Serial Killer Android

by David Scott

  The white door, with non-descript silver chrome knocker, slowly opened. Velma opened her mouth, either to scream or question, it did not matter. Pulcinella’s fingers extended knife-like and skewered through her face. She fell immediately to the ground, dead. Her red silky underwear exposing itself, and seen for the first time. Any dignity gone. Her ascetic life over.

  Pulcinella walked through the corridor, past the faces staring out at it from staged holiday photos, false smiles, white teeth standing out sharply against the lobster-red sunburnt skin, and into the living room. It turned its blank face and hooked nose towards each of the three occupants left. Observing and calculating.

  The two teenage sons jumped up and ran towards the door at the opposite end of the room, pushing past each other to get out first, and not even glancing back towards their father. Pulcinella ran at speed, faster than the boys, and slashed the back of their necks with its talons. Blood spurted all over the cream, faux-leather, seats.

  The father gulped heavily and clutched his chest. He stared at Pulcinella wide-eyed.

  “I have money. I can get you it immediately. Take my car. Anything, just please don’t kill me. I don’t deserve this. I haven’t done anything!” The man pleaded, with no remorse for his dead family, the selfish gene had well and truly taken over control.

  Pulcinella showed no emotion to the pitiful pleas, and its coding reacted. Swish, swish. Cold steel slicing through soft flesh; like a knife cutting through an overripe peach. More blood. So much blood.

  It mechanically surveyed the house. Its heat sensors indicated that there was no one left living inside.

  Soulful singing came from the television to bid farewell to the Gunther family, as Pulcinella took its leave and made its way to the next dwelling.

  In the next house, a young couple lay fast asleep in bed. Since the baby had come along, exhaustion was their normal state of being, and they stole sleep whenever they could. Pulcinella had brought a quick end to their tiredness, and they were now dead to the world.

  Ellie had been left in her bedroom to read quietly to herself, and warned to be good, otherwise the bogeyman would get her. The aged threat readily used to afflict children, and persuade them to conform, still worked.

  Ellie sat under her duvet with her torch on. She couldn’t concentrate on the story due to the noise coming from their neighbour’s garden. They were always throwing some kind of party. Ellie wondered whether they had more than one birthday each. It seemed that way.

  The baby cried out. A loud, lingering wail. And then fell quiet, suddenly. Ellie couldn’t hear her parents getting up, and so called out in a loud whisper.

  “Mum? Dad? Are you up?” Ellie’s voice gradually loudened with each question.

  There was still no answer. Ellie decided to get up and investigate for herself. After all, she had her torch at the ready and knew she was safe in her own home. She prodded her feet into her fluffy slippers, and slowly opened her door, turning the knob ever so slowly to minimise any noise, just in case her parents were still asleep.

  Pulcinella stood in the corridor, towering over her. The small flashlight shone on its tall figure, its shadow gigantic on the wall. Ellie screamed and ran back to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She pulled the blankets over her head, hiding away from the unbearable sight.

  The door opened. Ellie peeped over the blanket, hoping to see her mum and dad but, instead, all she saw was her worst nightmare. A tall figure standing over her, underneath the illuminous plastic stars which adorned her bedroom ceiling.

  “Are you, you, you the bogeyman?” Ellie stammered, breathlessly.

  There was no reply. Pulcinella flayed its nostrils and blew a mist out of its mask towards her. It stung only for a moment, and then Ellie drifted into a final, deep sleep.

  Pulcinella opened the small, pink curtains in the bedroom window and looked down into the neighbouring garden. It watched for a short while.

  Plump sausages sizzled and spat out their hot fat onto the BBQ flames, igniting their fiery tormentor further, in disgust at being branded on the scalding grill. Their skin stuck and started to burn, sending plumes of salivating-inducing smoke into the night sky.

  It had been a long day and Julie was exhausted from entertaining her friends. Trying to stay engaged in their conversation had proved a herculean effort. Fortunately, she had alcohol to help stimulate her interest. Suddenly, tiresome monologues started to promise a glimmer of intrigue.

