TBK: The Butterfly Killer

by A. P. Butler

  The heavenly aroma of cocoa butter engulfed me as I handed my clothes to the beautiful young assistant, her eyes the brightest of emerald green. Leaving me almost naked but for a pair little black hipster knickers and the tasteless black studded tote bag containing my list of naughties. She took all, grasping them with one hand while giving me a pink token with the other. Her only comment was how impressively erect my nipples were, although she immediately rescinds her compliment by informing me how unacceptably small my pert breasts were. Her comment delivered in such a way as to only encourage smiles, her jealousy all too apparent as her own metamorphosis was still in pupa.

  The darkness of internal killer stared blankly back at me as I arranged the long shoulder length, black wig from my shopping this afternoon, brushing it into style with fingers comb. Finishing off my gothic disguise with a generous covering of metallic black lip-gloss. The moment I stepped back into the theatre I felt anonymous as if I was now meant to be there. With bourbon in hand and bag over shoulder, I slowly wandered the room with a fuck me gait to my stride, looking for my prey, for Father Raymond.

  Each booth offered a different experience, one a solitary man sat masturbating his life away, another was host to a couple fucking, yet another concealed a more disturbing sight including a small boy and two older men. As repulsion and disgusted tore my gaze away, I saw him, the unmistakable silhouette of an obese man sprawled out, a young boy no older than ten or twelve performing fellatio upon him. His eyes seduced closed by pleasure as he enjoyed the moment fully, upon my approached the tears of guilt and disgust upon youthful face became apparent.

  Silently kneeling down beside the young boy, holding finger to lip. Whispering upon innocent ear to make his departure, I would conclude this evening's entertainment. The boy’s face grew a look of relief and tainted happiness as he withdrew into the darkness of the shadows. Taking the fathers unacceptably small phallus deep, as I readied my revenge, my mouth took care of his ego, as I took the phallic shaped firework with remote match attached from bag beneath. My finger tip tickling him below, his sound of agreement allowing me to enter, I continued my ruse, my head bobbing, fingers encouraging greater access.

  The tip of the explosive slid effortlessly inside, his arousal now even more evident. This particular firework I’d chosen because of its innuendo-laden shape, the salesman also assured me it had excellent thrust, combined with a colourful explosive finale. The father’s only comment was to adorn praise upon his fictitious friend above as my simple yet effective game unfolded. Time was my accomplice in his preparation; I wanted this to be an explosive experience for us both, the firework now fully inserted. Sucking air into my mouth as I pleasured him, a trick I’d learnt many a year ago, anything to make the abuse stop sooner.

  Lifting my head, I began to masturbate him, his disapproval most evident. Head raised quickly with lowering gaze, his eyes fully dilated as he saw my sinister grin now before him, his nemesis at hip. With pliers from bag, I clasped the jaws around one of his testicles; surprisingly little pressure was required to gain his full, obedient attention. “Please Elizabeth don’t, I beg you.” His plea for clemency filled with urgency and panic, my reply, a slight snap of hand. The jaws biting down hard, his scream almost drowned by the climatic scenes of the movie ahead. His unfortunate choice of location now beginning to dawn upon him. Nobody cared, nobody looked. This grubby little establishment offered complete anonymity, like the three wise monkeys, the staff never seeing, never hearing, and certainly never speaking of such events. His god abandoning him as he lay praying for divine intervention.

  “Where is Arthur Cain?”

  “In the States, he’s in New York.”

  Evan’s phone concealed his true location of Cambodia, the dialling code still attributed to a recent call not hours prior, so I knew the father was lying. A little twist of testicle mixed with a menacing snap of teeth restored his clarity and the truth.

  “OK, OK, he’s in Phnom Penh, that’s all I know Elizabeth.”

  “Should have bought a sparkler for his cock Elspeth.” Ubel’s sadistically excellent idea danced into my ear.

  “Slide it down his piss hole then light the cunt up, a birthday cock with sparkler.”

