The Venus Complex
Page 16
Can you get sexier than that, I ask you?
ENTRY 83:
Last night didn’t exactly turn out as I planned. It seems that even with serial killing, there is something like beginner’s luck. My first murders were so easy, as if they were preordained. I should have known that I would have a miserable time in Rochester.
After the usual change of cars at the airport, I left Syracuse around nine in the evening on Saturday, wanting to take the ninety minute drive to Rochester at an easy pace. The place was as dull as I remembered it, like most one-company towns. I headed downtown and moseyed around, taking in my surroundings and trying not to look too conspicuous. However, yet again, no one seemed to notice me. I don’t seem to resonate with most people. It’s as if I carry some kind of nondescript gene. Not that I am complaining, as it has served me in good stead so far.
The only people that seem to notice me are my victims. Why is that, I wonder? Is it because I am noticing them? I suppose any woman likes the fully undivided attentions of a man. Pity that they don’t have a clue about why I am so interested in them.
I arrived at the KonTiki Klub and parked around the corner. One of my pet hates (I have so many of them now) is the way people misspell words on purpose. I blame Prince (The Artist Formerly Known As The Artist Formerly Known As Prince). He started using unconventional spellings for the titles of his songs years ago: Nothing Compares 2 U is a prime example. Now, it has grown out of all proportion, with every rap artist worth his salt misspelling the life out of perfectly good words. What kind of example is this giving to our numskull kids, I wonder, who have difficulties enough spelling their own damn names, let alone more complicated words like two and you? I gritted my teeth and entered the bowels of The KonTiki Klub, squashing a desire to climb up to the sign and change the K in Klub to a C.
It was as if I had never left Kahunaville. The place was like an immense version of the restaurant, only more so. Verdant plastic foliage sprouted from every crevice and the cocktail waitresses were wearing fetching turquoise mini-sarongs and leis. Fake palm trees, colorful murals and stuffed parrots completed the South Seas image and, in a florid way, it was quite restful.
The place was bustling with prey, young lovelies on the make. In the end, I had chickened out wearing the Baby-Shit Green Track Suit. It was just too awful and I don’t think I would have made it past the dress code of the club. Also, I wanted to feel confident tonight and I wouldn’t be able to do that looking like a sack of shit. I was dressed casually in an expensive gray sports jacket and black jeans, with my tinted glasses and different hairstyle. I looked innocuous but not out of place.
I made a bargain with myself. If I couldn’t pick up a girl in couple of hours, I would drive to the seedier part of town and snag a hooker.
I bought myself a drink, perched on a bar stool and observed for a while. I soon zeroed in on a girl by the bar that seemed unattached. She was pretty, with black hair and green eyes. Sensational figure. Purple velvet mini skirt and a green, tight, low cut top. Great tits, no bra. I observed her for about ten minutes. She occasionally glanced at her watch, so I deduced she was waiting for someone. That someone was very late and I was amused at how angry she got as each moment passed.
After fifteen minutes, I made my move. I walked up to the bar next to Waiting Girl and ordered another martini. It was like standing next to a pressure cooker. Any minute now steam would be coming out of her ears.
Me: “Excuse me, I couldn’t help noticing, but are you waiting for someone?”
Waiting Girl: “Yes, I am, and the bastard is half an hour late. I am staying five more minutes, then I’m blowing this pop stand.”
Me: “I don’t blame you. The man must be crazy, keeping a pretty girl like you waiting. May I buy you a drink?”
She was so angry, she hadn’t noticed me. Now, she looked at me for the first time. She smiled and said with a certain reckless abandon, “Sure, why the hell not.”
Her name was Nancy. The bastard’s name was Jerry. Nancy liked Piña Coladas. She worked for RiteAid as a pharmacist’s assistant. I heard all about Jerry. He worked at Marine Midland Bank and thought he was God’s gift. Her friend Diandra had warned her about Jerry, but Nancy had thrown caution to the winds and now she was ruing the day she’d ever met the guy. Nancy had been an idiot to get involved with such a jerk in the first place. Blah, blah, blah.
