, but cute nevertheless, though I've seen better bodies. His legs were too hairy. So was the crack of his ass. The buttocks were saggy and thick. He had the faint beginnings of a beer belly. I rolled him onto his stomach and buried my face in his ass for a while. Jorg yelled, Hey Dennis, and threw me the knife. I stabbed the buttocks a couple of times. They didn't bleed. I rolled him over, pulled down my pants, and rubbed my ass on his face, which drove the Germans insane. They chanted, Shit, shit, shit. So I did, directly onto his mouth, stabbing his thighs every once in a while. Jorg ran over and stomped the shit into his face. I heard more stuff break in his head. I asked if they thought he was dead. Ferdinand asked if I wanted that. I said, Okay. Ferdinand picked up a kitchen knife, Jorg took the Swiss army knife, and they stabbed his chest, making "oof" noises. He bled really wildly. He had to be dead after that. I was standing there watching them, jerking off, when something weird happened that never reoccurred. Jorg came over, knelt down, and sucked my cock deep into his throat. I came in his head. I even thought I loved Jorg for the next day or two, though he acted like nothing had happened between us. Still, at that moment, for whatever reason, Jorg was starved for my sperm. Weird. Anyway, they grabbed the guy's body and dragged it downstairs, yelling how they knew a burial spot and they'd see me tomorrow. I spent all night cleaning the place. They buried the corpse by their squat, apparently. I thought that was risky. Still, we've never heard anything, so I guess it's okay.
We've killed two other boys. The first was this punk, maybe twenty, twenty-one, whom I'd seen around town, always wearing the same filthy coat with the names of heavy metal bands scribbled all over it. Seeing him would make me ache for a couple of days, sometimes longer. Before I met Ferdinand and Jorg he seemed so impossible. But one afternoon I was walking around with the Germans when he came the opposite way, holding onto this one particular punk girl as always. I told the Germans I wanted to kill him. I'd learned how to say that without any feeling at all. Ferdinand said, That's no problem. It turned out the punk lived in their squat. They thought he was arrogant, stupid, pretentious, ugly, etc., so they were happy to help. They told me they'd just casually mention to him how they knew somebody who lived in a windmill. He'd definitely want a tour, they said. They'd try to coax him to visit that night. When we split off, I bought some rope so we could tie him if need be. They came by around 11 P.M. We opened beers, sat around. He listened more than he talked. I asked if he wanted a tour. He said, Okay. I showed him the tanks. At one point he strolled off alone, and I told Jorg and Ferdinand to wait for my signal. Ferdinand said I was obviously in love with the guy so no problem. The punk thought the brewery was cool. We went back upstairs, drank more beer. I was totally in awe. At one point I managed to ask, Are you gay? He said no but he didn't mind gays. I asked if he'd ever had sex with another guy. He said no, very blase about it. I asked if he'd ever thought about fucking with gay men for money. He said yeah once. Ferdinand and Jorg sat there watching. I said, How about now with us? He laughed. Seriously? he asked. I said, Sure. He asked how much. I said, You tell us. He said, 300 guilders plus two bags of heroin, which we had to score for him. I said, Fine. That kind of shocked him, I think. He leaned back and said, Oh, so that's what this bullshit's about. I said yeah. Then Jorg and Ferdinand left to score heroin. The boy said he had his own needle. We were alone, with him cross-legged facing me on the futon, acting like he knew he drove me totally insane. He asked a few questions, then nodded at the answers. I told him I'd wanted to fuck him for months, which made him look even more full of himself. I said, You've obviously done this before. He said yeah but we were lucky we'd asked when he was broke. The Germans came back with dope. He shot up. Then he stretched out on the floor by the fridge, very peaceful and pale, mumbling. I said, Let's move to the bed. He sort of staggered acros
