Tales of Sin and Madness

by Brett McBean

  George had promised Tony he would keep quiet about Edmund’s side business, and until tonight he had held true to that promise.

  George loved his brother, but there was no way in hell he was going to see his only child follow in Tony’s footsteps.

  He was going to show Bobby the reality of murder, what dead, mutilated human remains looked and smelled like. Bobby needed to realise the consequences of such murderous impulses. He needed to be shocked out of wanting to rip the heads off birds and slice open the bellies of cats.

  “Throw Mojo into that pit,” George said to Bobby, pointing to the closest neighbouring pit. His mouth was beginning to taste foul, like there was a thick layer of mould on his tongue.

  Bobby hurled the rubbish bag into the hole. “Goodbye Mojo.” He turned to George and said, “Should we say a prayer?”

  George spat on the ground. “No, we haven’t got time,” he said, wiping his mouth. “The real reason I brought you out here, is to show you what a dead body looks like.”

  A light clicked on in Bobby’s eyes. “Yeah?”

  George sighed heavily. “Don’t look so goddamned excited about it. Death and murder isn’t something to be excited about. It ain’t cool. Killing someone isn’t fun. It’s messy and nasty and wrong. Just like killing Mojo was wrong.”

  “But it was fun,” Bobby said, softly, and started rubbing his bottom. There was probably a nice bruise on his cheeks by now.

  George gazed hard at Bobby. (“There’s nothing wrong with your son, Mr. Fisher. He’s a normal, healthy boy. In fact, he’s bright for his age. He’s just…inordinately quiet, that’s all.”). “You stop that kind of thinking right now. I’m going to show you just how ugly death is. By the time we get home, you’re never going to want to see another dead human ever again. Got me?”

  Bobby nodded reluctantly.

  “Good. Okay, wait here.” George turned to the pit. His stomach did flip-flops at the thought of hopping down into that mess to retrieve the rubbish bags.

  He was used to blood and bone, but being elbow-deep in dead cows and pigs was a world away from dead human body parts.

  Just remember, this is to help Bobby.

  Instead of hopping down straightaway, George sat on the edge of the pit, legs dangling, like someone testing the waters before jumping into a pool. Finally, he took the plunge and stepped down.

  The smell, already strong and caustic, hit him like a speeding locomotive: a combination of cooked meat, old flesh and other foul odours that George didn’t want to think about. As it was he struggled to keep down the two hotdogs and three beers he had had tonight for dinner.

  He stepped over animal remains. The lumpy rubbish bags underneath made it difficult to get a steady footing. Once he had steadied himself, George bent down and seized one of the rubbish bags near the top of the pile. He yanked it free.

  Whatever was inside the green rubbish bag was heavy and bulky, and strained the bag to almost breaking point. Blood, looking dark purple, sloshed around inside the bag as George started to heft the human remains out of the pit. He glanced up at Bobby. He was looking down at George with wild anticipation.

  You’re gonna see what death really looks like, kid. Up close and personal. Ugly, filthy, smelly…

  The grumble of a van’s engine was like a knife slicing up George’s spine.

  His body went cold.

  “It’s Edmund. Hide!” he barked.

  “Why? It’s just old Ed,” Bobby remarked.

  “We’re breaking and entering, remember? It’s against the law. He won’t be too happy if he finds us here. So hide!”

  “But…”

  “Hide, dammit!”

  “Where?”

  George, his mind drowning in panic (I didn’t even hear the gates!), struggled to think of an answer. “Behind one of the rubbish piles,” was all he could offer his son. “Go, hurry, I’ll be right behind you.”

  Bobby shrugged, turned, and was gone.

  George dropped the rubbish bag, reached up and, resting his hands on the rim of the pit, started hoisting himself up. But as his feet left the floor of dead things, his right foot slipped, he lost his grip, and he fell backwards. He landed on an uncomfortable and wet bed of both hard and squishy body parts. “Fuck,” he whined.

