But I wasn’t disappointed, I wasn’t heartbroken. I didn’t think it had anything to do with my skill as a writer. I began to understand that some things could not be appreciated unless seen. No matter how bad an author might want you to experience what they envision, what they see, sometimes it is simply impossible. It’s like trying to write down how music sounds. You can describe the instruments, explain the beat and rhythm, the ups and downs, but at the end of the day…at the end of the day you simply cannot hear the music.
A year passed.
I continued in my ways, scraping by, saving, waiting, and then finally purchasing machines of death as a new victim was procured. Looking back, I have a hard time forming concrete memories of that year. Everything was so similar, every day so robotic. During the weekends I would hole up in my apartment and watch and rewatch snuff films, filling my mind until the next live stream. I was a slave to the violence. It remained fresh and new each time I witnessed it. My mind never numbed to it, the blade of its cruelty never dulled.
And then the opportunity of a lifetime emerged from the depths of the deep web. Right around the one-year mark of my new obsession, I was contacted by the hosts of the live snuff channel. They sent a direct message to my account and when I saw it, my heart began to race.
They said they had noticed my loyalty to their work. They said they appreciated all the money I had donated to their bloody productions. They said I was an inspiration to the art of snuff, a true patriot to the darker side of life.
And they asked if I wanted to participate in a live event.
I had to re-read the message four times before I was convinced I wasn’t dreaming. Could…could this actually be real? Were they really inviting me to go and partake in their live shoot? It was too good to be true, the thrill of possibility overwhelming me. I sat back in my chair, staring at the message on my screen. After a moment, I slid a cigarette between my teeth and smoked the entire thing while in a trance-like state.
Finally, I placed my trembling hands on the keyboard and replied. I told them I would be honored to be a part of their work and asked for the details and date. I asked what I needed to bring or do to prepare. I asked what they wanted of me.
It wasn’t long before I had a new message. Licking my lips, I opened it. My breath left my body in a rush of adrenaline.
They were offering the spot of executioner…to me.
Three weeks went by in a rush of excited impatience. I couldn’t stop role-playing the eventual scene in my mind. I was going to kill someone. I was going to star in a snuff. I would finally be able to enact these dark fantasies that had been dominating my thoughts for the past year. Time and time again I pictured myself sliding a knife between someone’s ribs or strangling them with my bare hands. I didn’t hold any malice in my heart; it was just an overwhelming sense of curiosity. I would be the one who would feel their life leave their body. I would be their end.
The more I thought about it, the more I knew I could do it. There was no question there. Not once did I pause and ponder my ability to kill. This is what had been growing inside of me since my humble beginnings. I had always known it was there, this morbid hunger.
I did wonder what would happen afterward. Obviously, these were dangerous people I was dealing with. Obviously, they were professionals in their craft. I could tell just by the quality of their shoots: the lighting, the set, the clean design of the website. Everything pointed to a small-time organization that had a very good system running and somehow they had kept it all under the radar. As I pondered these things, ideas began to grow in my mind.
One of these ideas was a need to protect myself in case anything went sideways. I decided that I would slip a small knife inside my shoe in case I found myself in a less-than-desirable situation.
But the way I was imagining things, everything would go off without a hitch.
I was told to meet them outside of town by an abandoned warehouse around eleven at night. They would transport me to the spot of the shoot and from there we’d begin filming. When it was done, they would drive me back to my car and I’d be on my way. They obviously didn’t worry about me telling anyone because of my involvement on their site and I clearly wasn’t going to run to the police. That and the fact they were setting the table for me to murder someone.
Now, I’m not stupid. I played around with the possibility that I was being set up as the victim. That maybe this was their way of reaching out to their viewers and getting new meat for their chopping block. Hence, the knife I would stash in my shoe.
I knew it was extremely dangerous and a huge risk to my personal safety, but it was such a rare opportunity I decided it was worth the risk. I was at the point in my obsession where I needed to take that last step, I needed to extend beyond just viewing murder. I needed to partake in it. I needed to feel it.
I needed to hear the music.
I needed to see the color.
That’s how I found myself in a van three weeks later with a bag over my head. I was nervous, feeling the road bounce beneath me. The knife in my shoe felt hard under my foot, a solid reminder of my insurance in case this went wrong.
I had driven to the instructed location and waited half an hour for the black van to arrive. I was a mess of nerves and emotion, unable to believe that the time had finally come. I had spent so much time imagining this moment, I couldn’t fathom that it was actually happening.
Only one man had been sent to retrieve me, someone my age in his early twenties. He seemed incredibly casual about the whole thing, shaking my hand upon arrival and apologizing for the bag over my head. I told him I understood as the rough cloth was pulled over my face. It’s not like he tied my hands or anything; he just asked that I keep the bag on until we arrived.
As we drove, I told him I was surprised they had reached out to me. I heard him chuckle and say that sometimes as an incentive to keep watching the live streams they’d allow dedicated viewers to perform the executions. He said I probably hadn’t noticed in the past, as each person was required to wear a black jacket and a ski mask they provided.