s the room, dropped facedown on the futon. Stand him up, I said, Strip him. The Germans hoisted him up to his feet. First he said, Hey, what the fuck are you doing? Then he gave up and said, Oh okay. His clothes only looked complicated. They were a coat, T-shirt, pants, all of which slid right off. I said, Leave his boots on, I don't know why. His body was flawless-white, smooth, hard, dime nipples, big cock, dangly balls, square ass, hairless crack. He'd started nodding like junkies do. Hold him up, I said. I moved in close, feeling his body, especially his ass, which was so cold and soft. I told him I wanted to do everything that was humanly possible to him. He didn't say anything. He's too stoned, Jorg said. I asked Ferdinand, Will he fall if you guys let him go? They nodded. So let him go. They did. He collapsed on the floor and started groaning, but I don't think he was actually hurt. I stripped, knelt down next to his face and put my cock against his lips. I said, Suck. He opened his mouth. I started fucking it. That looked fantastic. At one point I stopped and french-kissed him, telling him how much I worshiped him. He was rubbing my back or my head while I did this. I licked down his body, tried sucking his cock. It wouldn't get hard, which made me furious for some reason. I don't know what I expected. I climbed off and told Jorg to kick the guy once in the stomach. He did. The guy balled up, retching. I told Jorg to hand me his gun. I pointed it at the guy's forehead. Open your eyes, I said, I'm going to kill you. He mumbled, No, no, no. The Germans came over and tied his wrists, ankles. Ferdinand said we should put something into his mouth. I thought he was saying my cock so I buried it. He probably meant a gag, but it's soundproof in here as far as anyone can tell. After a while Jorg suggested we carry the boy to the basically unused third floor of the mill and dangle him from the rafters. That way we could easily fuck him around, three on one. Great idea. The Ger mans started untying his ankles. I watched, jerking off. He was murmuring something in Dutch. They were ready to walk him upstairs, but I told them to hold it, I wanted to eat out his ass while his body was flexible. So they laid him back down on the futon and contorted his hips until the asshole was totally accessible. They skinned back the cheeks with their fingers until it was a purple cave. I started nibbling and sucking it. I tried to blow it up like a balloon, pried it even more open, sniffed the depths, etc. The Germans thought that was ridiculous, as usual. I felt kind of lost and irrational. I'd never wanted to eat someone's shit before, but I was starved for the punk's. I asked him if it had been eaten before. He mumbled, No, let me go. I asked if he'd like me to eat it. He said, Are you really going to kill me? I said, No, very casually. Then I repeated my question. He said he didn't know what I meant. I said if he'd shit in my mouth we'd let him go. He said okay. He sounded totally exhausted. His ass looked fantastic. I stared at the thing for a few seconds. Then I put my hand under the hole. The punk looked terrified but kind of haughty. I think Dutch faces must have some haughtiness built into them or whatever. His neck was all crumpled up under his chin like a walrus's. I said, Shit. He contorted his face. A long shit squirted out. I had to move my hand around quickly to catch it all. I was so wild for the guy's looks in general that the smell hardly registered, but the Germans backed off and hooted, so it probably stank really bad. I started eating it. The Germans watched me, fascinated, I think, but pretending to puke and etc. It tasted okay, kind of bland. I swallowed three mouthfuls, then wiped off the rest on the floor and licked his asshole clean, inside, out. Then I said, Ferdinand, Jorg, take the idiot upstairs. He couldn't believe it. They grabbed him. He yelled, No, no, no. After we got him upstairs, the Germans threw a rope over a beam in the rafters. They untied his hands and retied them clasped over his head. Then they connected the two ropes and hoisted him until his feet were a foot off the floor. I stood nearby, jerking off. His face was scrunched up in discomfort, at the strain on his arms or whatever. It seemed religious, I don't know why. It also reminded me of a punching bag, like boxers use. Anyway, I was tired, so I told the Germans, Let's go downstairs for a while. The downstairs smelled gruesome, so Ferdinand opened the windows. I cleaned up the shit. We drank a few beers. The smell went away or we got used to it. There was no noise at all from upstairs, as far as we could tell. I asked Ferdinand and Jorg what they'd do with the punk if they could. They said what I knew