by Jeff Povey
My eyes bulged wider and wider.
“They walked into where we are seated now—this very same bar and grill. . . .” Tony again waved his thick arm as if he were showing a group of tourists around famous Hollywood landmarks. “Even the name—Grillers—was telling them something in a rhyming couplet sorta way.”
I couldn’t shake the roar building inside my head. It didn’t come out as words, but if it had done, then it would have told me: “Get out of here! Now! Get the hell out, you stupid—”
“And they went to one of those two-man booths over there, ordered a meal and a couple of beers.”
“Buds.” Roger nodded at me, making sure I got every detail.
“I had the chicken, Roger had the fish,” Rock added.
I was sure I was going puke.
“So they got talking and decided that they should maybe tell each other the next time they selected a victim—just in case they overlapped again.”
My rented suit felt like it was tightening around me by the second, squeezing the life out of me.
“They talked a lot about why they did what they did, who they really blamed for being turned from ordinary decent people into vicious serial killers.”
My cheeks puffed out at the words serial killers, and I had to force myself to swallow a surging torrent of bile. I looked around to see if there was anyone in the restaurant who could help me. Apart from a couple of large ladies and an elderly man seated with his grandson, there was no one. The wooden walls were closing in on me, and I felt like I was in a giant coffin and I couldn’t catch my breath.
“Now this is where the real fun started, because”—Tony laughed at this, shook his head—“I still get a kick out of this—on that exact same night I happened to be sitting in the booth directly behind R and R. I had just finished my shift—and dammit if I didn’t lean over the top of the divider and let them know we sure had a heckuva lot in common.” Tony kept shaking his head, dabbing beads of sweat from his top lip as he did. He looked me right in the eye, and all I could do was let out a faint whimper. “Pretty soon after that, we started making it a weekly thing. And after a while we decided that we should set up a club. Just a place for serial killers to come and go, to reveal their stories, and to get off on knowing like-minded psychopaths. Hey, it’s like all minority groups—there really is nowhere to meet these days.”
The room spun around me like a fairground ride on full power. I couldn’t see anything but this evil blur of serial killers. I gripped the edge of the table hard until my fingers ached.
“We made contact with as many killers as we could. Being a cop sure came in handy there, I can tell you. And all told we didn’t make too bad a job of it.”
“You did great, Tony.”
“Better than great.”
“I tell you—this is the best goddamn club I’ve ever been a member of.”
Killers were looking at me, vouching their agreement with eager, nodding heads. I looked at the members—my eyes running over each one in turn—and all I could think was, This is a joke, right? It’s a setup. There’s a hidden camera somewhere. Christ almighty, tell me it’s a joke!
“Anyway, that’s enough about us, Gobby.” Tony sat down, swiped some grilled chicken from someone else’s plate. “Now let’s hear about you.”
“Yeah—give us your story.”
“Never heard a goblin talk.” I could hear the voices but didn’t know who they were coming from.
“You cut out hearts, right?”
“As in lonely hearts.”
“Then bake them.”
“How many you done?”
“He’s small time—five at most.”
“He’s certainly small.”
Tony snapped his fingers loudly, and gradually the voices faded. He then turned and looked directly at me. I whimpered again.
“We’ll need a name first.”
My jaw was clamped so tight, I really didn’t think I could speak.
“C’mon, Gob, spit one out.”
I had no idea who was speaking, but I knew I had to say something, anything.
All I can remember now was mumbling something about this actor I’d always admired. This dashing, handsome mirror image to myself.
“Douglas.”
“Huh?”
“Douglas who?”
“Kirk Douglas? Michael Douglas?”
“Fairbanks. Junior. Douglas Fairbanks Jr.” How I got those words out I’ll never know, but it seemed to satisfy them.
Tony clapped his hands loudly. “Okay then, Dougie . . . let’s hear your story.”
I don’t know how I did it, but I somehow regurgitated stuff from the documentary on Grandson-of-Barney. I told them I usually went after lonely, loveless deadbeats, and one of them—Chuck, I think—asked if I’d ever considered suicide. I still don’t know what he meant by that, but he sure got a big laugh for it.
I embellished about cutting out hearts and using them to make personalized Valentine’s Day cards, got a little carried away, and somehow made the outrageous claim that a major greeting card company was interested in buying the copyright. I found that once I started talking I couldn’t stop. They asked me why I did what I did, and I said it was all down to my mother. She had starved me of love from an early age. This was only half-true. My father had also starved me of any emotion other than contempt and anger. So there I was, repaying the compliment by starving other people of love—in the shape of removing their hearts.
God alone knows how I got through the evening.
And now here I am, four years later. And still a day rarely passes without my reliving that horrifying night. Four long and hard years that have seen me rise to the prominent position of Club secretary.
Just last month I managed to get a response from an ad I posted in the Tribune. There’s a new killer out there, and we’re hoping to get her to join up. The membership has been dropping off alarmingly since that fateful night—in fact, excluding myself, out of the original eighteen and the few others who joined in the interim, there are now only ten members left, and there’s been a big drive on recently to try to arrest the decline. Tony is really cut up about the fall in numbers, and being chairman, he has taken it more personally than most.