He said they would have contacted me sooner, but they hadn’t traveled out my way in some time. Obviously, they moved around a lot and when they reached my neck of the country, they decided it was time to extend a hand. I told him I greatly appreciated the opportunity and silently felt a little uneasy that they knew where I lived.
After about an hour, we came to a stop and I was allowed to remove my mask. I blinked and scrubbed my eyes, letting them settle on my surroundings. We had stopped at another abandoned warehouse, this one much larger than the one I had been picked up at. It was surrounded by swaying trees that danced in the dark moonlight, a gentle breeze filling the air.
The man who drove me got out of the van and motioned for me to do the same. Gravel crunched under my feet as I followed him toward the looming superstructure. It was a mess of broken brick and jutting steel beams, a relic long forgotten by time and man. I felt the wind rustle through my hair and I breathed in the quiet night. I could tell by the inky sky just how far we were from any kind of civilization.
We passed a few parked cars and then entered the silent ribcage of broken construction. It was dark, the way lit only by the glowing moon. The man leading me seemed to know where we were going and told me over his shoulder that we were shooting in the basement. I stumbled over loose rubble and stayed close to my guide, feeling the pull of excitement tug at me.
I followed him down some wide stairs, being careful not to trip, and saw lights at the bottom. We reached the basement and I was overcome with a sense of awe.
Sitting in the middle of the vast open basement was a man bound and gagged to a chair. His head slumped to his chest and I could tell he was unconscious. Surrounding him were stage lights, set up and connected to a running generator. They were spaced out to light the scene, but far enough away they wouldn’t make it into the live stream.
Two men were set up ten feet from the bound man, an array
of wires and boom mikes entangling their space. One man had an expensive-looking camera set up on a tripod and was testing its functionality and frames while the other man placed multiple mikes around the lights. Both men barely looked up at me, their scruffy faces indifferent to my arrival.
The last man, though, turned to me and came to meet us at the bottom of the stairs, a big smile on his face. He was about thirty years old and had a hollow look around his eyes. His face was gaunt and pale, but not sickly. He looked like someone who had seen hell and decided to make the most of it.
He shook my hand and dismissed the driver to go back to the van and wait for me to come back up when the deed was done. I watched him go, a sense of wonder filling me. This was actually going to happen. I was really going to do this.
“You nervous?” The man asked, still smiling and gripping my hand.
I shook my head. “I just can’t believe you’re letting me actually do this. I can’t help but wonder what the catch is.”
The man snorted. “No catch, man. Just a way of saying thank you for all the money you’ve put into our little illegal operation. And no one cares who’s doing the actual killing, just so long as the viewers get to see their tools used. Why not give back to the community you know? Let someone live out a fantasy.”
I looked at him. “Is that what this is to you? A fantasy?”
I saw his eyes grow distant and his tone shifted slightly. “It used to be. I had a partner who enjoyed this more than me, but…well…things didn’t end up working out. I see this as a…a sickness I live with. I can’t make it go away, can’t stop my need to…to kill people. At one point in my life I almost killed myself over it, but eventually I learned to live with it…and then I learned how to make a profit from it. Work with the gifts God gave you, am I right?”
I nodded, feeling things cement in my mind.
He pointed to a workbench at the far end of the basement. “Over there are the tools you’ll use as they come up on the laptop. I’ll be standing offscreen to instruct you which ones the viewers have purchased and in what order to use them. Now it’s essential to not kill this man until we have reached the end of the shoot, OK? I know this is exciting and all, but I’m going to be seriously pissed off if he dies before we’re done with the list.”
I felt a hunger seize my stomach, ideas exploding in my mind like fireworks. “I understand. You don’t have anything to worry about. I was born for this.”
He slapped my back. “Glad to hear it. I’ve seen men change their mind once they’re actually here, but you…I can tell you’re here to see this to the end. I can see the lust in your eyes. I’ve seen it before. I can tell you’re a killer.”
I could feel a cold darkness swallow me up. “I won’t let you down.”
“You ready to get started?”
I smiled. “I think this is going to mark the beginning of a whole new life for me.”
The man turned to the two techs and shouted instructions for them to get set. They seemed bored by the whole thing, a familiar irritation I had seen in others. I got the feeling they didn’t like their boss very much. Good.
I joined the director by the workbench and watched as the sound guy went to the bound man and slapped him awake. He groaned around his gag and then his eyes lit up with fear as he realized where he was. He began to scream, the sound muted by the dirty cloth in his mouth. I wondered who he was, where they had scooped him up. I knew they must be incredibly careful with whom they chose, scoping out potential victims and tracking them for weeks. The infrastructure of such an operation was impressive.
The director opened a laptop on the workbench and pulled up the familiar website. As he got the list of torture devices in order, I ran my hands over the array of tools splayed out before me. My fingers brushed over the cold steel, the possibilities of each one luring me to its grip. I smiled, my mind set. There was only one way this was going to go. There was no turning back now.
“OK,” the director said, glancing at the screen. “Wow, looks like the first one on the list is…a chainsaw!” He turned to me. “Now be careful with this one, don’t get carried away. Maybe cut up his legs a little bit, hack off an ear…nothing fatal or too bloody. This is a tricky one to start with; we have a lot more to go, OK?”
