by Barbie Wilde
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I held up my martini and mouthed, “Would you like a drink?” She nodded enthusiastically and moved away from her friends. They didn’t notice her leaving.
Excellent.
She came over and introduced herself. I told her my name was John Smith. She laughed and said that with a pseudonym like that, I must be married. I said, “No, I just have the most boring name in the world. Did you know that there are twenty-six John Smith’s in the Syracuse telephone book?”
She thought that was funny.
I can’t be bothered to record every word of our conversation. Suffice it to say that I was as amusing as I could muster. I kept an eye on her friends, but they were totally absorbed in themselves. I suggested that perhaps we should go someplace quieter. Carol agreed wholeheartedly.
We left. No one noticed us. We walked around the corner to The Manhattan Lounge, which was busy but at least the noise level was tolerable. We managed to arrive just as some people were leaving, so we were able to grab the sofa near the window.
More desultory conversation ensued. Carol was no brain surgeon, but she was a sweet girl. She was so easy-going, I was sure that I could have wrangled an invitation to her bed. I even contemplated starting my grand Project tonight as I had all my supplies with me, but I rejected the idea. I hadn’t decided on what form my paintings would take and, as lovely as Carol was, she just didn’t excite me. She didn’t fit the ideal image in my mind, so the thought of trying to seduce her didn’t appeal.
An hour later I took her home and gently kissed her on the cheek. She gave me her telephone number and looked hopeful. I drove to the airport, switched cars and toddled off home, very content with my progress.
It would have been so easy to snuff out Carol’s life, but I chose not to do it. The whole evening gave me an enormous boost of confidence. A little voice inside my head said, “Hey, if you feel this good about yourself, why not try to arrange an ‘accidental’ meeting with Elene. Try and date her legitimately.” The idea made me feel instantly let down and—let’s face it—disappointed. I have to admit that I am really looking forward to starting The Project. I want that rush of power again, like the first time with my little cat-like girl. I know that at this stage, I can’t feel that way with Elene.
I don’t want to lose sight of the ultimate purpose of the whole plan, of course, but the prospect of feeling so godlike again made abandoning The Project unthinkable at this point.
ENTRY 45:
I know that human beings dream every night, but for the past few months I can only seem to remember the ones involving sex. Obviously, my body didn’t understand why I refused to seduce a willing and beautiful young woman last night and decided to punish me by contriving yet another libidinous dream-fest.
I am back in the dingy motel room with the little cat-like prostitute. I have just killed her and I am untying her. I enter her and every detail of the second time I screwed her when she was dead is reproduced flawlessly. I am just about to come when she suddenly comes to life like a young tigress. She flips me over onto my back with her legs like a female Bruce Lee. Now she is on top, riding me, and I can see that she is close to orgasm, as am I. She is hitting me and screaming, “You bastard, you killed me!” I keep telling her to keep it down as the neighbors might hear. Then she reaches out, grabs me by the throat with both hands and starts to squeeze. Oh, boy, the sensation is terrific. In my dream point of view, I am on my back looking up at her and every perception is magnified. I can even feel her breath on my face. I am close to blacking out and then I come. She comes too. While she is in the throes of orgasm, I grab her by the throat. There we are, both trying to murder each other, both coming, both with our tongues sticking out to the max. I bring her down as I feel her grip loosening and I kiss her. I can almost feel her tongue in my mouth now as I write this. I kiss her and strangle her and fuck her and I relive in my dream the whole experience of sucking out her last breath.
I woke up in drenched sheets again. Shouldn’t wet dreams stop once you are out of adolescence?
I lay there panting for a long time, hardly able to get my breath. Against my will, my mind started fantasizing about Elene, that she was the one I was fucking, that she was the one on top, strangling me. So predictable, but I started to masturbate and I came again.
I have tried not to think of Elene in that way, but it was inevitable that she would enter into my darker fantasies. I thought that she was purer than that. Elene was supposed to be the undefiled and bright love object, but, no, she has fallen into the video nasty vault in the basement of my mind for all time now, along with the others. In a crazy way, it is a relief.
This wouldn’t have happened if I had taken Carol last night. It would have been so effortless. All these poor little girls wandering around nightclubs searching for Mr. Right. Don’t they realize that Mr. Right doesn’t go to nightclubs? He is at home getting his shut-eye so he has the energy to be a nice guy in the morning.
Can’t they see that I am not a nice guy? Don’t they have any defensive radar that shouts: “Beware, sicko ahead”? Don’t they notice the pictures in my mind projecting onto my forehead like some Saturday Afternoon Creature Feature? My fantasies are now so intense that I am surprised that people don’t recoil from me on the street.
I guess they can’t see into the depths of my blackened soul. They can’t see what is going on in my head. Thank goodness, or I wouldn’t be sitting here now.
My dream world is now so powerful that everyday life is a pale shadow. My fantasies are so pervasive that they seem to be slipping into reality and out again, like watching two televisions at the same time.
Last night, I wasn’t ready, but the next time I will be.
I want this.
