NOTES: I wrote this story in 2003 and it is set in late 2001, which means the brand extension crap doesn't exit, nor does the presence of Brock Lesnar, the return of Sable, or Eric Bischoff's GM status. A majority of the superstars in WWE today were not there back when the story takes place. I don't want to update it to current superstars because it loses something in the process. Also, discretion is strongly advised, due to the violent content.
They don't think I see it. All of them... sinners. Every last one of them, and they think that there's nothing wrong. Did wolves raise these people? It's worst than the Jerry Springer Show. It's probably just as well. What we do on a Raw or a Smackdown or a Pay Per View, nobody could get away with that in real life. It's a good thing too. We'd all be locked away with Vince leading the way.
I suppose you're waiting for me to reveal who I am. Well, I'm not going to tell you. I'm not the center of the tale I'm going to weave, although I do play a critical part. It's about them, the men and the women of the WWE. I'm the writer and director of the soap opera that is World Wrestling Entertainment. I don't consider myself a part of them. I don't involve myself in such depravity. Sometimes I can hardly find the words to describe the immorality that goes on there. I will say this though: I am a man, but I am NOT Michael Manna, or Steven Richards as he is known, in Right to Censor mode. God, he's one of the most corrupted men I've had the misfortune of meeting. All the rumors, half-truths, and innuendos about him... During his RTC gimmick, every employee in the back, wrestler or not, could hardly contain their laughter. He preached of his efforts against violence, against scantily clad women, against sexuality in general. Look what he did to a gorgeous woman like Ivory. Christ, his sex toys and predilection for S&M would make Marquis de Sade roll over in his grave.
The reason I'm telling you this is that I've decided to take action. I'm not about to let the innocent people within the WWE (of which there are very few), and those they come in contact with outside the WWE, be corrupted and sucked into all the immorality. It's time to thin the herd. Sure it might screw up Vince's company but he'll find ample opportunity to use those deaths as a ratings winner, like he did the show after Owen Hart died.
Yes, I said deaths. Or more to the point, murders, since that's what I'm going to do.
I have deemed the roster of the WWE to be sinners. Well, ninety percent of them. There are a scant few that have been living their lives positively and with dignity. Page Falkenberg, aka Diamond Dallas Page, is one, so unless he does anything to screw his life up in the near future, he's safe.
But my thoughts drift from Page as I look down. An indescribable feeling courses through me as what I've done sinks in. I controlled the way this man's life ended. He never expected me to react this way. My cock hardens as I recall how he begged me to spare his life. I couldn't let him live. After all he had done, the people he used and abused to get to where he was. He had received just about every title and accolade he could and he had given so little time. That's why I had to kill him. I've been envious of every push he received. But when everything was said and done, I controlled the outcome. It was his judgment day and he lost. I chuckle softly as I exit the house, relishing the feeling, for I just murdered Kurt Angle.
A while later, I let myself into my home, into a panic room downstairs. In the room, I've set up a display of headshots of all the people I've seemed sinners. It's a rather large display but you've seen the ridiculous size of the roster. But not all of them will die. It's almost funny. Most of the people I plan to kill have been friends. I have enjoyed the friendships, it's just that their sins outweigh that friendship. And it would be a crime against humanity to allow them to remain alive. Like the terrorists, murderers, rapists, and abusers who have been hunted down and killed in the past, my co-workers, my so-called friends deserve to die.
It's 9 am now and the entertainment world is buzzing with the shocking news of Kurt Angle's murder. He was found at 6 am, after his wife awoke from her drug induced slumber to find him and the living room wallowing in blood and body parts. I can't help but smirk at that. Body parts.
I flip to CNN, which has been covering the story almost since it broke. It's a big deal, of course. But it's almost more mystifying than anything. No suspect, a lack of any solid leads. It pays to plan. I've been planning this for so long, I'm not about to let hairs or fibers or fingerprints trip me up. It also helps that I've never been arrested. My prints were put into the database for my passport and other similar things but I've hacked into various computer systems, deleting information, changing it to suit my purposes. But I've been friends with Kurt, so my prints could be easily explained. I have so much work to do, yet I enjoy the attention. I raise the volume of the TV to hear of my handiwork.
"...Angle was found dead at 6 am this morning by his wife, who had been drugged by an intruder. Police arrived shortly after. A spokesperson from the department is quoted as saying they have never seen a murder as brutal and heinous as this. So far, the police have been mum about whether or not there is a suspect, but a source has said that they are stumped as to a motive, which explains their difficulty in identifying a suspect..."
Of course they're stumped! I left no fucking clues! God, my face is starting to ache due to my massive smile. They're stumped because Angle had no enemies. I mean, feuds come and go but murder? There's haven't been that many people within the WWE whom other people have genuinely hated. Ego is the main problem. You know, people who start to believe their own hype. Rob Szatkowski, or Rob Van Dam as he is known, is an incredible athlete. Absolutely amazing. But he's not the type of person who flaunts his talent or wallows in the adoration of the fans. He deserves to, but he doesn't. He's had the fans behind him because he is an incredible athlete and because he's a laid back kind of guy. He's got the talent and the personality. He deserves to be at the top but backstage politics and bullshit keeps him from the top. He has my respect too. He's completely faithful to his wife, despite the temptation out there.
I know, I know, I'm digressing.
You'd think that Mrs. Olympic Gold Medalist would be able to provide some insight. Normally she would but I drugged her first. I disabled the alarm system, then climbed through a window on the second floor. I went into the dark room using night vision goggles and sedated her. I wasn't about to let her interrupt me. When I got downstairs, I found dear Kurt asleep in front of the TV. Even though we were friends, he still looked surprised to see me...
"What the heck?" Kurt had mumbled as his mind woke up and his body was put to sleep, courtesy of a drug I injected into his shoulder from behind. His alert blue eyes softened as the drug did its magic.
I had pulled on some latex gloves before I entered the house, so now I was able to get right to work. I decided to drug him into submission instead of using ropes because, as he constantly reminded everyone, he was an Olympic gold medalist. He was a strong guy, of that I had no doubt. Then again, anyone who could Angle slam Rikishi and Big Show... well, you can probably guess the rest.