  Unfortunately, Ubel’s idea was too late for this reunion of the shadows. One of the men that stole my childhood, my sister, the lives of so many innocent now at my mercy, I remembered the darker times of my childhood. The jaws bit deeper into his testicle, splitting it in two, his agony now pushing his voice out of human audible range, he gulped at the air as the pain cascaded over him. “Not sure I believe you father,” Ubel screaming at me to rip his testicles off, to bite chunks from him. “Crush the other one Elspeth dear!” As instructed I clamped the steel jaws around his other testicle with enough pressure to regain his attention.

  “Please Elizabeth; he’s in a missionary out there, I swear on the holy bible.”

  The irony of his testament oblivious to him, laying hand upon a book of lies, whilst swearing to tell the truth, amused my trinity of three. The movie had finished as the three of us finished laughing, the room was plunged into almost total darkness as the interlude, and the eternal thump of dark bass music punched out. His face I could still see as the dim little lights around each booth glowed into life. Squeezing as hard as possible, I assisted his other testicle to its demise, obliterating under pressure, this time no-one heard the screams. Nobody could see the agony now surrounding this father of sin, this abuser of the innocent, no brother's keeper to be found, no angle of mercy to comfort with wing.

  His breathing was quick and shallow as the pain of a thousand abused children gathered round to witness, revelling in his descent into the eternal damnation of his own abyss. Smiling beneath dropped brow, through vengeful eyes, I lifted my hand to reveal the remote trigger, his realisation almost as intense as my arousal. With a lightning quick flick of thumb and click of trigger, his enjoyment exploded into life. Agonies mistress introduced herself as he let out a most harrowing scream, jumping atop, my hand covered his mouth as I pretended to ride him as much my delight as to disguise my assault.

  His cries only aroused a flippant glance from barman beyond, who simply smiled at me as I bobbed up and down above booth’s edge. Returning to his business just as quick, impressed by a cry of what he now thought my sexual skills could accomplish. The firework was in full burn; I could smell the flesh melt away, his pain now becoming more intense, more enjoyable. Leaning over him, my hand still firmly cupping his mouth, my gaze locked onto his as I enjoyed the look of torture writing her novel of pain and agony across his cowardly eyes.

  Finale but seconds away, I could feel my breathing increase as a familiar feeling started to consume me, arousal had now become my master. As the faint crack of detonation sounded out, he coughed a river of blood, as I descended into a tsunami of orgasmic pleasure, not a finger had touched, this was all emotional, all powerful, all consuming. My shaking to the last few ripples of erotic decadence lasted longer than his life; I could feel his essence slip away, his body fell still, his heart no longer offering its metronomic beat. Slowly my hand lifted from his lips, his face a picture of contorted pain as if in his final seconds he’d been greeted into the afterlife by a personal audience with Lucifer himself. With utility knife from bag, I extended its long razor sharp blade, with a single satisfying swipe his throat opened. Deep and clean the cut, a few small rivers of blood trickled down, no heart to pulse, no eruptions to enjoy.

  My elation now in full control as I sat trembling atop his still warm cadaver until the next video-graphic display of fake love began its shallow narrative upon the giant whiteness behind. My arousal almost overpowering, my accomplishment filling me with tears of pure joy and elation. This sordid little crypt of booth was surrounded by an army of champagne and beer bottles in various states of consumption. Washing away his blood and defecation with the remainder of the Moët, I removed my now ruined hipster’s, stuffing them deep into his throat, a little mem
ento from a lifetime of abuse.

  “Piss in his fucking mouth Elspeth.”

  Ubel’s crudeness somehow fitted the moment. Standing above the holy urinal, I bent my knees cupping myself upon open mouth, then as if releasing my demons, let flow a long and enjoyable stream of urine. My hipsters providing perfect blockage, causing his mouth to fill. The child murdering rapist slumped dead, in a seedy porn theatre deep within the heart of the Parisian red light district, his throat cut, testicles crushed, mouth full of insults and anus consumed by a chemical inferno. Justice had been served, a message now most defiantly sent.

  The gorgeous cloakroom attendant handed back my clothes, simply smiling with a face full of gratitude, she’d not said a word, but her face wore an expression I’d grown up with. Holding open my tote bag for me as I dressed, removing fresh underwear in exchange for my wig and other now blooded evidence. The clock sounded twelve midnight as I ascended the narrow staircase then past the goliath, his tiny screen still holding his full attentions. Pigalle Square was once again alive with people; the neon lights were in full force as I disappeared into the crowds, like ghost slipping through wall I disappeared into the darkness of night, my vengeance left for a select few to view.