ENTRY 46:
Last week was taken up with more research, about art this time, not murder. My extensive library of art history books was very helpful, as well as the numerous gallery sites on the Web.
There are going to be two threads of artistry flowing through my work. The first will be the unusual positions of the body. I have chosen to pose each of my ladies to mirror one of five portraits of Venus, the Goddess of Love.
The Paintings Are:
1. Venus of Urbino (Tiziano Vecellio AKA Titian, 1538)
2. An Allegory of Venus and Cupid (Agnolo Bronzino, 1550)
3. The Sleep of Venus (Marie-Françoise-Constance Mayer-Lamartinière, 1806)
4. The Birth of Venus (Sandro Botticelli, 1485-86)
5. Sleeping Venus (Paul Delvaux, 1947)
I thought that the choice of the Goddess of Love was quite apt. I have decided that, in addition to the capture of my ultimate love object, my Project should have the dual purpose of creating new stars in the serial killer firmament.
I have an alternate painting if I get bored near the culmination of The Project and it is an exception to the mythic subjects that I have previously chosen. I was arrested by the model’s pose in Caravaggio’s lost masterpiece Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy (1610). She was so sensual in her rapturous state that I felt that I had to include it in my little gallery. I am a big fan of Caravaggio and I think it is rather endearing that he preferred painting Mary Magdalene to Venus any day, as he had an affinity for prostitutes. I can understand that.
Now, here’s an interesting problem. The images that I paint on my victims must be quick and simple to execute, yet at the same time strange and puzzling to the authorities. What to choose? For a while— having admired the scribblings of the Tamiami Strangler so much—I considered the idea of artfully writing some literature on my beauties’ bodies. I thought that the beautifully sinister poems of the decadent French poet, Baudelaire, might be appropriate, since he had such a gloriously warped mind. His poems were all about the ephemerality of life, the finality of death, the lure of evil and the yawning abyss that is love, but I am in two minds about it. The sentiment is nice, but are poems too pretentious?
The other possibility is using the symbolic objects displ
ayed in each of my chosen paintings. For example, in Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, the most obvious item is the scallop shell on which the goddess is standing. There are also the gold-hearted roses that fall from the lips of the spirits of the wind, Zephyr and Chloris. However, I don’t want the girls to end up looking like Maori warriors. Whatever I choose, it will have to be beautiful and simple. Also, I am not the best of artists. “Those who can—do, those who can’t—teach,” as George Bernard Shaw so rightly said. I don’t want to spend hours working on something that turns out to look like the finger paintings of a toddler. That is not the effect I am looking for. I want my art to shock and disturb.
ENTRY 47:
I was puttering through my library and came across a book about alchemy. The symbols in the book were quite arcane and have the added element of being in the realm of the occult. Anything to do with the occult will bound to concern the authorities. I can just hear them now: “Oh, no, a Satanist is killing our lovely local girls!” People have a tendency to become hysterical about the occult and hence not think too clearly or logically about motive. I am not saying that the police will simply freak out and call for a priest, but any seeds of confusion that I can sow will be to my advantage.
If I mix a touch of alchemy with a soupçan of Baudelaire poetry and add my classical Venus poses, then we just might have something here.
I have a little leeway before The Project begins in earnest, so I have ample time to decide and then practice my handiwork. There is a conference of software designers in town soon, God help us, so when the hordes descend, the wolf in sheep’s clothing can safely infiltrate the flock.
ENTRY 48:
The more research I do into the mysteries of alchemy, the more comparisons I find relating to my Venus Project.
Most people assume that the basic aims of alchemy were to transform base metals such as lead or copper into silver or gold. They think of alchemy as a pseudo-science, an esoteric predecessor of chemistry whose precepts were lost in the mists of time. The whole idea of changing base metal into gold seems ludicrous to modern minds. The elements on the Periodic Chart are immutable, aren’t they? Well, scientists may have thought that a while ago, but the use of atomic power proves that we can alter elements. Humans have a frightening capacity for altering the planet, species by species, rock by rock. Soon, no molecule will be safe from the marauding hordes of scientists wanting to change its DNA, or modify its gene pool, or clone it, or bombard it with fusion or fission. We are cloning sheep, creating glow-in-the-dark kittens and developing human ears on mice (one of THE most disturbing images of recent times), so who is to say that in a few years’ time, we won’t be turning lead into gold?
The vital principle of alchemy that most people miss is that it wasn’t only about changing lead into gold. It was also about the attainment of the perfection and purification of the alchemist’s soul. It was about finding the mysterious Elixir that would prolong life. It was all about TRANSFORMATION.
Now, that’s the word that leapt off the page and struck me right between the eyes. As I was leaving my lovely little cat-like girl, the thing that struck me was how transformed she had become. No longer the sad street whore, she had metamorphosed into a goddess. She was beautiful beyond compare, as well as being ALL MINE, FOREVER. She will always be a goddess in my mind.
It all fits so wonderfully. I chose images of the Goddess of Love to be my templates without even realizing how meaningful it will turn out to be. Meaningful for me and for Elene.