I have tried to tell him that people just get bored and move on, but he won’t listen to me.
“Something’s not right, Dougie . . . something stinks. All these members who left. Why d’you think they went? It’s a fucking great club, and those freaks leave without so much as a good-bye?”
I give Tony the same shrug I’ve been giving for the past few years now. “Hell if I know.”
It’s not the best answer.
Truth is, it’s not even an honest one.
I really love the Club. Really love it, I mean. Okay, it wouldn’t be everyone’s first choice, but to me it’s the only ticket in town. Trouble is, over these past four years some members worked out that maybe I wasn’t who I said I was—obviously me not being a real serial killer means that Grandson-of-Barney hasn’t killed anyone new since I joined the Club. I mainly told the Club that I was going through a killer’s block, which is sort of like writer’s block minus the typewriter. But despite what I thought was a perfectly acceptable explanation, a few of them still got a little antsy about me. Some challenged me in private, others made it pretty uncomfortable for me at Club nights. And I hate to admit this, but I had no choice but to shut them up before they outed me as a nonkiller. Eleven times in four years I’ve had to do this. I’m not proud of myself—not one bit—but like I say, I absolutely love the Club, and I’ll do anything to keep my membership going. To be honest, I doubt there’s a better night to be had anywhere in the world.
DOUBLE DECAP
YOU KNOW ME—I’m a family man. Very much a family man. Give me a family to behead and I’m as happy as the next guy.”
Burt Lancaster gets a lot of laughs for this. He looks confident, and I know he’s probably spent hours in the mirror rehearsing this
routine. I have to admit, his timing is perfect, his delivery excellent, and he’s playing us like a comedian would play an audience. It’s going to be another in a long line of fun Club nights.
“I broke into this house and realized immediately that the husband was a DIY nut. There was barely a thing he hadn’t built himself. Even the stove had that ‘Made by a Moron’ look.”
Burt is in top form.
William Holden is sitting to my right. He offers me a cigarette, and I accept, lighting it with my silver-plated lighter. I smoke only at meetings, and this is because I have found, much to my amazement, that all serial killers—or skillers, as they like to call themselves—smoke. Don’t ask me why, they just do.
“So I’m thinking, What would be a good way to behead a DIY nut?”
Burt is drawing us in, teasing us. Chuck Norris calls out:
“Get him to build you a guillotine!”
Everyone laughs at this. We all love Chuck, and if given the chance to be anyone for a day, I think we’d all choose Chuck Norris.
Burt lets the joke settle, nods approvingly, and then draws us in, making us hang on his every word.
“I decide to fetch his Black and Decker Workmate from the garage. But then I catch sight of something hanging above it on the wall. It’s this really well-looked-after saw . . . a real polished beauty—and I just know I have to use this . . . well, this really great tool, this truly cool tool.”
I glance at William Holden, who is sitting to my left, and whisper quietly, “Writing any more novels?”
William frowns, looks down his nose at me. “I don’t write novels. They’re factually based works.” I know this, but I just want to tease William a little. He’s given the same answer a million times over to the exact same question, but it’s fun and we enjoy the buddy-buddy repartee of it. Sometimes I ask him twice if I get drunk later on.
“I bought your other two novels. They’re a terrific read.”
Someone shushes me, I think it’s Cher, and I hold up my hand, gesture an apology, and go back to listening to Burt’s star turn.
“So there I am, his prize saw in one hand and his prize head in the other. I’m staring at his white-as-a-sheet wife, and all I can think to say is: ‘Try going to department stores. You’ll find everything you need there.’”
The Club erupts, and Burt laughs with them.
William wipes tears of laughter from his eyes, and as Burt takes a seat to a well-deserved round of applause, William edges closer to me. His voice is never more than a throaty whisper, and I have to listen hard to take in what he is saying.
“As it happens, I’ve got this great idea for a novel,” he whispers, getting into his stride.
“Wow.” I pretend to be impressed. “What’s it about?”
“It’s semiautobiographical. About my childhood. Well . . . it’s really about my mother.”
“You have a title yet?” I already can guess the title. My Bastard Mommy. In huge bloodred letters. They always blame their moms—always.
“Got a few ideas, but nothing firm. Though I want to keep it nice and simple. Something like Where Was the Love, Bitch?”
“Great title.”
“You think?”
“If I saw that in a bookstore, I’d snap it right up.”
William smiles and exhales smoke, and I see James Mason breathe in the plume and then immediately reach for his extra-nicotine nonfilter cigarettes.
William is very keen to tell me a story I’ve already heard a hundred times before. I half wish I’d sat somewhere else, but it’s all part of the great vibe, and I let William’s words wash over me like a cup of warm milk.
“It started on bath nights. I was about eight. Mom was pretty spiritual and saw the bath as a mini river Jordan. Held me under every night till I was purified. I spent my entire childhood waterlogged.”
The talk of water sends me hurrying to the washroom in less than five minutes.
