The Venus Complex

by Barbie Wilde

  Have you ever seen a dead person just after their soul has flown off to whatever adventure awaits it? Their beauty is icy, pure, refined; their features are as immovable as a Buddha’s and just as peaceful. All the suffering is over. All the worry. I have lifted my darlings to another level of existence. There is no doubt about that. I helped my dear sweet goddesses shuffle off their mortal coils, and I know that they are all grateful for my attentions. I saw it in their eyes as I coaxed their spirits from them. I helped them shed the dull chrysalises of their sad, little lives. They are no longer mundane prostitutes, or legal secretaries, or dental assistants. They are immortal. They are now officially “Victims of a Serial Killer.” All because of me. They love me for it. I know they do.

  ENTRY 76:

  Today I woke up so depressed that I could hardly breathe. The contrast from the day before could not be more different. The world outside my window seemed to be painted with various shades of gray—all the color leeched from the landscape. (And I’m surprised? It is Syracuse in February.) I felt caught, trapped … wondering how the hell I had got myself into a situation that was so wildly improbable. I had met Elene and that was great—big breakthrough there—but how could I hope to get closer to her on a romantic level? At the moment, it was all business with her. Maybe I should just sweep her off her feet and take her to Kahunaville—it obviously gives her a thrill. It is gratifying to note that neither Elene nor Frank recognized me from the restaurant. Yet another indication that most people walk around in a dense haze of self-absorption most of the time and never pay attention to what is going on around them. Surprising for a policeman to be so unaware, but Frank is always so engrossed by Elene when he is with her that he sees nothing else of the world. And I can’t blame him for that.

  I guess I just have to take the lows with the highs. The highs are stratospheric, but the lows are crippling. All the feelings of power I have when I am involved in The Venus Project seem to evaporate once the hideous reality of life comes barging in. It’s as if black dogs are barking at my door, following me everywhere. Sometimes when I am driving around town, I think I hear them in the trunk of my car, snarling and howling and whining and baying for my blood. Then the sound turns into the Devil’s own laughter and that’s when I think, “Shit, am I psychotic? I’m hearing things.” I suppose that if I have the awareness to ask that question, I’m not, but what if I’m just an extremely observant psychotic?

  Maybe I’ll ask Elene the next time I see her. Now, there is a charming opening gambit for a dating strategy: “Hi, Elene, would you like to have dinner with me tonight? Oh, by the way, in your opinion as a psychologist, do you think that I am suffering from a massive psychosis with delusional paranoid tendencies?” That’s bound to get her interested. I’m sure that she’ll just be desperate to leap into the sack with me. Yes, siree, Bob.

  Angie always ate chocolate when she got depressed. I think that it had something to do with her period, but, hell, I am willing to try anything. I can’t have a drink. If I start on the martinis before noon, I’ll be a goner by sundown. Maybe a Milky Way Bar is all I need to perk me up.

  Who am I kidding? I know what I want. What I really, really want is to commit another murder. To further advance The Venus Project to a higher level. I am getting bored with waiting. I am tired of pretending to be a normal person. I want to do it again. I want to feel the power. I want to take those girls—my goddesses—to a place they never dreamed of and leave them there in a state of grace.

  I am going to the corner store now to get some chocolate. Hopefully the black dogs will leave me alone. Maybe I will put some chocolate in the trunk to appease them. Appease the God of the Black Dog.

  ENTRY 77:

  I have an itch that I can’t scratch. I need to have more contact with Elene, but asking her out on a date now would be premature. I am desperate to see her again, but I can’t take the chance of following her, not now that she knows me. I suppose I could try stalking her in disguise, but what if she spots me anyway?

  “Hi, Professor Friday, why are you wearing that hideous green track suit and those goofy glasses? Has Halloween come early this year?”

  I can’t afford to take that chance.

  Maybe I should bump into her, accidentally on purpose. After all, we do work at the same University. In fact, it’s incredible that we haven’t met before. I know her routine. It would be so easy for me to “arrange” a meeting. Yes, I will do it.

