Surprise is the element of success.
Someone said that. If they hadn't, they should have.
The newspapers call him the Kanagawa Killer. Cheesy, sure, but it sells papers. If the headlines don't scream at the reader, no one will buy it. Still, people buy the papers these days regardless of the headline. They scan the lines knowing they will see what they expect: Another victim discovered in alley.
Everyone is in a quiet kind of panic, a fear that grips you in its paralytic hold. You think you're not afraid, but then night falls and you jump into the air and squeal like a schoolgirl when someone comes up behind you and taps you on the shoulder.
No one wants to die, of course, not even the victims themselves, those who said they had no fear of death. Of course I know, they told me just before they died, but their eyes all said the same thing: I want to live. I don't want to die. Spare me.
Of course I don't.
When I'm done, I can hardly believe that I did it, that it was me who gutted them, caused their blood to flow forth under the stars. Look at me, I'm being poetic. The blood sings in my ears when I kill and all that. Male, female, young or old, none are safe from me.
Everybody says it's only a matter of time before the killer is caught. Even I am somewhat surprised at my success, that is, of my evasion of capture. But I underestimate myself. And the weather is on my side. As winter deepens, the mercury falls, and people are more eager to hurry home, encouraged by the chill and the prospect of being murdered. I have no pattern, which keeps people on their toes. Even if I am seen, I am paid no heed. I look as dangerous as a baby rabbit.
The public expects a monster, a deranged member from the dregs of society to be responsible for these heinous crimes, as they call it. Maybe some poor, glassy-eyed homeless slob with a weak mind will be caught. Then they could start with their moralizing and sermonizing, rationalizing the deeds of an outcast of society. Oh, he had an unhappy childhood, he needed psychiatric help. Oh, I thought he was just a drunken old veteran reliving his glory days. Oh this oh that. People never learn.
Everyone just wants someone pitiable or loathsome so that they can feel compassionate and humane and self righteous when they discuss it. It makes them feel bigger than they really are. It distances them from their pathetic little lives to feel superior to someone. They need that sense of importance in their lives so that they can forget, if only for a moment, how insignificant they really are.
It's so clichéd.
Why does a killer kill? Maybe you think I had an unhappy childhood. Maybe I was sexually abused. Maybe I have aspirations to be the next Messiah, where blood is expiation.
Charles Manson believed that, but he was a pathetic coward who had his pathetic followers do his dirty work for him. Ted Bundy? Don't make me laugh. His ridiculous inferiority complex stood in his way all his life. That's why he only killed women.
It's all really very simple. It doesn't take much psychoanalysis to know why I do what I do when you know what I know. I like it. Just like that. Three little words that say more than the other, overrated set of three little words.
If you prefer a little more religious overtone, then you could always believe that I believe in the power of the trinity. Three is a cosmic number bla bla bla. All bullshit, but believe it if it makes you feel better. To think that I'm some religious fanatic gone over the edge is less unsettling to think of what I'm really am.
Rise above expectations, the teachers always say.
I'm not just tits and ass and a paper fan. I'm not just adored Aya-chan.
After word: If there is anyone out there who wants to have an in-depth discussion of the mind of a serial killer with me, I'm not home.
Someone said that. If they hadn't, they should have.
The newspapers call him the Kanagawa Killer. Cheesy, sure, but it sells papers. If the headlines don't scream at the reader, no one will buy it. Still, people buy the papers these days regardless of the headline. They scan the lines knowing they will see what they expect: Another victim discovered in alley.
Everyone is in a quiet kind of panic, a fear that grips you in its paralytic hold. You think you're not afraid, but then night falls and you jump into the air and squeal like a schoolgirl when someone comes up behind you and taps you on the shoulder.
No one wants to die, of course, not even the victims themselves, those who said they had no fear of death. Of course I know, they told me just before they died, but their eyes all said the same thing: I want to live. I don't want to die. Spare me.
Of course I don't.
When I'm done, I can hardly believe that I did it, that it was me who gutted them, caused their blood to flow forth under the stars. Look at me, I'm being poetic. The blood sings in my ears when I kill and all that. Male, female, young or old, none are safe from me.
Everybody says it's only a matter of time before the killer is caught. Even I am somewhat surprised at my success, that is, of my evasion of capture. But I underestimate myself. And the weather is on my side. As winter deepens, the mercury falls, and people are more eager to hurry home, encouraged by the chill and the prospect of being murdered. I have no pattern, which keeps people on their toes. Even if I am seen, I am paid no heed. I look as dangerous as a baby rabbit.
The public expects a monster, a deranged member from the dregs of society to be responsible for these heinous crimes, as they call it. Maybe some poor, glassy-eyed homeless slob with a weak mind will be caught. Then they could start with their moralizing and sermonizing, rationalizing the deeds of an outcast of society. Oh, he had an unhappy childhood, he needed psychiatric help. Oh, I thought he was just a drunken old veteran reliving his glory days. Oh this oh that. People never learn.
Everyone just wants someone pitiable or loathsome so that they can feel compassionate and humane and self righteous when they discuss it. It makes them feel bigger than they really are. It distances them from their pathetic little lives to feel superior to someone. They need that sense of importance in their lives so that they can forget, if only for a moment, how insignificant they really are.
It's so clichéd.
Why does a killer kill? Maybe you think I had an unhappy childhood. Maybe I was sexually abused. Maybe I have aspirations to be the next Messiah, where blood is expiation.
Charles Manson believed that, but he was a pathetic coward who had his pathetic followers do his dirty work for him. Ted Bundy? Don't make me laugh. His ridiculous inferiority complex stood in his way all his life. That's why he only killed women.
It's all really very simple. It doesn't take much psychoanalysis to know why I do what I do when you know what I know. I like it. Just like that. Three little words that say more than the other, overrated set of three little words.
If you prefer a little more religious overtone, then you could always believe that I believe in the power of the trinity. Three is a cosmic number bla bla bla. All bullshit, but believe it if it makes you feel better. To think that I'm some religious fanatic gone over the edge is less unsettling to think of what I'm really am.
Rise above expectations, the teachers always say.
I'm not just tits and ass and a paper fan. I'm not just adored Aya-chan.
After word: If there is anyone out there who wants to have an in-depth discussion of the mind of a serial killer with me, I'm not home.