I spotted the massive weapon on the floor by my feet and picked it up, gripping it with sure hands, “This is a fantastic choice,” I said, smiling.
“Good. Now here, put these on,” he said, pulling out from beneath the workbench a black jacket and ski mask. I bent and scooped them up, my wardrobe for the performance. I pulled the ski mask over my face and was pleasantly surprised at the freshly washed aroma. The jacket was a little big, but I dutifully buttoned it up and tested the stiffness, flexing my range. Satisfied, I nodded at the director.
The director cupped his hands to his mouth, “OK, you two—ready?” They gave him a thumbs-up. My heart thundered in my chest and I felt a mass of energy fill me, a pulsing excitement. I stared at the man in the chair, my eyes meeting his and I saw helpless fear reflect back at me. He was crying, struggling against his restraints, desperately trying to free himself from the waking nightmare.
“Go live!” The director yelled, bringing his hand down in a chopping motion.
I hefted the chainsaw in my hands, its still blade begging to be brought to life. My eyes never left the man in the chair as I approached the circle of stage lights. From the darkness I came, bringing with me tools of death. How appropriate, how fitting, that the light would expose just how stained I had become.
I stood just outside the circle of light and put the chainsaw down to rev it. I glanced at the two techs and they seemed bored, one of them with his eye to the camera and the other hovering over a laptop that was plugged into some kind of circuit board. I gripped the pulley and yanked it, giving the viewers an unseen preview of what was coming. The small engine growled from the black and then sputtered back to sleep. I pulled the string a couple more times, but the engine always faltered back into silence. The cameraman looked up at me and twirled his fingers at me, annoyed.
Hurry up.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw the director coming to help me. He seemed irritated. He shoved me to the side, flicked a switch, and gripped the cord. He yanked it once and the chainsaw screamed to life. The man in the chair was weeping, shaking profusely, his bloodshot eyes full of unimaginable horror.
“Thanks,” I said, grinning. “It’s been a pleasure working with you.”
Time to do this.
I suddenly grabbed the director and shoved him toward the man in the chair. Surprised and caught off guard, he tumbled forward into the view of the camera. He tripped into the bound man but caught himself as the chair rocked from the collision. The two techs looked up from their work, confused as to what was happening.
As the director turned to face me, his eyes shining with confused anger, I stepped into the halo of light, grinning like a madman.
In one swift motion, I drove the chainsaw into the director’s stomach, muscles straining as I lifted his body up into the screaming blade. Blood and flesh exploded onto my mask in waves of grisly carnage, the warm fluid coating the fabric with streaks of gore.
The director’s mouth was open in a silent howl, blood running down his chin as the chainsaw chewed up his insides. He made the mistake of grabbing the churning blade, desperate to remove the source of agony. His fingers were shred in a splash of blood and bone and one of his thumbs whizzed off into the darkness.
I gave the chainsaw some more juice and tilted the blade down, letting my victim slide to the ground in a pool of his own innards. He looked up at me, confusion painting his face as he screamed, unable to believe what I had done.
I didn’t hesitate.
I brought the chainsaw down and severed his head.
And fuck, did it feel good.
Blood gushed onto the dirty floor, spouts of thick red pooling around the dead body. I bent down and picked up the head by the hair,
the snarling chainsaw in my other hand. I stepped toward the camera and shoved the mutilated face into the lens.
“You see this? You see what I did to this man?!” I yelled into the camera. The two techs were frozen with disbelief, unmoving as shock held them still.
I lowered the head and looked directly into the lens. “This man was the mind behind the…the show you all enjoy so much. He constructed this bloody theater, built a foundation of entertainment around his own violent tastes.”
I suddenly smiled into the camera. “But I’m in charge now. From now on, I call the shots. I understand your need for this.” I splayed my hands out at the bloody floor. “I understand your desire to partake in this gory display of death. I used to be like you, sitting behind my computer, paying for tools of torture…I’m not here to change that. In fact, I’m going to make it easier. I’m going to lower the price on the site, I’m going to host more events, and I’m going to raise the quality of what you’re paying for. I want to give you the performance you deserve.”
I took a step back and raised my arms. “As a sign of good will, I will refund all of your money for today’s little hiccup. I understand that this wasn’t what you expected to see today…I apologize for that…and I’ll be in touch with all of you very soon.”
I looked up from the camera at the two tech guys. “Shut it down.” They didn’t move.
I revved the chainsaw I was still holding. “I said shut it the fuck down.” The cameraman scrambled in a panic and the red light on the camera went off. Neither of them moved, just stared at me, waiting for me to make a move or say something. They seemed terrified, the disruption of their practiced routine rattling their senses into shock.
“How much did he pay you?” I asked, throwing a thumb over my shoulder at the headless body.
The sound guy licked his lips and fought to get himself under control. I found his fear almost comical when examining his line of work.
“Two thousand a shoot,” he finally managed to mumble.
I looked at the cameraman. “Same for you?”
The Worst Kind of Monsters Page 6