I sat down on the coffee table in front of the Laz-E-Boy he was in, just looking at him. After a few seconds I stood, moving the coffee table back a bit. I circled around him and the chair several times, trying to decide what to do to him first. There were so many emotions he brought out of me, I just didn't know where to start. I had thought of all the things I wanted to do but now that I was here and he was helpless...
"Where's my wife?" he demanded, "If you hurt her, so help me god, I will rip your heart out."
That made me laugh and caused him to let loose a slew of four-letter words, which only made me laugh harder. I tell you, hearing Kurt Angle swear would be worth the price of admission alone.
"You'll never get away with this," he said confidently.
That caused the humor to leave my features. "You think so?"
"I know so. Whatever you gave me will wear off eventually."
He was being arrogant. My eyes lost all their feeling as I glared at him. I reached into the knapsack I had brought with me, pulling out another syringe and an ampule containing a single dose of different kind of paralytic drug. His eyes changed from arrogant to fearful in record time.
"Now, if you are compliant– No wait, of course you're not going to be compliant. I may need to do something just to prove how I feel about you, Kurt," I said as I capped the full syringe, putting the empty ampule back into the knapsack before standing directly in front of him.
"What do want from me? I know it's not money, so what is it? Anything you want, take it. You want my gold medals? What is it?" He was desperate to get out of this situation. I would be too.
I couldn't help but laugh though. "How petty do you think I am? To do this because of a little piece of gold? You're too arrogant for your own good. Even if I did walk away from this, you know who I am. I would end up in the city lock-up before dawn."
"No! No, please," he pleaded, his face red with exertion. "You can walk away and we can forget this ever happened."
I smiled sadly. "No, that's not going to happen. People in situations like this would promise the moon and stars to get out of it. I'd have your word? Your word doesn't mean shit to me. You've humiliated me in the past, made me look like a fool, an unworthy opponent. And I am a worthy opponent. I've given everything to this industry and you come in out of nowhere and in a matter of a couple of years, you accomplish everything a person in the business could hope to!"
I was yelling now, my anger becoming uncontrollable. I paced around, trying to get a rein on my anger. I had put the syringe down so I wouldn't break it, or kill Kurt before he suffered. Finally, I turned back to Kurt, who, I could see, was starting to get some feeling back in his body. I quickly pulled him out of the chair and pushed him on the floor. I pulled a switchblade out and made sure he saw it.
"Oh god no! Please don't–"
His words broke off as he heard the slashing as I cut his clothes up, the blade contacting his skin a few times. I ripped his pants away from his body, pushing his legs open. I fumbled furiously with my belt buckle for a moment before getting at my jeans, pulling them down, my erection jutting out. Then without any warning I viciously drove into him, making him scream out in agony, violation. I thrust into him like a jackhammer, harder and harder each time until I came. When I pulled out, I was pleased to see my cock covered in blood. Rather than clean it off, I stuffed it back into my pants, licking the bit of blood on my fingers into my mouth, savoring its coppery taste. I buckled my pants, then pulled Kurt back up, throwing him into the chair, then using the second syringe to paralyze his body. He looked up at me, shocked and dazed, almost unable to sustain the knowledge of what had just happened.
But I looked down at him with hatred and anger. "And that's just for starters."
I began to pace around him again, the switchblade back in my hand. I pulled a chair in front of him and sat, my hands resting on each of my knees.
"Why... why did you... hurt me... like... like that?" He was looking at me as if I was every childhood nightmare come to life.
I looked into his eyes. "Are you saved?"
He looked at me confused. "What?" his voice was almost a whisper.
"Are you a Christian? Do you go to church? Have you taken God into your heart?" Silence. "I can't hear you Kurt."
"No," he said lowering his eyes.
I reached out, bringing his eyes back up again. "I think you should give your heart to the Lord, Kurt, because the rest of you belongs to me."
He stared up into my eyes again. "What has happened to you? That man I knew, what could have possibly happened to change you this much?"
"It's not up to you to question anything Kurt. You're not really in a position to," I said, standing again, hands on hips, as I tried to calm down a little.
"This will be my only chance, won't it? You plan to kill me don't you?"
I turned, realizing how small he actually looked. I nodded slowly in response to his question.
"Then why don't you just do it. Get it over with."
I sat back down in front of him again, smirking. "That would be too easy. You have to suffer first."
"No. Please don't do this, for godsake, please–"
He broke off as the switchblade sliced through his skin, making him scream. My hand came away from his face covered in blood. I gleefully showed it to him.
"I cut off your nose to spite your face."
Kurt stared in shock as he felt blood running down his face. A few slices later and I held both ears too. I dropped the pieces of flesh to the floor and pulled Kurt's ruined shirt from his body. Then I carved the word "MINE" into his chest. With a few more slices, I dug the blade into his neck, severing his jugular vein. I dipped by gloved fingers into his blood and scrawled one word on the wall, one that left no doubt to how I truly felt. I looked over at Kurt, making sure he was dead. No doubt. The blood ran down his chest like a gushing waterfall. I carefully removed the latex gloves, pushing them into a plastic bag inside the knapsack before pulling on another pair. I retrieved the empty syringe, wrapping it in cloth and putting it with the bloody gloves. I looked around and made sure I had everything I came in with. Then I left as stealthily as I entered...
That was one of the things that hasn't been released to the press–that I carved a word in his chest. And one big thing not disclosed was that the world "ENVY" was scrawled on the wall in Kurt's blood. Or that I fucked him.
I was envious of Kurt. Very much so. He had gotten everything he had ever wanted, whether or not he deserved it. Meanwhile, I worked my way up through the ranks. I paid my dues. In my opinion he deserved to die the way he did. And he won't be the last. Oh no, not by a long shot. "Envy" was the first of the seven deadly sins. There will be much more to come.
A couple of days later, I'm one of the many people backstage who are decidedly silent. I look at their shocked faces. No one can believe that Kurt is dead. I might very well be the only person not saddened by his death. I feel no sorrow. He's dead because he deserves to be. This is my show and it will go the way I want it to. But I have to play the part. A small price to pay really.