She glugged down three Piña Coladas in twenty minutes. I was starting to congratulate myself on a successful entry to stage one of the pick up, when a not-so-gentle prod in my back turned me around.
That’s when I met Jerry, who—considering he worked for a bank— was very tall, very wide and very muscular.
Jerry: “Who the fuck are you?”
Me: “Uhhhhhhhhhh….”
Nancy: “Don’t you talk to him like that! Who the hell do you think you are, turning up this late?”
Jerry: “Beat it, Jack. This is between her and me.”
Me: “Ummmmmmmmmm…….”
Nancy: “Don’t you tell him to beat it, you bum. I like him, so he’s staying.”
Me: “Errrrrrrrrr….”
Jerry: “Listen, baby, I’m sorry I’m late. I just don’t like the idea of some creep hitting on you, that’s all.”
Nancy: “That creep bought me three drinks. I could have died of thirst waiting for you.”
Jerry: (turning to look at me in an ominous fashion) “Three drinks? Are you trying to get her drunk?”
Me: “No, um, not at all.”
Nancy: “Don’t change the subject. Why are you so late?”
Jerry turned to explain and I took it as a cue to melt away as discreetly as possible. They were still arguing as I got to the door.
I didn’t feel like trying another bar. I walked around for a bit, to clear my head, and then I headed for my car.
Time for Rochester’s red light district.
I cruised down to Lake Avenue, keeping one eye peeled for the police. The houses along the road had all been built circa 1880 and looked as if they hadn’t had a coat of paint on them since. It was starting to snow sporadically, but the cold weather hadn’t kept those undaunted ladies of the night off the street.
Finally, I spotted a likely looking number. She was tall, honey blonde and in her late twenties. Most of the hookers in the area were a bit rough-looking, but she looked promising.
She was all by herself. I stopped the car and she came up to the window.
Street Girl: “Looking for a party, Mister?”
Me: “You bet.”
Street Girl: “Ten bucks for a blow job, twenty-five bucks for straight sex. Hundred if you want anything kinky.”
Me: “A hundred it is. Do you know a motel?”
Street Girl: “No problem.” She got in the car. “What kind of kink are you into, Mister?”
Me: “A little bondage, maybe.”
Street Girl: “Me or you?”
Me: “Sorry?”
Street Girl: “Who gets tied up, honey? Me or you?”
Me: “Oh, I see. You, if you don’t mind.”
Street Girl: “I don’t mind, but that’s fifty extra.”
She directed me to a fleapit near the Thruway. It was a carbon copy of the first motel in Syracuse. We went through virtually the same routine. She got the key and I parked away from the lights so no one would notice my car or me.
We got to the room and I quickly came to the realization that I had made a big mistake.
She was a nonstop talker. In five minutes, I seemed to have more information about her than I’d found out about Elene in a week of investigation.
Her name was Gertrude, believe it or not. She was convinced that the reason she became a prostitute was because her mother had given her such a lousy name. I asked her why she didn’t change it if she disliked it so much. She looked at me as if I were a moron. “It’s my name,” she said. “I can’t change my name.” Gertrude was from Watertown, near the Canadian border. Watertown was a dump. She was a
high school dropout. She married some guy when she was sixteen and he turned out to be—surprise, surprise—an asshole. Gertrude found herself slinging hash browns in some greasy spoon up near the Mohawk Indian Reservation north of Utica and decided to move on up in the world and “go on the game,” as the English say. So the bright lights of Rochester beckoned and now she was happy as a pig in shit.
When Gertrude finally ran out of things to say, I managed to get a word in edgeways and told her what I wanted. She got undressed down to her stockings, garter belt, leopard-skin bra and panties, and lay on the bed. She was chewing gum. I told her to spit it out. She obliged and lay there.