  Quickly picking himself up, he gripped the edge of the pit again and, with the sound of the van getting louder by the second, eased his head up. He caught a glimpse of headlights pushing through the night. He popped his head back down.

  “Fuck,” he whined again, voice sounding an octave higher this time.

  He was trapped. He would be discovered for sure. And then what would happen? Would he be shot, like the sign promised? Taken inside Edmund’s trailer and tortured? Would he be driven to the city and be delivered to one of Edmund’s clients as a present? Maybe he would be spared. Maybe George could claim to have been drinking and had wandered to the tip, fallen into the pit and drifted into a drunken sleep.

  Sure, he’d believe that. Face it, if I get caught, I’m screwed.

  And if that were to happen, George just hoped that Bobby would be okay. But with no one to look after him, to try and keep him on the right path in life, George doubted he would be.

  Holy Christ, you’re not dead yet! Just get your head together and think of a way out of this!

  But with an extremely limited choice of places to hide, and with his time running out, George didn’t fancy his chances of surviving to see the morning.

  Think, think, think…

  The idea struck him like a hammer to the back of the head.

  It was a sickening thought. George couldn’t believe he was going to go through with it, but it was the only idea he could come up with.

  He lay on top of the dead animal parts and rubbish bags. With gritted teeth, he began scooping the various odds and ends over his body like a skin and bone blanket.

  After covering his head with a sizeable bit of animal carcass, he laid still, hoping he blended in with all the junk around him.

  Lying among the human and cattle remains, keeping his eyes and lips firmly closed, George listened to the guttural noise of the van, its engine popping and spluttering and getting louder.

  When the van sounded like it was right on top of him, the engine dropped to a low, steady hum and then George heard a door open.

  He waited. There was a period of long silence.

  Something brushed against his hand and he very nearly cried out, but he managed to swallow the scream.

  The silence seemed to stretch on forever and George started to wonder if Edmund had left. Maybe everything would be okay after all, he thought.

  Then he heard talking: faint, muffled.

  George’s first thought was that Edmund was chatting to one of his client’s victims that he had brought back with him. Perhaps a friend for the one already in his house.

  But the more they talked, the more it sounded to George like a friendly conversation.

  Not a victim, then.

  Had to be a friend.

  But Edmund didn’t have any friends; at least, none that George knew of. Then he thought, with a cold, sinking feeling – maybe it was a killer from the city, one of Edmund’s clients.

  Oh Jesus…

  “This one?”

  It was Edmund’s slightly muffled voice – worn, grizzled, like a much-loved leather jacket.

  “Yep, that one.” This voice was softer, higher.

  Bobby?

  That second voice had sounded remarkably like the kid’s. But it couldn’t have been.

  Suddenly a great weight was dumped on George.

  He fought hard to stop himself from crying out in pain.

  Another object was heaped onto George; this one thankfully wasn’t as heavy.

  Christ I’m being fuckin’ buried alive here!

  “Are you sure you want to watch?” Edmund said, his voice now even more muffled. “It can get very smelly. All that dead flesh cooking…”

  “I like to
watch fires,” answered the young voice.

  Bobby. That’s definitely Bobby!

  “If you say so.”

  “And then I wanna see the rest of the dead bodies in the van.”

  A dry, growling laugh. “Sure thing, kid. Now, stand back. You’re about to get your first lesson in dirty laundry disposal – destroying the evidence.”

  Finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, George struggled in the pit, no longer caring about being shot, just wanting to escape. But with all the sudden extra weight on top of him, he couldn’t move.

  Suddenly there was a pattering above, like the sound of rain against a tent, and then the suffocating smell of petrol filled his head.

  Oh hell no! Oh Jesus for the love of God no!

  A bright kid. A normal kid. An inordinately quiet kid.

  I like to watch fires…

  And then one engulfed George Fisher.