Over the last few days, the police spoke to each of us, looking for any kind of lead. It won't be easy. After all, Kurt had no real enemies. To everyone, he projected the perfect image. A kind, loving husband, a great athlete, and a wonder friend. In truth, we had been good friends but his ego got out of control. His on-screen arrogance began to seep through to real life. There had been arguments but everything was seemingly fine afterwards.
"Hey," a voice says, breaking me out of my inner monologue.
"Hey man," I say, perfecting my mournful expression.
"I can't believe this."
I look at the man, checking his eyes. I decide that he's not lying. He is truly shocked and saddened about Kurt's death. "I know. I only talked to him the night before."
He looks at me. "Yeah?"
I nod. "He was a friend to all of us."
The other man nods, pausing before speaking. "I heard he was messed up."
My curiosity picks up. I wonder how much they know. "Really? How?"
He leans in as if he's afraid to let anyone else hear what he's saying. "They're saying that he had something carved in his chest... That he was raped."
My eyes widen, appearing to be shock. Inside, however, I'm quaking with laughter. Like many other killers I want to tell someone what I've done but I'm not about to let something like pride and arrogance trip me up. You always hear about these killers who brag about their kills to friends, and it always gets them in trouble. Not me. No way. Not a chance.
"They're also saying that Kurt must have known his killer," he says, alarming me.
"What do you mean?"
He shrugs. "Well, there was no sign of forced entry, so either Kurt let him in or he somehow managed to disarm the security."
I let out my breath slowly. That was close. I had been to Kurt's home the night before. We had a drink, talked a bit, played some pool. The reason I was there was to... ah, I guess 'case the joint' would be the proper expression. I had to make some last minute details. His security system was no problem. I have a gift when it comes to electronics. I could get past security used by the CIA or hack into the Department of Defense computer system if I so desired. That sounds arrogant I know, but it's the truth.
My companion checks his watch and sighs. "Well, it's time to get the show started. I don't think it'll be too hard to conjure up any emotion for this. I'll see you later."
"You too, Chris," I say as I watch Irvine walk away.
That was interesting. It's amazing how details like that get out so fast. Vince was talking earlier with the police, and I heard several details that I shouldn't have. The police didn't release information about the body parts or about the rape part. And like most departments, they added a piece of information to the press to save them the headaches they're bound to get due to the confessions of crackpots. Why people confess to crimes they have nothing to do with, I have no idea. Perhaps to finally be someone. Hey, you don't have to be caught to be famous. They never caught Jack the Ripper did they? And like him, they won't catch me.
A while later, we're all standing out on the ramp, offering tribute to our 'fallen hero,' as Vince called him. God this is sad. Owen Hart got a better send off than this, and he never reached the heights to what Kurt did. I glance around discreetly. Lots of tears though. Guess a lot of people *did* care about the guy after all. Touching. If I thought I had a heart, I'd be boo-hooing like nobody's business.
We get through the show, which is fine and good. I have a match in which I job in the honor of Kurt Angle. Anything not to arouse suspicion. But when the night is over, several superstars head to the designated hotel, probably to get drunk and reminisce about their buddy Kurt. I, however, am heading to Los Angeles in pursuit of my next victim. I had decided earlier today that I was going to rid the world of another deviant tonight. After all, everyone is numb from learning that Kurt was murdered. Everyone will be even more shocked over who dies next.
I guess correctly that my car and the one carrying my next victim are the only ones on this road at this time of night. Even though it is California, there are highway roads that tend to be deserted. The occupant mentioned to me earlier the intention to leave Anaheim tonight, rather than tomorrow, which works out great for me. I look in the rear view mirror and see that our two rental cars are the only two on the road. I start to swerve the car, a little at first then more erratically. Finally, I swerve, horns blaring, tires squealing, before crashing the car off the road into a ditch. I take a gulp of a medicinal product that induces vomiting before leaning my head against the wheel and airbag. Seconds later, the door is yanked open.
"Hey man, you okay? Hey!"
I moan softly, moving my head from side to side. I raise my head and look at the man standing there. I pull off my seatbelt and stumble out, doubling over, spewing my guts into the ditch. Role playing can be such a bitch sometimes. But I need an excuse to get out of the car and get to the car trunk.
"Ugh. That's not good," I hear him say.
"No kidding," I say, standing up, wiping my mouth. I go back to the car, pulling the hatch to open the trunk. I go back and root around in one of my bags for a moment, then cleaning my mouth out with some water before spitting it on the ground. I do this a couple of more times before I cap the bottle and toss it back into the trunk. I hear the man nearing me, so I look for something else in one of the bags. I pull the cap off a syringe I have ready. Then I turn and plunge the needle into this neck.
"Ow! What are you..."
He doesn't get a chance to finish that sentence before he passes out. I recap the needle, tossing it back into the bag. I just look down at him a moment. He looks so innocent like this. His face is without the arrogance, the anger that often clouds his features. I smile before dragging him by his feet, pulling him into the back seat, then I secure him in place with the seatbelts. I pull on some leather gloves, then drive his rental close to the nearby bridge leaving the car still moving before exiting. I get out and give the car a couple of pushes, and it goes over the side into a quarry about 50 feet below. Quickly, I jump into my car and race off into the night. A few moments later, I hear an explosion, and I smile. They'll think he died in the car. I'll have a bit more time before they figure out he wasn't in it.
I watch as he moans, slowly coming back to the conscious world. His head lolls on his chest like a broken marionette before rising. He squints his eyes in offence of the bright luminescent lights, shutting his eyes again until he gets used to the light. He looks around in front of him and to each side as far back as possible. But I'm too far back for him to see. He looks down and sees that his wrists and ankles are strapped to a chair not unlike an electric chair used for executions.
"Hey! Somebody! Help!"
I smirk, allowing a short laugh to escape my lips. He turns his head, seeing me out of the corner of his eye after I finally move.
"What the–"
He breaks off as I circle him twice before sitting in a chair about five feet in front of him.
"What in the bluest of blue hells are doing, you sick freak?!"
I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. "You're not in the ring, Dwayne, so don't waste your time spewing your lame catchphrases at me."
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
I smirk again and just look at him. "God, you're clueless."
"Well, tell me what the hell you're doing."