  Some hours later, Julie now found herself tired and tipsy, hovering above a charcoal furnace. She felt a bead of sweat on her forehead and coughed, as the singeing smells tickled at her throat. Julie took another swig from her red plastic cup to clear her airwaves and muddle her mind a little more.

  The sausages refused to move easily, as Julie tried with some effort to roll them around to ensure even cooking. There would be no food poisoning on her watch. Eventually, she had turned them all. She rested against the back door and rested her head against it. Only a little longer and they would be gone. She could then get some much-needed sleep.

  Julie listened as another round of laughter rang out from inside. And another. Julie knew the people in her sitting room and felt confident that nothing genuinely humorous was entertaining the crowd. It was like canned laughter on a television show. You know when to laugh, even when nothing funny is happening, and do it.

  It was becoming annoying now. Perhaps she was just bitter that the cooking had ended up being her burden. How did that happen? Mike was supposed to be dealing with the BBQ but, as usual, he had got drunk too quickly and soon lost any inclination to be helpful. Impending chores flitted out of his head, superseded by self-indulgence. Now, he was just like any other guest for Julie to serve.

  Julie took a larger sip from the friendly red cup, draining it empty. The bitterness of the tequila in the cocktail shocked her tongue, and made her shudder. She hated tequila but the others had supped away all of the gin and wine, leaving only an unpleasant mix of old, half-empty bottles of unloved brews. Unwanted presents, seasonal favourites, or those just bought for their fancy colour or labels. All toxins were now most welcome to help numb this mundane existence.

  She looked disappointed at the cup’s empty innards and threw it onto the lawn. A minor act of rebellion but it still made her feel momentarily happy. She chuckled but then felt guilty so picked it up and put it in the bin, in case it caused injury to any of the local wildlife.

  More exaggerated mirth echoed out. Honestly, what is so funny? Julie thought to herself. Anyone would think the world’s best comedian was in the house. The irritation bubbled up inside her. Maybe it was because she didn’t like these people or was it simply that she felt left out? Either way, she was going to find out what was going on and poked her head through the door to look.

  For whatever random reason, Mike was sitting atop of fat Phil (there was more than one Phil in their immediate social circle, and so a moniker had proven necessary, although nowadays this particular one seemed rather cruel in this more sensitive and sober world). He was riding him like a bucking bronco, digging into him with his heels and slapping his large bottom, to the delight of the baying crowd.

  The sausages started to burn and dark smoke wafted around Julie. She quickly ran back to the grill and carefully, using the designer tongs, removed them from their fiery bed, one-by-one. Well, at least no one can complain that they are underdone, she thought to herself.

  Julie looked at her smouldering creations. A disguise of mustard and tomato ketchup was in order. Placing them in their coffin-like bread rolls, she smothered them liberally in the red and yellow sauces.

  Julie felt confident that no one would notice; most of them were so inebriated that they wouldn’t even look at the food or properly taste it, being so distracted by their revelries. Still she worried. Julie forced herself to stop obsessing over it. This had always been one of her problems. She could not help but dwell on irrelevancies and replay scenes from the past, which she couldn
’t influence or change and had to let go of. Being aware of her problem, she now tried to control her meddlesome mind but it was difficult.

  Julie doubted that some of them would even know where they were. Just another night of drunken debauchery. They could be anywhere. In a restaurant, a bar, a club, a marquee, or someone else’s house. The people, the conversations, the outcome, would all be the same.

  Not that there is anything wrong with enjoying a drink but there must come a stage where enough is enough. When a hangover that used to take less than a day to get rid of seems to last all week, leaving you physically and emotionally battered and blue. And what for? You don’t even recall most of the conversation and those you can remember seem trite and inane. Surely it was better to find a more productive pastime? An activity you actually enjoy. To spend time with those you love or, at least, find interesting in the sober light of day.