  What the fuck do I have to lose, anyway, except my sanity?

  ENTRY 78:

  I feel like the Puppet Master of the Universe. People are so unaware, so unseeing. It is a dawdle for someone like me to manipulate them; to pull their strings and watch them dance. All it takes is the will. I realize that now.

  I went down to Phoebe’s on Tuesday just before the lunchtime crush. I knew that Elene, that adorable creature of habit, would arrive in about fifteen minutes, so I picked out a table with a clear view of the door. Not only would I see her when she came in, but she couldn’t fail to notice me.

  It was perfect. She walked in the door, exquisite as always, and looked around for a free table. When I saw her out of the corner of my eye, I pretended to study the menu, but I was fully aware of her presence as she came up to my table.

  Elene: “Hi, Professor, how are you doing?”

  Me: “Oh, hello, Dr. Sheppard. I’m fine. And yourself?”

  Elene: “Hanging on in there. Are you making any headway with our cases?”

  Me: “Some, but it’s a bit of a puzzle, as you can imagine.”

  Elene: “Of course, but I hope you’ll have a breakthrough soon. I am convinced this guy is going to strike again soon and we have to catch him before he has the chance.”

  At this point, the headwaiter came up and apologized to Elene for the lack of table space. He told her that the restaurant was booked up and that she would have to wait for about fifteen minutes. (Which is exactly what I told him to say. It’s wonderful what twenty bucks can do, placed in the right hands.) Elene looked disappointed and that’s when I came to the rescue.

  Me: “Why don’t you sit here? I mean, you’re welcome to share my table if you want.”

  Elene looked a bit taken aback. I knew that she loved her little solitary lunches, but here was a free seat, ready and available.

  Elene: “You’re sure I wouldn’t be bothering you?”

  Me: “God, no. I’d love some company. I’ve been spending too much time on my own lately.”

  Elene smiled and sat down. I watched her slouch off her coat and get settled in her chair. At one point she leaned forward and I was awarded with a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage. It was bliss just observing her and chatting to her like a normal person. Although there is a great pleasure to be gleaned from stalking someone, there is nothing like actual contact. It makes one feel less like a pervert and more like a regular human being. Odd to think that she knew only the barest facts about me and I knew virtually everything there was to know about her. It made me feel a little bit more confident, a little bit more in control.

  Unfortunately, that confidence did not translate to my conversational skills. They were desultory at best. I was so afraid to make a mistake, to reveal too much. Hopefully, I came across as deep and mysterious rather than slightly retarded and tongue-tied.

  Fortunately, like most women, Elene was happy to keep the talk flowing with very little help from me. I let her words wash over me like a veritable waterfall of conversation. She loved to talk. She loved using interesting and archaic words. She loved telling little stories.

  My one beef was that Elene made the mistake that all women do at least once when they are getting to know a new guy, whether she is romantically interested in him or not. She eventually got onto the subject of Frank and proceeded to tell me what a bastard he was. Not that I minded hearing that my instincts were right and that Frank was a turd. However, nothing is more certain to put a man off a woman than the woman droning on and on about her ex. In dis
paraging someone else, the complainer is diminished, in my opinion. This was the first warning sign to me that maybe getting to know Elene on a personal level was not such a hot idea. What if I found out that my Venus had feet of clay? That would be very disappointing. Perhaps she should just continue to live up there on my fantasy pedestal, never condescending to mix with mere mortals.

  After a couple of hours, Elene bustled off to her next class and I stayed at Phoebe’s and had a martini. I considered the possibilities:

  1. Do I ask Elene out and see if the relationship develops? On the down side, the consequences could be devastating for my fantasy world. My love object could turn out to be just as neurotic and desperate as Angie and others of her ilk. On the other hand, Elene could turn out to be an angel in real life. We might end up wildly happy and get married and have kids and I could give up being a horrible foul murderer and go back to being Mr. Nice Guy. I would learn to be content with having a normal sexual relationship and my sick fantasies would recede to a deep, dark, spidery cavern in my mind.