I shake my head, quite amused to see the ever mighty Rock helpless and afraid. It's quite a turn on. I have to keep a rein on that though, if I want this situation to come to fruition. I stand and roll a TV/VCR stand into his line of vision. I turn on the monitor and press play on the VCR. It's the video I made of when I murdered Kurt Angle. I needed *something* for posterity. When the tape ends, the screen turns snowy, and Dwayne sits there, eyes widened in shock, fear, absolute horror.
"That's what I can do to you, Dwayne."
He looks at me. "What do you want?" he whispers.
I step away from a table set up over to one side of Dwayne, taking a clipboard and pen with me. Of course, my prints are nowhere. Latex is my best friend.
"I want you to write a note, writing what I tell you to. You won't try anything funny. Otherwise, something unfortunate may happen to Dani and your daughter."
He wisely takes the pen when I unshackle his writing arm. He writes the note and licks the flap to the envelope; that way the police won't get my DNA. When that bit of business is taken care of, I reshackle his wrist and push the TV trolley back to the wall, taking the video out and laying it back on the table. I circle Dwayne a few times, making him go a little bit nuts, waiting, wondering, slowly losing his mind. I pull out my switchblade and trace the tip over his skin, although not hard enough to break it open. Not yet. I almost hate having to cut his beautiful caramel skin. My other hand runs over his bare arm, then his neck. I had stripped him naked when he was still unconscious; the less things in my way, the better. My hand trails down his other arm, the muscles twitching. My but he's afraid. Hmm. I never really pegged Dwayne as the type of man to be afraid of a little pain. This is the guy who allowed himself to be tombstoned on the top of a limo by the Undertaker for godsake.
"What are you doing?" he asks softly.
He says that as if he's afraid I'll cut his tongue out for speaking. I smirk.
"Afraid?" I query, walking back to stand in front of him.
Tears fall down his face. "After what you did to Kurt, of course I'm afraid."
I run my tongue over my top teeth, then unexpectedly stab Dwayne in his shoulder with the blade. Immediately I see his eyes begin to cloud over. It's almost as if he's resigned himself to dying quickly. I quickly toss the knife on the table, grabbing a container. I shake some sugar out on the wound.
"What?" he whispers. "Sugar? What are you–making a cake or something?"
"It helps blood clot faster," I tell him tersely.
After the blood clots, I apply a large bandage. Dwayne sighs.
"Why bother?" he says.
I turn away from him, reciting the alphabet twice backwards to myself before I have myself under complete control.
"You've gone mad," he says, matter-of-factly.
"We all go a little mad sometimes," I murmur, going back to the table.
"You're quoting movies. Great. Well fuckin' geez. Could you just get this over with?"
I pick the switchblade up again and pull the discarded chair back in front of him. "Anxious to die?"
Dwayne just looks at me, annoyed, pained, helpless. "You're going to kill me anyway. Why prolong the inevitable?"
I stand, moving in front of him a bit. "The difference of a quick death and a slow death is the degree of pain involved. I could have killed Kurt quickly, but then the pain he deserved would have just have gone into the void. All the feelings I have had have to be taken care of if I hope to live a long and prosperous life."
Dwayne's eyes slit slightly. "So for you to live, others have to die."
I nod, raising an eyebrow, mocking him.
"Yeah, okay. That makes sense," he says, looking away from me.
He's mocking me. The bitch is actually mocking me. He's physically restrained, he's seen the video of Kurt's death, he's already been injured, and he's making fun of me. I step forward and in a burst of anger, slice his precious eyebrow off, tossing it down. I ignore his cries and very methodically carve the word "MINE" into his chest.
"You belong to me now, Dwayne. You got that? Mine."
"Why are you doing this?" he rasps, trying to ignore the pain.
"Because I can."
I unshackle him, pushing him to the ground. I undo my jeans, pulling my cock out of its confines. I push Dwayne's legs apart and unceremoniously drive into him, and he screams in agony. My cock tears into him, the abrasive head ripping him open savagely. I don't even see him anymore; my eyes are sightless for my rage. I hate this man so much and for some reason I can't say it. I can only fuck him senseless. I make sure I'm buried to the hilt inside him with every thrust, shuddering soon after as I come inside of him. I stand briefly, savoring the sight of Dwayne's blood on my cock. Then I button my jeans before turning him over. I reach for the switchblade, and without warning, I stab it into his neck and chest, over and over, until he's dead and I'm physically exhausted. I fall back on my ass, then flat on my back before passing out.
Two days later, the entire company, in front of and behind the cameras, are packed into the biggest boardroom at the current hotel we're all at. I shift uncomfortably. Everyone, of course, is talking about Dwayne's death as well as Kurt's. Dwayne's car was found and everyone thought he died in the explosion. Until the fire was put out and there were no human remains found. He was found 24 hours later, in a shallow part of the river. The river had enough current to wash away any potential evidence but not strong enough to take his body away. On a nearby boulder, the word "PRIDE" was scrawled, just as "ENVY" had been written for Kurt. Since then, the entire area has been cordoned off as a crime scene. Later, the police were directed to a package that had the note Dwayne wrote for me as well as his famous eyebrow and his famous elbow. I mean, let's be honest here. The People's Elbow as a finisher? That was the lamest finishing manoeuver since the Million Dollar Dream.
I sigh slightly. A moment later, Vince McMahon begins to speak. "The reason we're all here is quite obvious," he pauses a moment. He's understandably in shock. "The detectives in charge of Kurt and Dwayne's murder investigations have told me that their deaths are connected, and that it's possible that a serial killer may be responsible. They think it could be a former employee with an ax to grind."
"A serial killer?" I hear Mark Calaway, aka The Undertaker, say. "You're not talking Tony the Tiger, so, uh... A serial killer. With what kind of beef?"
"We're not exactly sure right now," one detective, Joe Hartman, says. The detective looks back at his female partner, who nods. "We're analyzing clues and evidence... but it's an ungoing investigation. But evidence suggests that the killing is far from over."
Well duh.
"How do you figure that?" Calaway asks.
"I can't say specifically, but like I said, clues point to more killings, having yet to take place. We're telling all of you this in order to protect you. Do not go anywhere alone, always keep some means of communication with you..."
Blah blah blah... I tune the detective's voice out, which isn't that hard to do. With a monotone like that, he probably couldn't get a porn star off.