they'd say, Beat him to death. I understood how that would be great and everything, but it wasn't enough somehow, at least for me. So I told them to go home, sleep, and we'd meet up the next day and finish the boy off, once I'd had some time to decide. They said, Fine, left. I was too tense to sleep. So I went back upstairs late that night and just watched the punk hang there. At first he didn't notice me. Then he said, Let me go, I won't tell, etc. I said, No, his death was important to me. He couldn't possibly understand, I said. Even I didn't understand, really. He tried to discuss it with me intellectually. I said it wasn't a rational thing, he might as well give up. Then I caressed him all over. It was like I was frisking him, only much more extensively. All he said the whole time was his back hurt, almost to himself. I examined it. I couldn't tell what was the problem. So I knelt down and licked out his ass again, finger-fucked it. The fingering made him scream, because it put too much stress on his muscles, I guess. When he screamed his mouth opened incredibly wide. Then I really wanted to kill him. The red mouth triggered the need, because it was a preview or something. I went downstairs, came back up with the kitchen knife. He whispered, No, no, no, when he saw it. I said, Everything is over. I don't know why I said those particular words, but they seemed to communicate what I was feeling. I asked, Did he know it was over? He said, Yes, very flatly. I told him he was the most extraordinary and beautiful boy I'd ever seen in my life and that killing him would be incredible and that he should understand how profound his death was and that I would remember his murder forever. He just looked at me. I couldn't read his expression. My hands were totally trembling, but I took the knife and aimed it at his chest about the point where his heart would have been. He looked down to see where I'd aimed, by reflex, I guess. I shoved the blade about five inches into his chest with both hands. His eyes closed. He bit his bottom lip. His head dropped back. Blood poured out around the knife, down his body. I pulled out the knife and made a light horizontal cut across his stomach, which dribbled more blood. I stretched out his penis and tried to saw it in two. I only got through a fraction of it, it was so tough. I knelt down behind him and licked his asshole but that seemed kind of pointless with him dead, so I stabbed his back a bunch of times, kissing and licking his neck as I did. Then I walked back downstairs, dressed, went out, and called the Germans, waking them up. They hurried over. They kicked the corpse around for a while. That created a pretty hilarious fireworks display of blood, with him swinging around like the clapper in an invisible bell. I wanted the Germans to cut off his head for some reason, so they severed the rope suspending him and turned the corpse on its stomach. They sawed through its neck-carving, hacking, abrading, etc. The head came free, which took a very long time. Then they kicked the headless torso around. We were all soaked with blood, not to mention a clear goo that came from some organ inside him. I felt unbelievably tired and sat down against one wall, watching them dance around. When none of us cared about the corpse anymore, the Germans picked it up by the armpits and started downstairs. It had basically run out of blood. It didn't leave much of a mess on the stairs, just some smears where its feet dragged. They left the head behind resting on one ear. It continued to hold this incredible allure, but in a weird way, obviously, since it didn't mean much anymore. Jorg came back up for it shortly. I stood at the top of the stairs and watched the punk's body go. I couldn't see the head because it was under Jorg's arm, I think. Supposedly they weighted the corpse down with pieces of concrete and dropped it into the canal. Then I stashed the hypodermic and heroin in the refrigerator. The rest is a blur. For some reason this death is the one that has weirded me out more than any other. It's not an emotional thing, more a sleepiness that wasn't there before he died. It went on for weeks afterward and is still kind of here. I kept th
inking I saw the punk places, in the far edges of my eyes, and so on. I never saw the punk's girlfriend again. Maybe the Germans killed her when I wasn't around since I know that Ferdinand, at least, was attracted to her. I should ask them.
Frisk: A Novel (Cooper, Dennis) Page 9