  Julie was determined to give up drinking soon but not yet, not tonight. She needed a crutch to help her to get through their tenth anniversary party without going mad, or worse, killing someone.

  The anniversary had come out of nowhere. The years had slipped away so quickly. It seemed such a long time and had given Julie a much-needed jolt. She had been sleeping her life away having fallen into an easy pattern of lunches, dinners and drinks, in between her hectic job, with people who all looked, talked and acted the same.

  At the end of the day, did these people care about her? Julie doubted it. And as for Mike, well that was like living with a stranger now. They easily drifted through life together but they didn’t really engage with one another, slept in separate rooms, under the pretence of improving their sleep quality, and did not emotionally attach. Really, what was the point? Julie had decided that enough was enough. There was still a little life in her yet. A change was needed now. Well maybe not now but definitely soon.

  Julie pulled at her short, black dress. It seemed determined to keep riding up her thighs but she stretched it back down, fighting its design. She ran her hand through her dyed blond hair, as she looked at her reflection in the window. Good enough. She grabbed the first round of hot dogs, balancing the tray carefully to ensure that they did not slide off, and, stumbling slightly in her stilettos, went inside. Julie completed the set. The four couples were now all together.

  “So, what is going on in here you guys? It sounds like you are having a whale of a time.” Julie purred softly, as though genuinely intrigued. Her darkened eyebrows rising quizzically to complete the act.

  Mike and fat Phil stopped their rodeo show and froze, staring guiltily at Julie, as though someone had pressed the pause button on a movie. Then they looked at each other and creased-up with laughter, both suddenly realising how silly they must look and embarrassed by their juvenile actions.

  “Here, please let me help you.” Stewart said, as he came over to take the plate of hot dogs from Julie.

  Of course, Stewart could have helped her to cook the hot dogs, but at least he was making some sort of effort now, unlike the others. He pushed up the mid-point of his round glasses to stop them from slipping further down his nose, and then started handing out the food to the others.

  Stewart was on the quiet-side, not to mention being physically awkward; tall and slim, with over long limbs, he would trip up over his own feet and frequently knock over a glass. However, Julie had always thought he was a nice guy, liking that she could talk at him endlessly, and he would seemingly listen. She knew that was a bit self-indulgent and selfish but it was cheaper than a therapist, and Stewart did seem to enjoy their time together. If Julie knew the dirty thoughts going through Stewart’s mind during such occasions, she might have felt differently.

  It was always a mystery to Julie as to how Stewart had ended up married to Martha Mothering. Although they say opposites attract, and that could be the only explanation for it.

  Martha was nothing like her namesake; there were no maternal instincts readily apparent in her nature. She was uncaring, self-involved, domineering, deriding, and just generally an all-round nasty person. The type who would tell a homeless person to get a job, if she thought no one was watching her, or to tell someone to go back to where they came from, if they were not a white American.

  Of course, Martha would change her demeanour if anyone was around, and then she would return to her beauty queen speeches and proclaim how we should help these poor, unfortunate souls. Julie expected her to demand world peace at the same time but Martha had not yet immersed herself that fully into her fake character. An act which could not survive the current onslaught of soul-revealing spirits.

  Julie wondered to herself why they still put up with Martha, or why one of them had not confronted her about her behaviour. Of course, she knew it was too late to challenge Martha, who had been allowed to act this way unchecked for many years. And as long as Mike and Stewart worked together, there was really nothing Julie could do. Social etiquette will simply not allow for the exclusion of someone’s spouse, no matter how odious or how much everyone would probably like it.

  “Stewart. Stewart! Are you going to bring me one of those sausages or are you going to leave me here starving?” Martha shouted.

  Stewart didn’t say anything but quickly complied. Julie grinned wickedly as she thought about ramming a sausage down Martha’s throat to shut her up for good. Or maybe she could just smear some ketchup and mustard over her perfectly painted-on face. Either would do.