I notice Calaway stand, and he's pissed beyond words. He walks to one side of the room, leaning against a window frame, glaring out. I can actually hear his angry breathing. He's not scared. Just pissed that he, like everyone else, is in the dark. He turns back to face the detective again.
"So there's no telling who could be next."
Silence envelopes the room again. Calaway just said out loud the thought on everyone's mind. Who would be next? No one knew. The men and women on the roster had come in contact with many people over the years, ones who left on good terms, ones who left on bad terms. Good being those who left and came back to the company, the bad being Rena Mero, Nicole Bass, Jeff Jarrett, among others. Of course, anyone who was looking for a former and bitter employee... well, you'd just have to look to the old WCW and the ones who aren't with the roster now. Could be any number of people and that's the beauty of it.
I know, I'm digressing again.
When I come back to the present, everyone is having their little conversations. Detective Hartman and his partner, Jess Marshall, are talking to Vince and Linda, the wrestlers are talking to each other, and Calaway looks like he wants to kick so ass, which is not unusual. He's not really the type of guy who'll talk things out; he'll shoot first and ask questions later.
Finally, we all head out, 75% of us heading towards the arena for tonight's show. Thank god. If I had to spend another moment in that room with all immorality, it might begin to rub off on me. God nor the devil would be able to save my ass then.
I get a ride to the arena with, ironically enough, Calaway. We're friends I guess. We've battled on screen and off. We have those kind of personalities. Of course, he's been the American Bad Ass since returning Judgment Day 2000, running roughshod over everything and everyone. I was no exception.
It's a few days later now, and Kurt and Dwayne's deaths have finally sunk in. Well, as much as one can expect it to. Everyone is on edge, not surprisingly. There's no clue as to who's responsible. Or as to who might be next. It pays to plan. I've spent many months planning this, down to the very last detail. I didn't wake up one morning and decide that hey, I think I'll kill someone today. I'm not that spontaneous. I can work a flexible match and not come off a stiff. I can adapt myself to pretty much any given situation. It's one of my many gifts.
I look around the hallway, making sure that I'm alone. Seeing that I am, I let myself into the locker room, where several of the superstars are living out of for tonight's show and tomorrow night's show. Although I know that tonight's show will be cancelled pretty damn quick once I'm done in here.
I'm wearing leather gloves and I quickly retrieve a bottle in my pocket, distributing the liquid into various water bottles I know are in the bags. But honestly, the cops are so stupid, I doubt they'll ever figure out that I'm responsible. I head back to the locker room I'm sharing with several other guys. I'm supposed to tag with one of the guys who's drink I just poisoned, despite the fact that I don't like tag teaming with anyone, though I have been successful as half of a tag team.
A half an hour later, I head to the locker room, mentally preparing myself for the five bodies I expect to see. I enter the room, then stop, a little bit surprised. There's only four. I back out of the room, bumping into Mark Calaway. Damn it. He was supposed to be in there. I'm annoyed but not destroyed. There's plenty of time.
"What is it," he asks.
I look at him, alarm in my eyes. "Uh, they... they're all... they're on the..."
Fear flickers in Calaway's eyes and he rushes into the room. I watch as he checks for a pulse, and one by one, fails to get one. He's fighting back tears as he comes out of the room. He pulls out his cell phone, making the call to 911. He gives the location, who he is, what he's calling about, while I pretend to be distraught, sliding to the floor, holding my stomach as if I'm debating about whether to allow my lunch to join the carnage.
I look up. "They're all... I mean, um..."
Calaway nods and sits down next to me while we wait for the police to arrive. "Booker Huffman, Jackie Moore, Andrew Martin." He pauses. "Glenn Jacobs," he says, his voice cracking.
I wipe my crocodile tears away, shaking my head in what appears to be sadness. "Who's doing this, goddammit?!"
Calaway looks at me again. "I didn't touch anything in there, but I didn't see any blood. I'm assuming that they were poisoned."
I nod. Good observation there, Sherlock.
"Who is fucking doing this?!" Calaway yells, his voice booming down the hallway. "Why does this guy think all these people deserve to die? I don't get it."
"I don't either," I say softly, turning my face away from him. I wipe my face again as I hear sirens approaching.
"What a minute," Calaway says. "There were things written on the wall."
I look at him. "What?"
"Wrote on the wall in, I guess, marker... Jackie–sloth; Andrew–lust; Booker–pride; Glenn–gluttony." He stops, briefly poking his head back into the room as if to confirm what he said. "The seven deadly sins?"
I look down, then count off on my fingers as I name each sin. "Sloth. Gluttony. Pride. Envy. Greed. Lust. Wrath." I pause. "The Seven Deadly Sins."
Mark's face scrunches up as he thinks. "What would Kurt and Dwayne be under?" he mused.
I stand, as does Mark as we spot Detectives Hartman and Marshall, the same ones who gave their little lecture a few days back. Then I see Vince and Linda McMahon hauling their asses down to where we are.
The detectives and two uniformed policemen get to work, cordoning off the area before they go in the room. I hear all movement stop for a moment when they go inside. Well, there are four people dead in that room.
"Who's in there?" Vince, already stressed to the point of spontaneous human combustion, demands of Mark and I.
Calaway looks at him, the pain so great he looks like he might faint. "Booker. Jackie Moore. Andrew Martin. Glenn." He pauses. "Who is the sonofabitch doing this?!" he yells again.
I look up to see some of the other wrestlers coming down the hallway.
"Vince, Linda." It's Rob Szatkowski, aka RVD. "What the hell–" He stops when he sees the sickly yellow tape on the doorway. "Who?" He looks at me, at Vince, at Calaway.
I shake my head and lower it. To someone else, it would seem that I am much too upset to speak. After all, I just 'found' the scene.
"Uh, well–" Vince breaks off, turning away. I don't think it's the murders that are getting to him. He doesn't have control. That, and his company is being fucked with.
Calaway answers. "Booker, Jackie Moore, Andrew Martin." His voice cracks again. "Glenn."
I'd feel bad for him if I had a heart. As they talk, I notice several wrestlers hovering, listening for the tiniest scrap of information. Then Detective Hartman interrupts the talk. "We were already on our way here when the 911 call came in."