ENTRY 49:
The 13th century alchemist and magician Albertus Magnus devised the following rules and conditions that the alchemist should observe in his pursuit. I find the parallels with the rules that I will be following in my own Project of Transformation quite startling:
First. The alchemist should be discreet and silent, revealing to no one the result of his operation. (This is just common sense. Most serial killers keep their mouths shut, for good reason.)
Second. He should reside in a private house in an isolated situation. (My home in Manlius is made to order.)
Third. He should choose his days and hours for labor with discretion. (Thanks to the Chamber of Commerce schedule, I have chosen the nights for my labor in advance.)
Fourth. He should have patience, diligence, and perseverance. (Got them in spades.)
Fifth. He should perform according to fixed rules. (I am following the tried and tested rules of the best killers in the business.)
Sixth. He should use only vessels of glass or glazed earthenware. (Well, there had to be something that didn’t fit.)
Seventh. He should be sufficiently rich to bear the expenses of his art. (Thanks to darling departed Angie, I have no financial worries.)
Eighth. He should avoid having anything to do with princes and noblemen. (I’ll make a leap of thought here and say that Albertus was advising his compatriots to stay away from those in authority, which, needless to say, I will.)
The more I read about alchemy the less I understand, but it is compelling stuff. Carl Jung studied it for ten years before he could make any sense of it. In the final analysis (the pun is intended), Jung felt that alchemy had more to do with the psychological transformation of the soul than any material change. But he would say that, wouldn’t he?
I have to watch it, though, because I can see myself getting so caught up with my research into alchemy that The Venus Project’s starting date will pass and I would have blown it. And that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
ENTRY 50:
Tonight I went out with the express purpose of killing someone. I succeeded and it felt so good.
Everything went according to plan. I prepared myself in the identical way as the practice run, even down to the change in hairstyle and the tinted glasses. I switched cars and headed over to The Liquid Lounge to pick up Tamsin. I arrived in plenty of time. I found myself a good position at the bar to observe and ordered my usual vodka martini. I felt very good about myself. Confident. Untouchable. It is as if an obscene and twisted God of Serial Killers gave me redemption and protection.
I think it is because I have a secret that no one knows about and no one will ever know about. Even now, that secret gives me power and I feel unstoppable.
Tamsin arrived, looking radiant in a jade green dress that highlighted her fair complexion. My loins stirred just looking at her, but I had to remain in control. I waited for the moment to make my move.
Tamsin had a couple of drinks and then went on to the dance floor. She danced beautifully, gracefully, unlike most of her contemporaries. She was dancing by herself with none of the self-consciousness that would normally make such an act attention-seeking. She made lots of eye contact with the men on the floor. Her dress rode up her thighs. She looked good enough to eat.
I decided to take the bull by the horns. If she turned me down, I could always move on to another candidate. I walked up to her, did a little bow and took her by the hand. She was startled, but amused. We moved around sizing each other up. The only dance that I had ever learned was the salsa, so I began to do some simple steps and she laughingly followed. This lasted for about ten minutes, then I gestured to the bar. She nodded.
The dance of death had begun.
We ordered. We drank. We talked. I pretended to be a software salesman with the conference. Tamsin said that she only knew basic stuff about computers. I told her that the last thing I wanted to do was talk shop. I just wanted to listen to her. She liked that, as I knew she would. Most women assume that men only want to talk about themselves and they would be right. However, since I wanted something out of Tamsin—her life—I was willing to forgo the usual thrill of spouting off about myself to hear all about her. And how trivial her life was. So small, so mundane, so dull. How could she bear living it? However, I endured, because I knew that the evening would end with a bang.
During our conversation, I kept a discreet eye on the crowd surrounding us. No one seemed very interested. They were all too inv
olved in themselves.
I bought more drinks. I had to make sure that my victims were fairly inebriated. I have observed that women are more vulnerable and open to suggestion when they are drunk. Strange men look much more interesting and handsome. Potential risks are ignored. Female sexual energy is also at a higher than normal level.
After about forty minutes, I said that I had to leave, because I had a breakfast meeting in the morning. Tamsin looked disappointed. I told her that I would love to give her a lift home. Even though it was quite early, she said yes.
No one took any notice when we left.
We drove to her place. We chatted and laughed and it was very pleasant. For one millisecond I considered not doing it, but then I caught a glimpse of those divine legs and thought, “Don’t be stupid. She is yours for the taking, if you want her.”
I escorted Tamsin to the front door of her house. I asked her if I could kiss her goodnight. She seemed touched at my gentlemanly good manners. She said yes. I took off my glasses and put them carefully in my pocket. Then I kissed her lips very gently, sensually, not forcing it, taking my time. I could tell she liked it. I placed my hand behind her head, caressing her hair. She liked that, too. Then I was a bit more forceful and tongued her. She really liked that. We kissed for a long time, and then I stopped myself.
I said, “Tamsin, I have to go now.” She looked sad and asked why. I said, “Let’s just say that I better go before I reach the point of no return.”