I tied Gertrude up. I stood and looked at her for a while, but I couldn’t get it up. She just didn’t fit. It was not a sensual experience.
Gertrude got impatient: “Whaddaya doing? You’re just standing there. You gonna do something? Jesus, hurry up or I’m gonna have to charge you double.”
Me: “Shut the fuck up.”
I stuffed something in her mouth. She started to struggle, but it wasn’t any good. She didn’t turn me on. She only made me feel exasperated.
What was I going to do? If I left her there, she might complain to the cops. Killing her would be a waste. It would be meaningless. Why take the risk?
I took the gag out.
Gertrude: “What the fuck did you do that for, you bastard? Untie me or I’m going to holler for the cops.”
Me: “I don’t think so, Gertrude. I can’t imagine that you and the police are exactly bosom buddies.”
Gertrude: “Ah, shit.”
I apologized to her. I said that I suffered from a sexual problem due to an unfortunate logging accident. I was trying to rejuvenate my sex drive with kinky sex, because the straight stuff didn’t do it for me anymore. Gertrude was amazingly sympathetic. She told me that a lot of her clients had problems. She asked me to untie her, so I did.
Gertrude got up, bent down to pick up her stilettos and then swung around and hit me so hard on the side of my head with her shoes that I literally saw stars. My knees buckled and I dropped to the floor.
Gertrude: “That’s for gagging me, you prick. I hate that!”
Gertrude grabbed her clothes and marched out, still in her bra and panties.
I left as quickly as I could. I hadn’t touched any furniture and I wiped down the doorknobs as I left.
I drove a couple of miles, then pulled over and held my aching head in my hands for a while. When my ears stopped ringing, I drove back to the center of town. I found an all night drug store and picked up some Extra Strength Tylenol.
What an evening.
That’s what comes of deviating from The Plan. I deserved getting whacked in the head for my stupidity. It’s a miracle that something more drastic didn’t happen, like getting nabbed by the police for curb crawling for instance. The God of Serial Killers was definitely on vacation last night.
ENTRY 84:
Another night, another dream.
In this dream, I am Frank, God knows why. I have been called to the scene of a multiple homicide. I’m accompanied by my partner, who bears an uncanny resemblance to my friend Jerry from the KonTiki Klub. We are walking from room to room of a house that is scarily reminiscent of Norman Bates’ home sweet home in Psycho. We’re trying to analyze what has happened. The scene of the crime is dreadful, with huge Jackson Pollock-like splashes of blood dripping down the walls. In my dream, I seem to have the uncanny ability to decipher the bloodstains and ascertain the order in which the murders occurred, which is crucial to the investigation.
Then I wander into the bathroom and see a vision that sears itself on my dream retinas. Three people are tipped over headfirst into the bathtub: a woman and two children. Their hands are tied behind their backs. As I peek over into the tub, I see that the backs of their heads have all been blown off. Blood is dripping everywhere. Some Picasso has written on the wall in blood, “Fuck You Gertrude.” I back out of the bathroom, calling for my partner, but he has disappeared. I look everywhere for him, as my feelings of apprehension grow. I can’t find him anywhere in the house. I go outside and all the other police cars have left. There is no one around and I am in complete darkness. I stumbled around, calling out for my partner, but there is no reply.
There is nothing weirder than dreaming about being in complete darkness. It is as if I had been struck blind.
Then I get the distinct feeling that that I am no longer alone. My partner has reappeared. I suddenly realize with absolute certainty that he is the murderer. I am totally vulnerable. I am in a black void, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. I sense his presence right behind me.
I willed myself to wake up. I knew I was dreaming and I had to get out of there, but I was suffering from sleep paralysis. It felt like I was at the bottom of a deep black lake and I was slowly struggling to the surface. I finally managed to open my eyes, but I felt so groggy that it was as if some evil force was trying to drag me under the surface of the water again. I had to slap myself in the face to get out of it.