Calaway looks perplexed. "Already on your way?"
Hartman nods, noticing a news van arriving through a window. "We received a letter from the killer. In the letter, there are details only he would know so we've confirmed that much."
He stops, looking pointedly at Calaway. "The letter stated the intention to kill five people, four of whom are dead in that room." He stops again. "Mr. Calaway, I think it would be best to get you into protective custody."
Everyone looks at the detective. "What?"
Hartman shifts uncomfortably. "The letter stated the intention to kill five people today. Four of them are dead. The fifth one was you, Mr. Calaway. I'm sure that he'll be going after you to get the job done."
Vince and Linda stare at Hartman as Calaway turned slightly, looking away from everyone. He sighs, clears his throat, and shifts where he stands.
"What about my wife? Is she in any danger?"
Hartman shakes his head. "He hasn't gone after family members of anyone. I doubt that's what he wants to accomplish."
"I don't give a fuck what he's trying to accomplish," Calaway thunders in Hartman's face, forcing the detective to step back.
Hartman looks away, nervous. As well he should be. He's got four more murder victims to explain. Their detective work isn't going well. Idiots.
"But," Hartman says, "The letter gives us something to work with. We may be able to project those people he intends to go after. Once we run the letter through the criminal database or CODIS, anything... if we're lucky, we'll get a hit on a fingerprint or some DNA he may have accidentally left."
I turn away, appearing to be to upset to deal with the conversation. I walk over to a bench about ten feet away, turned away from everyone. After several moments, when I believe that no one will bother me, I smile to myself, then let it drop. One can never be too careful.
My reasons for killing Jackie... Well, her gimmick has been stuck for years. Yes, she came in under a shitty storyline: as Marc Mero's counter to Sable. And yes, she went somewhere for a while as part of PMS, and even became a referee... but she's stuck. She didn't want to improve herself or her skills. To me, that's just lazy. Hence, sloth. As for Glenn... sloth would have been more apropos perhaps. He lives his gimmick. It's so far gone that he almost believes he actually is the Undertaker's brother. He's never without the mask. Never. I've seen him without it once since his incarnation as Kane. And Vince gives him more and more and fucking more punishment as Kane. Having X-Pac, then Tori, then all the times Calaway as Undertaker had turned on him. He's a glutton for punishment, a loose cannon. Hell, he had enough screws loose to start a hardware store.
It was selfish on my part for Andrew's death. I wanted him and he rejected me, even though he was chasing everything else on two legs, with or without a dick. Rejecting me was just his way of telling me that I wasn't good enough for him. He insulted, degraded, and rejected me, and he paid the price. The bitch. Hmmm... perhaps that one was more wrath that anything else. Well, no bother.
Booker Huffman. Booker T. Pride. Do I really need to expand on that? 'Booker T, the five time, five time, five time...' I think we've all heard that too many fucking times. To me, he was a lot like The Rock. He was arrogant, full of himself, and he believed his own hype. The funny part is, he and The Rock were the same, but Booker got booed for the same thing Rock got cheered for. They do the same thing but they'd get a different reaction. It's all about perception. Hell, everything is about perception.
It's midnight, a few hours later. I'm back at the hotel, attempting to calm myself down. I tell you, killing someone, taking control of that person's life and death, it's an unbelievable high. All the drug dealers in New York City wouldn't be able to get me as high as I feel right now. Of the last batch I got rid of, there is only one regret: that I wasn't able to fuck the life out of Andrew Martin. I'm sure he was a great lay and all but he's serviced more people than McDonald's.
I'm in the mood for more killing. I pull on a pair of latex gloves (pilfered from the roster physician), before I dig around one of my bags, pulling out a gun equipped with a silencer. I hide it inside my jacket and head out. I walk down the empty hallway towards the room homing my next targets. Glancing around, I lean down and pick the lock, moving into the room some moments later. I hear moaning coming from the bedroom. Sounds like somebody isn't mourning the recent deaths. Hmmm, interesting.
I carefully move to the door and peak inside. Oh my, now this *is* interesting. I would have never thought I'd see Stacy Keibler as the meat in a Dudley Boyz sandwich. I watch for several moments, allowing myself to become slightly aroused. After a few more seconds, I push the door open, banging it against the wall.
"What the–" Mark Lomonica, aka Bubba Ray Dudley, exclaims.
They look over at me, the color draining from their collective faces as they disentangle from each other. They scramble for clothing before stopping.
"How the hell did you get in here?"
I smirk, pulling the gun out of its hiding place, pointing it at Devon's head, making him stop getting dressed. "I just thought that I'd take the opportunity to take care of some more business. Now if you don't mind, sit down and shut the fuck up."
They're looking at me as if I've lost my mind. They think I'm not serious. Call my bluff, will they? Mark and Stacy know I'm serious when I aim the gun at Devon, firing two bullets at his head, killing him before he hits the floor.
"What the fuck–"
I point the gun at Stacy's naked chest at her words.
"Why'd you kill him? What'd he ever do to you?" Mark has a look in his eyes that conveys fear and annoyance.
"Sit the fuck down Marky, unless you want little Miss Stacy to join him."
He reluctantly sits back down, still naked, still partly aroused. Stacy sits next to him, clutching a pillow to her chest, trying to shield herself from my gaze.
"Not in a very mournful state, are you. After all, in the last few weeks, six, well now seven–" I gesture to Devon's body on the floor "–of our dear friends have fallen victim to a... how did Calaway say it? Ah, yes, maniac. The 'maniac' responsible for all of this death."
I see the color drain from their faces. Mark looks at me in horror. "You? *You've* don't all of this?"
I nod. "Damn right."
"But why?"
I'm sick of answering that question, but I see where he's going. He's trying to stall for time, hoping to figure out some sort of way to get out of here. Not gonna happen.
"I've explained why," I say, my words clipped and cold. "Just so you know, Devon here is under gluttony. Given his checkered past with his stable of lovers... he indulges in whatever floats his boat. Or did."
"Gluttony. Sloth. Lust. The Seven Deadly Sins. I don't get it."
I sigh deeply. Mark's slinky has always been a little kinked. Too many chair shots I guess. Then I smirk, noticing Stacy trying to get to the phone. I point the gun at her. "Ah, ah, no. I don't think you should be trying anything right about now." I feel my cock stir as tears trail down over her cheeks. "Cuff her Marky."