  2. Do I pull back and keep it on a professional level and continue to live in my sick fantasies? That would be fine, I guess, but since it might be unwise to hunt at the moment, I might get very frustrated.

  3. Do I kidnap Elene and take her to some out-of-the-way spot and make her my sex slave? That might be very gratifying. But unrealistic. The police would inevitably check me out, as I've had some contact with her. It would be quite embarrassing to be discovered in a log cabin in the woods somewhere with a naked Elene chained to a wall, sucking my cock. On the other hand, I am not ruling this possibility out. Hey, I should work on that log cabin fantasy. Sounds promising.

  ENTRY 79:

  Last night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was a nest of wasps, all buzzing with evil little songs of betrayal, insecurity and hate. I felt like Hamlet’s father—someone was insidiously dripping poison into my ear while I slept.

  The lyrical content was, "Who Are You Kidding?" with "Do You Really Think You Can Get Away With Murder?" a close second. They went something like, "Do you really think that Possibility One could work? Do you really think that you can retire from serial killing and play happy families with Elene? You have fallen too deeply into The Project. You can never go back to being a normal person. You are never going to give up all that power and control. We will never let you go. You like your work too much. You will continue to kill until you go mad or get caught, whichever comes first."

  The wasps buzzed and zinged their tuneless melodies until I felt like I was lying in a bed of stinging nettles. I got up and had a drink. And then I had another one and another until oblivion came and smothered me with a warm alcoholic blanket.

  The next morning, I woke up with a bitch of a headache. As a punishment for my stupidity, I taught my morning class without the benefit of painkillers. It was torture, but I had to prove to myself that I had the determination to conquer my pain and function normally. I can do anything if I really want to. I know that now. I have to triumph over the Mind Wasps and the other evil thoughts crowding my brain. Those thoughts are my greatest enemies, not the police, not Elene, not even God.

  Between the Devil, the Black Dogs and the Mind Wasps, I have a hell of a pest problem in my brain.

  I need to call an exterminator. A Mind Pest Exterminator. If there was such a thing, can you imagine how much money he would make?

  Some worrisome thoughts about the state of the global economy? “No problem, sir, I can get rid of those in a jiffy.”

  Nasty niggles about your creditors baying for your blood? “I’ve got just the thing, sir, just let me insert this tube in your ear and your predicaments will be hydraulically sucked out in no time.”

  Maybe they could get rid of those annoying floaters in my eyeballs at the same time. Perhaps they should just suck out my entire being, give it a good scrub and then insert it back into my flabby outer husk. Now there’s a charming thought.

  I only hope that I can hold it together. Hold off the Devil and the Dogs and the Wasps long enough.

  ENTRY 80:

  The lunatics are taking over the asylum and death is overwhelming the world.

  Last night, I stayed up until 3:30 in the morning watching TV. Even in the middle of all this activity, I am still a television junkie. CNN was made for people like me. Every item on the news justifies my course of action. My crimes are small potatoes compared to say, the shenanigans going on in the Middle East. Where in the Middle East you might ask? Name it, say I. What a carnival of fools: they kill each other, they kill their children, they kill their politicians—with no thought of the future.

  What new idiocy will be committed in the name of Allah, or Jehovah, or Jesus, or Shiva next, I wonder? What fresh travesty of justice will be wreaked on a suffering people? What blunder of stupefying proportions will be perpetrated yet again by an uncaring government with no one left accountable? I think that of all the rationalizations that people use to kill each other, surely religion has got to be one of the most puerile. To believe in a God is irrational enough as it is, but to kill in the name of your all-knowing, all-seeing, all-loving God is the height of inanity. But of course, these people aren’t killing in the name of their God. They are killing because, secretly, they love it. Yes, they love every moment of the thrill of the chase, the sound of broken bones, the screams of pain, the look of agony on their victim’s face, the final death throes. They don’t kill in the name of their faceless Gods or because somebody stole their rotten little parcel of land that their ignorant families have scratched out some pathetic living on for the last few centuries. They kill because that is the only thing that they know how to do well. They kill because it is the only creative thing they can do: kill and be killed. Such a wonderful legacy to leave their children, who they now send out to do their fighting for them. Teach the children to fight, fight for God because “God is on our side.” Oh, is he now? Well, hey, guess what? I’ve got some news for you. God is on the other guy’s side, too. Ain’t that a laugh?