  NOTES:

  The angle in serial killer stories that I find the most fascinating isn’t the forensics, nor the hunt for the killer; it’s the killers themselves and why they do what they do. Why did they become heinous murderers? Is it innate or is it more to do with their upbringing? Most of my stories – novels included – have to do with serial killing in some capacity, usually containing major or minor characters who are serial murderers. In this story, I pose the question – what would you do if you noticed the hallmark signs of the beginnings of a serial murderer in your child?

  WHO WANTS TO BE A SURVIVOR!

  Part 1: The Setup

  The physically unimpressive man strolled up to the security guard with an impudent smile. He carried a large and torn gym bag that was soiled, and its original brand name and logo had faded from time and wear.

  As the guard looked the man up and down, his immediate thought was that he was some sixties reject. But this guy couldn’t have been much older than thirty, so he was most likely a sixties wannabe. The guard smiled to himself but nodded diligently as the little man approached.

  Wonder what sort of drugs this guy has, the guard thought, eyeing the worn bag.

  “How do you do?” the man said. He gazed at the guard’s nametag. “Mike.” The man grinned.

  “What can I do for you?” the guard said.

  The man scratched his bald scalp and sniffed.

  Cocaine, the guard surmised. Would’ve thought dope.

  “Hot night,” the man said. “Real stinker.”

  “Certainly is. I’d much rather be in there than out here.”

  The small hippie laughed at the guard’s comment. A real belly laugh that seemed inappropriate for such a slight remark. He soon calmed, wiping his eyes.

  “I hear that,” the man said. “Show started already?”

  The guard nodded. “Afraid so, sir. Do you have a ticket?”

  The man sighed and muttered under his breath. “Yeah. Been waiting a long time to see Marty’s show. Came all the way over from San Francisco. By bus, man.”

  The guard took in a deep breath and checked his watch. He looked back down at the bearded man. “I suppose I could let you in. But I’d have to take you in myself and wait until they go for an ad break.”

  “It’s live, isn’t it?” the man asked with an almost manic smile.

  “Sure is. One of the only few left. May I have your ticket, sir?”

  The man nodded. He placed the bulging bag down onto the pavement and zipped it open. He shoved his arm inside and rummaged around. “It’s in here somewhere. Probably fallen…Ah! Here it is.”

  The man stood back up.

  The guard held out his hand. “The show has only just started, so…”

  His breath was stolen from his mouth the moment the knife entered his stomach.

  “Take that you fucking pig,” the man spat, as he rammed the blade into the guard’s stomach and chest repeatedly with furious jabs. Blood gurgled from the guard’s mouth and he could only grunt with each thrust of the knife.

  He felt the warm trickle of life’s fluid as he grabbed at his mid-section and stared dumbfounded at the unremarkable man below.

  “Fucking pig! Worthless purveyor of the establishment’s fascist ideals!”

  The guard dropped to the warm concrete, thinking thoughts of yachts sailing out in the ocean and movies that were set in New York. He was only vaguely aware of the man calling out. As he lay on the sticky pavement, with scenes of Taxi Driver running through his blurry mind, he heard the cries.

  “Let’s go! Hurry up!”

  He also heard the sound of many footsteps as they stamped past his body. He faintly heard and felt a few of them spit on him. He also felt the quick blows of a couple of feet kicking him.

  His mind was blurry with images of Serpico when he died.

  * * *

  There was a knock at the door of the control room. Craig stood up. “I’ll get it guys.”

  He wandered across the dim room. He flipped the lock then swung the door open. He smiled and nodded.

  Craig stepped aside while the two men ventured into the smoky control room.

  “Hey, who are you guys?” one of the control men said.

  The one in front pulled a gun from inside his jacket. “Don’t any of you move or we’ll blow a hole in your fucking head.”

  Craig shut the door and locked it.

  “We’re running this show, now,” the one with the gun said. “Get your asses over in that corner.”

  All four men looked over at Craig, their eyes brimming with confusion and fear.

  “Do what he says,” Craig told them.