"What?"
"Are you deaf? Cuff the whore to the bed. Face down."
He doesn't move for several moments, then takes the cuffs I threw on the bed. Stacy begins sobbing uncontrollably when the implications of what's about to happen sinks in, because, after I give specific instructions, only her hands are being cuffed, to each of the posts at the head of the bed. She is kneeling, her wrists cuffed. It doesn't garner my sympathy or mercy; it just serves to turn me on more, my erection becoming painful in my jeans. I turn and rip the phone wire out of the wall. No escape. I pull a chair over to where Devon is bleeding on the floor, sitting down, blocking the doorway, gun still in my hand. "Now rape her."
Mark looks at me in horror.
"Rape her now. Rip her ass up," I say slowly, making sure every word is enunciated. "Do it now. And if you can't get it back up, I'll cut if off. And that's before I kill you."
Mark is trembling as he wraps his hands around his cock, eyes wide. He sees that Stacy is trembling, sobs wracking her body. He talks lowly, mentally preparing her, I suppose.
"Just think about what you were doing before I came in. You were fucking her sweet little ass. Hell, for all I know you could have been fucking Devon as well. Just think about it, Mark, Bubba, just think about it."
My erection is painful as I watch Mark start to harden. He uses a finger to probe Stacy's ass but I tell him to do it without preparing her. I sigh, so he just thrusts into her, and she cries out in pain. She tries to keep quiet, knowing I'm here with a gun and all. She's probably biting down on her lip, her teeth ripping through it, blood appearing. The thought of blood on Stacy's pretty little face is so arousing, I can hardly believe it. Several moments pass before I stand and walk to the bed. Mark freezes when he feels the tip of the gun's silencer on his back. I slid the gun down, pushing the tip into his asshole. Then I pull the trigger. He doesn't scream. Shock I guess. I pull him back before he falls onto Stacy, pulling him out of her, letting him fall on the floor.
"You're gluttony as well, Mark," I say coldly as I point the gun down, shooting him twice between the eyes.
I look up and see Stacy still on her knees. I lay the gun on the bed, unbuttoning my jeans in a frenzy. I kneel behind Stacy and thrust my swollen cock into her viciously. My cock tears at her anal muscles, the head ripping her open like a vulture attacking its dinner. I thrust harder, faster, like a man possessed, until I finally explode, flooding her, spasming violently for a few moments. When I pull out of her, she goes limp. Buttoning my jeans as I crawl off the bed and fiddle for the cuff keys. I uncuff one hand, turning her over as I retrieve the gun.
"Poor Stacy," I say mockingly as I climb back onto the bed, laying beside her.
"I... don't understand," she says weakly.
I don't feel bad for her. Stacy has always been a nice person, it's just that she's such a slut. She's slept with a good portion of the male roster. And I caught her in a threesome with the Dudley Boyz. But like I said, I don't feel bad for her. I never let compassion enter my body.
"It's easy to understand, Stacy," I answer. "There's so much corruption around us. People whose existence do more harm than good. I can't really start at trying to clean up the rest of the world, so I'm working on the company. And the people in this company whose existence does nothing but corrupt those around them... well, I've been taking care of them. And I still have much work to do." I pause. "And you, sweet whore, will die under lust."
She looks at me, the fire gone out of her eyes. I point the gun to her chest and she shivers as the cold, bloody metal comes in contact with her skin. I rub it slightly. Her eyes are red from crying, the unshed tears glistening like diamonds. My unfeeling eyes bore into hers as I move the gun down her body, the tip easily sliding into her vagina. I push it in as far as it will go, causing her to cringe in pain. Then I pull the trigger, no doubt oblitering her uterus, vagina, pelvis, rectum, and probably some bones of her spine. I let the weapon slide out of her, looking into her eyes again. I smile as her eyes cloud over. My hand turns her head away from me, then I point the gun at the back of her head and fire, the bullet effectively destroying her pretty face as it exits.
"The entertainment and wrestling world is in a further panic after the bodies of Mark Lomonica, Devon Hughes, and Stacy Keibler were found dead in Keibler's hotel room last night. The three wrestling stars are the latest victims of a serial killer who has yet to be identified. The police are said to have no clues as to the killer's identity and are stumped as to any suspect due to a lack of motive. With us live is Detective Joe Hartman, who is leading the investigation, as well as WWE owner Vince McMahon. Thank you both for joining us."
Vince and Hartman nodded briefly at the young dark haired female anchor.
"Mr. McMahon, let me start with you. It is said that the police have no suspects. And it appears that the only thing the victims have in common is their affiliation with the WWE. Do you personally have any idea who this person is and why he is doing what he's doing?"
Vince sighed. "I believe that the person responsible is someone who is known to the WWE superstars and who works for the company presently. It has to be someone who knows them and is familiar with their behavior."
Hartman interjected. "However, all the men and women on the roster have been questioned and have offered their DNA and fingerprints to be ruled out, and as of yet, we haven't found any evidence connected the deaths with anyone on the roster."
The anchor spoke again. "Mr. McMahon, how does it effect you, knowing that there is a killer in your midst."
Vince shifted, uncomfortably with the question. "Well, no one wants to be associated with a killer, but the evidence doesn't show that there is a killer in the company–"
Hartman nodded. "We have suggested to Mr. McMahon that he suspend all activity until the killer is found."
"But I feel," Vince started, "Whoever this killer is, won't stop if the shows are halted. If we are all together as a group, the less likely he can isolate or kill anyone."
"But Mr. McMahon, there are nine peeple dead, brutally killed. And there is no indication that it's going to stop." The anchor paused. "My producer is telling me that there is a call, someone on the line who can shed light on these crimes."
Vince and Detective Hartman looked at the anchor in surprise.
"Go ahead caller, you're on the air."
A moment later, Vince heard a voice, a familiar voice.
"Daddy? Is that you?"
"Stephanie? What are you doing?"
She took a shaky breath. "I'm being forced to read a statement. From the killer."
There was a collective gasp from all the people on the set.
"He says that the call isn't traceable. It's my cell phone."