  Eradication of Parisian Plague

  The contractor suggested by my new ally, Monsieur Frédéric Rousseau, the concierge at the Mandarin Oriental, was already a remedy for many ills as he fired instructions and order to the army of craftsmen and women, now all busying themselves in my apartment. Walnut panels, cupboards and drawers germinating into existence as the bespoke kitchen gestated into a beautiful work of art, the clutter and confusion of the last few months all but gone. Each day a new and wondrous appliance arrived, all being cared for as if they were icons of a religious order or other prized antiquities.

  Monsieur Bouteillier’s artisan persona and boundless knowledge has already persuaded me to have the whole apartment updated, brought into the twenty-first century. My only resistance to change was the continuation of the large usable fireplace, after all, it provided much more than just romantic heating. He assures me all work will be completed by the end of the month, to which I’m inclined to believe.

  This last week has been such a pleasure, I’ve finally started to feel the pain of my past lives float away, like lost souls finding the light. My nights have been full of fabulous flirtatious engagements of dancing and dining. Wednesday I discovered a truly fantastic club where I can dance away my woes, and all to a wonderfully full and rich orchestra. Foxtrot’s to waltzes, Latin to country every night is a crescendoing celebration of dance and life. My destiny with Arthur Cain is a project not to be rushed; I need time to plan his retribution, time for my vengeance to offer its solutions to a decade's worth of sexual abuse. Until then I intend to enjoy my new found freedom.

  The local newspaper, television and radio broadcasts are full, once again with stories of a channel hopping serial killer. The whole world now seems to be speculating upon his appearance, motivations and sexuality, no one yet to question their assumption of gender. The profilers are woefully inadequate in their attempts to use pride and anger as an unveiling technique, trying to coax the killer into revealing their identity. Insults and accusations are the order of the hour, stories of failed phallic success and other male virility belittlements fly abound.

  Only one small news article has stumbled across the truth, written by a young male journalist, fresh from college no doubt, still oblivious to the reality of modern journalism. Too green to comprehend news outlets are neither interested in, nor have a requirement for the truth, when lies, opinion’s and gossip sell so much better. Wordy comic’s for the masses to digest, lapping up fabrication and myth, the truth, discarded in turn for the propaganda of the wealthy few. The young journalist surmised the killer is in fact, many different killers, all linked to the seedy world of child abuse and pornography, his assumptions more accurate than he could possibly imagine.

  The humour of it all introduces herself to Lilly, Ubel and I as we sit in the warmth of a quaint, welcoming Parisian café. Walls, a decadent shade of rouge, covered in a sea of Toulouse-Lautrec posters, the ceiling home to ten or fifteen large incandescent bulbs, each glowing with the warm essence of an idyllic powder coated orange sunset. In front of me a grand crème, a now less than perfect heart shape floating atop, my lips kissing its edge as I indulge in its soul sipping decadence.

  The three of us were thoroughly engrossed by the latest Inspector Clouseau-style synopsis of recent events when she marched past, her frustrations almost as evident as her distress. The police detective from the train walks into the café talking aggressively upon her phone. “Doogal’s back, Zebedee can’t be far away.” Ubel sniggered, my smile growing with empathy. The detective spoke with such openness you would assume she didn’t realise most Parisians have an excellent grasp of English, or she just didn’t care, her conversation now evident to all. Her afflicted child the topic of concern with her husband, at least I assume it’s with husband dear, the way she spoke so disdainfully. How they can’t find a donor, how the other family refused the doctors last request. How it wasn’t fair, that she should try to abuse her position, the standard protective mother speech. A gem of information someday to be invoked should this particular insurance policy be required.