I got up and had a cup of coffee. I didn’t want to go back to sleep for fear of returning to the void. It was too similar to the evil black flood from the Devil’s cock from my earlier dream.
Some people say that Freud is full of crap and that your dreams don’t mean anything. They say that dreams are just the random firings of a dormant brain chewing over the events of the previous day. Well, I think I can safely say that my dreams are a true indication of my disturbed mind. There aren’t any hidden meanings, it’s all there in plain sight … lying right there on the surface. Death isn’t a symbol for anything. It is just death.
Sometimes I feel so tired, that I just want to give up. The anger dissipates and I am left feeling empty. Back to being the Zero Man. Mr. Nonentity. As I write that phrase, Zero Man, I can feel myself getting angry again. I want to feel full again. I demand to be filled up and if the only thing that fills me up is murder, then so be it. I am not afraid of death. I am not afraid of dealing death. I am only afraid of being a Zero Man.
ENTRY 85:
Elene called this morning. I was still bleary-eyed from my sleepless night and I probably didn’t sound very coherent. She asked me if I wanted to come over for a meal and discuss the case further.
This wasn’t in my game plan. I needed time to reassess my feelings for her. I needed time to find out what I really wanted from her.
She was so insistent that, in the end, I decided to go along with it, but I was scared that more contact would destroy her as a Venus in my eyes.
How strange to feel like this. To retreat so thoroughly from my previous position. I still want her, of course. I want to possess her, but I no longer want a relationship with her. I just want to own her. No give and take. No arguments. No petty discussions about who is going to take out the garbage. Fuck that. Just outright possession.
ENTRY 86:
I decided this morning not to go over to Elene’s house tonight. I called her up and made an excuse. She sounded disappointed. I told her that something had come up and that it would be more convenient if I met her at the Public Safety Building on Tuesday morning.
I need more time to think.
ENTRY 87:
Sometimes the voices in my head are so loud that I am positive that I left a television set on somewhere in the house. I go around looking for it, but nothing is on. Boy, is that scary, or what? I know that if I listen too closely to the voices then I am lost, but luckily they are quite indistinct. The doctors told me to expect the occasional auditory hallucination, but this is fucking creepy. Maybe there is a perverse gnome living in my basement, coming out to torment me by turning on various TV’s around the house, then switching them off when he hears me coming. That’s a marvelous concept, isn’t it? Black Dogs, Mind Wasps, the Great Gray Devil and now Perverse Gnomes. It’s getting kind of crowded around here. Even the Mind Pest Exterminator would have a problem with all the shit that’s flying around my head.
ENTRY 88:
It is 9:00 AM, Tuesday morning. Elene just called. She said that I didn’t need to come in to the police station, as an arrest of the serial killer is imminent. An arrest is imminent. She said that she would love to get together soon to hear my conclusions, as they could be valuable when the case goes to court.
Me: “You really think that they’ve got the right guy, then?”
Elene: “Frank seems very positive, but he didn’t have time to give me any details. He was on his way to arrest the suspect.”
Me: “Oh. Well, just give me a call when you have the time.”
Elene: (warmly … at least I thought that it sounded warm) “You can count on it.”
So, at this very moment, the police are on their merry way to arrest a suspect in the killings. Will that suspect turn out to be me? Maybe that’s why Frank didn’t give any details to Elene. Maybe she told him that we had lunch together.
I don’t feel as scared as I thought I would be. What could they possibly have on me? I will just have to wait it out.
ENTRY 89:
Elene called again. The police have arrested a plumber called Lonnie Snarldon. A prostitute was found strangled last Saturday and the forensic evidence and witness reports point right to poor old Lonnie.
Now, why would they link my crimes to his? OK, the basic M.O. was the same, but other than that there are no connections. I never left any forensic evidence at my crime scenes. Maybe the police think that the serial killer got careless. It does happen. A lot of them lose it near the end. They seem to run out of steam and want to get caught. Even Super Serial Killer Ted Bundy lost his concentration at the end of his career. But not me.