  God doesn’t give a flying fuck what we do. He sits up there, tearing out what is left of his hair and despairing of us like any other exhausted parent about a child who has gone wrong. And he probably thinks, “Fuck the human race. I’m going to send an asteroid their way to wipe them out and start all over again. This time I’ll give cockroaches brains instead of monkeys. It’s got to be an improvement over the last bunch.”

  Good riddance to all of them.

  ENTRY 81:

  What am I going to do? I need to create. My urges are becoming overwhelming. They are so pervasive that I can’t even face seeing Elene again. I need a release.

  I have thought long and hard about this. I know that it might be dangerous, but it could also be an entertaining way of distracting the police.

  I am going to take a little trip. I am going to visit the old stomping grounds of serial killer extraordinaire, Arthur Shawcross. Arthur, as I have mentioned before, cruised the highways and byways of Rochester, New York, where he killed a number of prostitutes for his pleasure. Rochester is only eighty-six miles west down the Thruway, a quick little trip. I checked out some hot nightclubs on the Internet and found a hunting ground that sounds perfect: The KonTiki Klub.

  Tomorrow night I will go to there and see what I can sniff out. I know that it is dangerous. I know that things could go wrong. I know that I am deviating from my carefully planned operation, but what can I do? I don’t want to take the chance of committing another murder in Syracuse. It’s just too risky. I feel too exposed.

  I know that if I just do one more—just one—that I will feel so much better. I will feel calmer and I will be in control again.

  I am getting excited about it already.

  ENTRY 82:

  This time, I am going to go in a new disguise. No longer as Mysterious Out-Of-Town Businessman, but as Baby-Shit Green Tracksuit Man! Yes, I think that he deserves a shot. The last time I was in Rochester, I was struck by its lack of sophistication. I thi
nk that M.O.O.T.B will stick out too much, while B.S.G.T.M. fits in everywhere.

  I may just pick up a prostitute. I feel like an easy time of it. Doing the whole gentlemanly, buying drinks, having a chat number is so exhausting. Also, I’m in the mood for a little bondage and there’s no way a non-prostitute will go for that kind of kink on an initial pick up. If she’s smart, that is.

  Jesus. I just had a thought. I am creating two different serial killers, with two different M.O.’s. There’s Businessman with his paintings and poses, and Geeky Bondage Guy. How intriguing for the police.

  Maybe next week, I’ll head farther West to Buffalo as Lumberjack Shirt Man and commit yet another murder. Then three different police forces will be looking for three different serial murderers. Now that would be fun. Except I would have to kill the Buffalo girl in a different way and I don’t want to do that. Strangling is so sensual. I can’t imagine using any other method. Stabbing someone is so messy and gruesome.

  When I was doing my research, I discovered that three out of four serial killers employ strangulation (with or without a ligature) as their preferred method of causing death. Next is stabbing, then way down the scale is shooting. I guess we like to get up close and personal with our victims. We need that “hands on” approach.

  Personally, I find the sensation of squeezing the life out of a beautiful woman erotic in the extreme. The way they struggle. The way their tongues poke out between their lips. The way their eyes widen and bulge. The way their pelvises bang convulsively against mine. The way they ineffectually try to pry my hands from their lovely pale throats. I look into their eyes and I see the light die. I see their souls go away to another place. As they go, I come. I shoot my seed into their hot little pussies at the same time as their spirits disappear on their final journeys.