  Grabbing the hot paper coffee cup, she turned looking directly at me, instantly recognised me, with just a hint of uncertainty as to where. Her eyes scanning over me in quick succession, from top to bottom, returning to rest upon my hands. Frédéric and I’d enjoyed a few too many in a local bar after his shift finished last night. After which I’d fallen over on my way back to the hotel, cutting and grazing my hands in the process, the irony of such innocent actions may now prove to be my conviction. Her eyes flicked back to mine, gaze now questioning the scar to my brow, the irregular stitch marks revealing more than just a history of mishap. Her phone call deceased with the flick of a finger, as she grew a look of suspicion. Wanting to say something, to ask how I’d come to acquire such a collection of injuries, before the first syllable could form upon narrow lips her sidekick, Zebedee, even more out of place amongst the Parisian fashionistas, shouted for her attention from outside.

  From her eyes I could tell she had fresh information of the killings, she may well indeed now be looking for a female, maybe she was closer than I thought. Pondering for a second, I thought as to whether she could soon become the unwilling donor to her own child’s predicament should her suspicions lead her towards me. “Pissing in his gob may have given you away Elspeth.” My anger turned into the full spectrum of argument within the privacy of my mind. Screaming at Ubel for suggesting it in the first place I ranted at him for mocking me. “Didn’t think you would, anyway it’s your piss!” Fuck off now my only reply before Lilly intervened casting her spell of tranquillity upon us both.

  -1-

  The other concierge was new; I didn’t like him, not as gentlemanly as Monsieur Rousseau. As I walked into the foyer, he summoned me over with all the grace and panache of a sarcastic school teacher. “Mademoiselle Norton, a message for you now please.” Strange, I wasn’t expecting any communications, nobody knew I was here. His painfully thin hand offered a poorly folded, unscented scrap of paper, inside the almost illegible scribblings of a most nonchalant man. It simply read “Did Raymond cry? Tonight 7 pm Pompidou!” Once again I felt the loathsome burden of my past climb atop as the weight of a new adversary took their position upon my shoulders.

  Courteously as possible, I thanked the concierge, before scurrying off to my suite, who could this be from? What were their intentions? “Elizabeth my dear, we have to resolve this swiftly.” Lilly said as Ubel let rip a most menacing growl at the prospect of another killing. All I could do was prepare as best I could, I knew the Pompidou well, modern art one of my favourite passions. There’s a large open square to the front, always full of people, so this strange location was a meeting that suggested both parties were cautious of the other. No wa
y this would be the authorities, they didn’t have a clue, and they certainly wouldn’t attempt my capture in such a public arena. The next few hours I paced my suite, drinking cup after cup of nature's wake, trying to figure who my mysterious adversary could be.

  The taxi glided serenely to a halt, inches from the kerb, the driver not a local but offering a comfortable and safe journey, his broken French suggesting of an Albanian origin. Stepping out into the brisk evening's breeze, my coat now offering not only protection from the elements but also concealing an assortment of innocuous weaponology. Keys for clenched fist, perfume as an accelerant and lighter to commence combustion should the need arise. Nails sharpened and fingers adorned with diamond solitaires, a ladies knuckle duster of choice, penetratingly expensive, deadly attractive.

  The cab rolled away, revealing the avant-garde multicoloured steel and glass wonderment that is the Pompidou centre standing in all its glory before me. Its mouth lay upon a large square now protected from me by buildings rear upon this windy, damp street. Its access quick down narrow street, the narrow run opening out into the beautiful fan cobbled square full of colourful sculptures. Huge white ships funnels sit along the edge of the sloping square, sucking in air like giant nostrils allowing the museum to breathe, dominating the vista. At this time of the evening, most tourists and street artists had dissipated back to warmer retreats to enjoy an evening meal, or prepare for a night out, so the square was almost as empty as I.

  A fluttering of people milled about at squares edge, ignoring me entirely as I walked into the plaza, my only accompaniment where echoing taps of my heels as they danced across the square in front of me. Senses on high alert, causing me to react like startled prey as the distinctive tone of phone penetrated the night with its classic nostalgic ringtone. The caller’s ID unknown, number withheld, answering quickly now more out of necessity than curiosity. “Bonne soirée Mademoiselle, please turn around, I am sitting in the café with the red awnings to your left.” Before I could reply or turn to locate my mysterious caller the call ended, line now dead. Spinning with hyper-senses around like a child’s toy my curiosity now starting to become a wicked failing.