  They all hopped out of their chairs and shuffled over to the designated corner. The second man pulled a rifle from his bag and held it at the small group. “Surprise!” he shouted. He cackled as they all flinched.

  “Which one speaks to the cameramen downstairs?” the first man asked Craig.

  “I’ll show you.” Craig joined his accomplices at the large desk and sat down. He slipped on a set of headphones. “What do I tell them, Flag?”

  The man sat down and slipped on a second set. “Can you make it so I can talk to the cameramen?”

  “Sam said I was in charge up here.”

  Flag sighed. “Okay. Sam said just to use one camera.”

  “Hey, you gonna let Shorty boss you around like that, Flag?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Bobby.”

  “Yeah, keep quiet,” Craig said.

  Bobby sniggered and turned his attention back to the group in the corner. “Which one’s the director?”

  “I am,” a small, skinny man answered. “Are you terrorists?”

  “Hell no,” Bobby chuckled.

  “Well, then what do you want?”

  “To teach everyone the evils of tele…”

  Flag whirled around. “I thought I told you guys to be quiet.” He gazed a warning at Bobby. “Can’t you keep quiet?”

  Bobby nodded. “Sorry, Flag.” A raving grin spread across his chubby face. “Can we shoot ‘em? Huh, can we?” He jabbed the rifle towards the cowering men.

  “Jesus no,” Flag sighed. “Sam said not to kill them. We will need their help.”

  Turning back to the controls, Flag gazed at the array of small screens that relayed what each camera downstairs saw. On most of the screens, Marty Laffin was standing in the centre of the stage. One screen showed the band. There was also a regular TV, showing them exactly what was being broadcast into millions of homes across the country. Flag would have to keep particular watch on that screen.

  Craig nudged Flag. “I’m ready. You call the FBI. The phone’s over there.”

  “Okay,” Flag said.

  * * *

  The audience applauded and laughed. With two hundred ardent fans clapping and tittering, there was no need for canned laughter. The noise was so raucous, in fact, that the screams out in the corridor went unnoticed.

  Marty Laffin grinned and waved for the audience to cease their ovation for a moment.

  He waited until there was silence in the
theatre, then pausing for just the right amount of time, quipped, “And that’s just this week.” The laughter went up a few notches with whistles and howling. He raised his arm and was just about to introduce Dave Morrison and the band, when the back double doors crashed open.

  All heads turned and Marty chuckled.

  “Well, what’s this?” he said, thinking perhaps this was a skit he had purposely been told nothing about. He looked over at the producer and expected to see his face trying hard to hide a sly smirk. Marty frowned to himself when he saw the producer looking just as baffled.

  Marty guessed there must’ve been around twenty people. “Well, hey there kids,” he called. “A bit late aren’t we?”

  Some of the audience chuckled, while others watched with interest.

  Marty gazed down the camera and shrugged. “I knew I should’ve come to rehearsal.”

  Some more nervous chuckles from the audience.

  “Okay, take your seats,” Marty called, trying to reassure the audience.

  A man came dashing down the theatre and up to the stage. Marty’s face dropped and he backed away.

  “Hey, now. Just stay there, okay? We don’t want any trouble.”

  Marty could hear, off to the side, the producer calling for security.

  The scruffy man jogged onto the stage, carrying a shabby looking bag. The one thing that particularly unnerved Marty was the wild stare in the man’s eyes.

  “Just stay calm, Marty.”

  The man spoke with such coolness that chills prodded at Marty’s skin. Marty glanced over at the large cameras and saw red lights still glowing on all three.

  Why haven’t they switched us off yet?

  “Ah, we’ll be right back after these messages,” Marty said down the lens of camera one. But the cameras remained on.

  The audience was restless. They muttered questions and most had confused looks on their otherwise unconcerned faces. They weren’t sure if this was part of the show.

  Marty tried to get the attention of either of the cameramen, but stopped when the man brandished a large knife, one covered in blood.