I find I am still giggling at Burt’s hilarious story when I notice a guy looking at me as if he can’t figure out what is so funny about urination. He’s tall, handsome, immaculately turned out, and pretty much all-American. I try to explain.
“Just heard the funniest story ever.”
The all-American nods vaguely, though his piercing eyes tend to look deep into me for a second, as if looking for something, like a computer doing a search on its hard drive. I feel a little uneasy, quickly break his look, and pretend to giggle again.
“I’ve got stomach cramps from laughing so much.”
The all-American leaves, but on the way past me he does the weirdest thing. He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it.
“Nice to meet you,” is all he whispers. Then he is gone, leaving me feeling invaded. Men just don’t do that to other men—touch them while they’re taking a leak, I mean. That is breaking a taboo that has held since the dawn of civilization. I’m sure even cavemen knew not to touch each other during a piss.
I zip up but can’t shake the imprint of the all-American’s touch on my shoulder. It’s almost as if he’s still squeezing it.
Tony Curtis bursts in, belching and laughing to himself at the same time. “That Burt . . . man, can he tell a story. Never knew decapitation could sound so funny.”
I try to get back on track. “I agree totally. It was, uh . . . it was incredible.”
“He could bring on appendicitis, he’s so funny. . . .”
Tony proceeds to have the longest, hardest piss in history, and while he does he glances over to me. “That Burt’s an A-OK guy.”
I look at Tony, and for a moment I feel like we’re the oldest of buddies, and I smile. “Absolutely. Double A-OK. He should get his own TV show.” I laugh as I fill the sink. I make a point of scrubbing my hands thoroughly, because Tony has killed people on account of their lack of cleanliness and good manners. Cleverly ignoring the fact that he can’t talk without belching in your face.
“The Decap Show,” Tony belches out, then leaves. Without washing his hands.
It’s been another amazing night at the Club, and when I get home I am too wired to sleep. They really are a great bunch of guys. But more to the point, they accept me—and that is worth more than my weight in gold. I spent way too long waiting to join the human race, and I’m damn well going to make up for lost time. In fact, things are going so well for me that I’m considering running for Club president next year.
SUDDENLY
I THINK I’M BEING followed by the all-American who squeezed my shoulder in the washroom.
I have been seeing him for about four days now. Everywhere I go, he seems to go. He’s not making himself discreet, either. He knows I know he’s there, and this bothers me. A lot.
I’ve been playing it cool, just going about my mindless cage cleaning as if all I really am is a guy who has dedicated his life to wiping up after animals. I’ve been getting up, going to work, coming home, and making myself appear as normal as normal gets.
The all-American has been with me every step of the way, and for the life of me I can’t figure it out. Who knows, maybe this is my first stalker.
I peek out between the slats in the blinds and see the guy sitting in his dark blue sedan. It is late, and I am impressed that he can sit there for so long. I stare out at him and feel a slight chill creeping up the back of my neck. This can’t be good.
I snap the blinds shut and debate starting work on a tunnel. I wonder if I could dig down far enough to break into the sewage system and lose the guy that way. I could surface in another town and take it from there—I’ve re-created myself once, I can do it again. I walk into the bathroom and dearly wish I knew how houses were built. If I ripped up the lavatory, would there be a hole big enough for me to crawl through? Would I, in fact, want to do that? There must be all kinds of human waste down there, and I have as much dignity as the next person.
I walk into the kitchen, where there are loose floor tiles, and I remove some of them—only to be faced with a solid concrete base.
I test it with my foot and realize it is probably too thick to break through. Not without the aid of a pneumatic drill, that is.
Last thing I want to do is leave the Club, but maybe if I lie low for a couple of months, I could return later—minus stalker.
I hear a rap on the back door. I look up, startled. I can see through the screen door that it’s the guy who’s been following me. He looks taller close up and extremely handsome. Not Chuck Norris handsome, more of a wholesome look, not unlike myself. He knows I’m in, and any debate about hiding in my bedroom and pretending I’m not there really isn’t worth having. I stand there for what seems like ages. He raps on the door again. I give out a meek, “Hello?” and hate the fact that I sound nervous.
“Federal agent Kennet Wade. That’s Kenneth without the ‘h.’ Have you got a moment?” His voice is deep and solid.
“No. Sorry. I haven’t.” What else am I meant to say?
“I’m with the FBI.” He says this as if it’s a key to opening any door he wants.
“The who?” I’m buying time, frozen there in the middle of my kitchen, ripped-up floor tiles scattered all around me.
“The Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Oh . . . the FBI. . . .”
“That’s correct. Can I come in?”
“Are you going to shoot me?” I don’t know why I say this, it just comes out. Probably because I fully expect him to do so, especially when I’m seriously considering making a run for it.
My question throws him.
“Shoot you?”
“I meant to say, uh . . . arrest me. . . . Are you going to arrest me? That’s what I meant to say.” Christ, I’m nervous, babbling like a brook.
“Could you just let me in, please?” The word please surprises me. It also softens me. I hadn’t expected politeness. I know it’s a mistake, but I start to quite like Agent Kennet Wade.