  A fly buzzed hungrily around Martha’s head, trying to land on her food. She tried to swat it away but nearly dropped her hotdog onto her perfectly white trousers. Martha could not afford to stain her designer outfit now, could she? That would be a tragedy.

  “Stewart. Stewart! Do something about that, would you?” Martha demanded, as she shifted around on the sofa uncomfortably, in her overtight, corset-like beige jacket. Her brown, bobbed hair bouncing in motion with each move. The leather couch screeched in anguish at this mad, seated dance. Julie giggled at the scene, grateful to the insect for providing this entertainment.

  Stewart watched the fly flit around in geometric patterns in the stale, heavy air above his wife. It landed on a nearby bench where some bread crumbs had fallen, and started licking its legs excitedly in preparation for a vomitus feast. He crept up beside it and, gently, placed a plastic cup over it. He then slid a coaster underneath to trap it, went quickly outside, and let it go.

  “Honestly, Stewart, you should have just killed it. It will just come back in now you know. It will rest on our food or end up floating in a drink. So unhygienic. Or get roasted on the BBQ. What a revolting thought. And it will all be your fault. You really are quite useless. Why do I tolerate you?” Martha said, as though disappointed in herself.

  Stewart looked crest-fallen, hating to be admonished in front of the group. Instead, he took a vicious bite out of his hotdog to stop him from saying something which he might later regret.

  Martha sighed heavily, annoyed not to get a reaction, before greedily finishing off her hotdog and sucking the sauce from each of her banana-like fingers, with a smacking sound. It was hard to see whether she succeeded in getting it all off, as the redness of the sauce matched the colour of her nails.

  Talk about unhygienic, Julie thought moving through the open plan living room across to the fridge. She opened the door and peered in. A welcome gush of cool air chilled her face and made her skin even paler.

  Julie carefully took out a heavy wooden chopping board. An angel carved out of several pineapples, held together by toothpick bones, stood tall and elegant upon it. The sweet celestial being raised her over-ripe arms to the heavens, with her yellow, fruity wings spread out ready for flight. Julie smiled to herself. It had taken her hours to craft this but it looked majestic. She spread various finger foods around her feet, before placing her in the middle of the lounge table. Julie felt sad. She didn’t want her beautiful angel to be violated by this mangy lot. It was too good for them.

  It was a veritable work of art, and someone eve
n clapped as she brought it out, although she didn’t see who. Julie could have been a master craftsperson but she would never know it. Another hidden talent lost to the world, along with the Olympian house husbands, the poet laureate cleaners, and the shelf-stacking songbirds; hidden gems buried deep, never to be discovered.

  Fat Phil clambered across the cream carpet on all fours, prowling like some unfit panther, towards Jill. He pawed at his wife but she just ignored him. Giving up the game, Phil squeezed in next to her on the couch. Jill said nothing, continuing to stare down hard at her phone. Her thumb twitched maniacally, as she scrolled through another work email. Modern technology provided the most wonderful opportunities for flexible working as a lawyer; now you could work all the hours of the day, and be expected to do so, to meet those ever-increasing billing targets. She wished for a quieter life, and a return to the days of posted letters and facsimiles.

  Jill flicked her luscious, long ginger hair towards Phil, subconsciously trying to get him to go away. He didn’t move, being used to spurned advances and cold receptions. Phil gently stroked her thin arm.

  “Phil, I have to concentrate,” Jill said admonishingly, “You know I have to keep on top of this case. Look, there is an empty sofa over there. You would be much more comfortable, and I need to read this and get a reply out. Sorry honey, but this just can’t wait. You know that.”

  Phil was used to this and did as he was told, grabbing at some of the mini pastries encircling the pineapple angel. Jill never had any time for him nowadays, and was habitually exhausted. Empty. Drained by the stress and pressures of her high-flying job. He yearned for them to just give everything up, and return to the people they used to be before life wrapped chains around their souls and claimed their lives. Give up all the trappings of wealth and live a frugal, but happy, life. It seemed too late; they were beautiful creatures imprisoned by societal expectation.