Despite the warning, the people on the set were in a frenzy.
"Stephanie–"
"Here's what he wants me to say."
The people in the studio held their breath as Stephanie read the killer's first communication since the killing spree began.
"'I know you all want to know who I am. But I will not reveal myself, just as you will never discover my identity. I have taken my victims as a service to the public, and I will continue to do so until my work is complete.'
"'I've been planning this a long time, which is evident by the lack of clues. I am confident that I will never be caught. I will, however, direct you to a new crime scene: an abandoned building outside of the LA city limits. It's engulfed in flames, with several WWE superstars inside.'"
The building is fully engulfed in flames as police–and CNN's cameras–get there. The four story building had been standing there, abandoned and desolate for the last several years. No one really cared about the place anymore, so I claimed squatter's rights. As for those inside the building... well, I just wanted them gone. And as I've proven, I'm very effective in getting rid of people who've wronged me.
I slip a videotape into my VCR and press play. It has footage of the entire visit to the place. Who was there, what I did to each of them, how they suffered when they died. The building was once a prison specifically constructed to house notorious criminals who had been captured by bounty hunters. It wasn't that hard to find. It was easy to hide too.
The video shows twelve people imprisoned in individual jail cells. But they were already dead or near it before I set the place on fire. And they suffered. Did they ever. I thoroughly violated them, in different ways. There were two women: Jazz and Terri. I killed them both under lust. They both rejected me, and as I stated with Andrew Martin, I don't take rejection well. Terry Bollea, or rather Hulk Hogan, I killed under pride. But I personally did not fuck him. I sodomized him. Hogan has, for years, fucked everything that moves, willing or not; meanwhile, he passed himself off as a family man, an eat-your-vitamins kind of man. I also sodomized Darrin Matthews, professional name William Regal, who I killed under pride, although I could probably make a case for sloth. He worked so stiff. He didn't want to improve himself. Shades of Jackie Moore here.
I classified Michael Hickenbottom, HBK himself, under lust. No sodomy involved there. I wanted him so bad it was a physical ache. Fucking him was as good as I thought it would be too. I'm hard just thinking about him. I cut his back open and used a crowbar to rip his spine out. Apropos really. It was his back injury that forced him out of wrestling. I just finished the job, even though I wasn't the one who forced him into a cell match with Calaway.
Next.
The NWO. Hmm. Scott Hall, Kevin Nash, and Sean Waltman. They, too, were classified under sloth. They were a lot like Jackie. They came back into the WWE in that tired NWO gimmick. On a side note, what the hell was Vince thinking when he brought Hall back. Drug history and bad behavior. Hogan I understand but Hall? Anyways. The NWO gimmick was years old, and the execution was so lame. Did we really need to be subjected to that tired crap? God. Oh, and yes, I raped them too. Thoroughly, painfully, and then I viciously stabbed each of them, and I just stood there and watched them bleed to death. There was nothing they could do, since they had been drugged. Wide awake and completely helpless. God that turns me on.
Chris Benoit I got rid of under envy. I killed Ric Flair under sloth. Big Show I classified under gluttony. I fucked them and killed them. After drugging them, of course.
As for Stephanie McMahon... well, right now she's locked up downstairs. I used her own cell phone to make the call to the news show. Still, with new advances in technology, there could have been a way to trace the call, but I planned for such a case.
I bet Stephanie and her... friend are having quite a talk downstairs. Telling each other how they really feel. Hmmm. So lovey dovey. God knows how Stephanie managed to commit herself to one man. She's never done it before. Brutal, bottom-feeding trash bag ho is right.
A few moments later, I'm outside the soundproof door. I really hope that Stephanie's stopped screaming like a fucking banshee because good god, her voice can break glass. In Canada. As soon as I open the door, it sounds like everything stops. Her voice, her breath, even time itself.
"Well, I'm glad to see you've shut your hole."
"Fuck you," she spits out.
I laugh briefly as I lock the door, obscuring the view as I press in the combination to seal the room. "Oh we've got plenty of time for that."
Fear fills her blue eyes as I look at her companion, who is locked into a cell, not unlike a jail cell. I look from Stephanie and her cell to his cell.
"Irvine. Nice to see that you've woken up."
"No thanks to you," he replies with venom.
I chuckle again. "Now now, no need to be rude."
I walk over to the same chair I strapped the Rock to weeks earlier, getting it ready for Irvine. His eyes flicker with something I don't quite recognize as I near the little prison. I pull out the keys, unlocking the door and immediately, Irvine shoves it open, pinning me to the wall as he runs to the main room door. I hear Stephanie yell at him to get out, but he doesn't get far. He stops trying to get out when he realizes that there's no way out, and he raises his arms in surrender, just facing the wall.
"I guess you don't expect any mercy, hmm?"
He turns and sees me with a gun pointed at his dear lover's head. He lowers his head, then I point to the chair.
"There's no point in trying to get this gun from me either. That door needs a seven digit code to be opened. And I'm the only one with the numbers. This room is soundproof and there's no food or water in here. How long do you think you'd last without me?"
Irvine shakes his head, the look in his eyes conveying hatred and, oddly enough, respect. Irvine respects me. Hmm. That's... wow. I didn't expect any of my victims to respect me. As I shackle Irvine into the chair, I find myself caught up in thought. I'm not torn with my feelings enough to spare his life. For one, he knows I'm responsible for all the deaths. Two, he's still a sinner and deserves what he gets. And three... well, there's no three. He's just not worth keeping around.
Once Irvine is strapped in, I ready the other chair, which is parallel to Irvine, with about six feet in between. I let Steph out of one prison only to strap her into another. Chaining her makes me so fucking hard, I can hardly believe it. But my cock isn't for her just yet. I'm really going to have fun with this one. The boss's daughter and the boss's boy, as Calaway would probably say. Time to clue them in on a few things.
"You know Steph," I begin, discarding the gun, "I think it's important for you to know a few things about boy wonder here."
She looks at me puzzled. When I look at Irvine, he looks terrified and it has nothing to do with the predicament he's in.
"What are you talking about?" she asks slowly.
I lean back against the cell Irvine was in. "I mean, Stephanie, dear, sweetie, darling, that you've been sharing Chris with someone."
She looks at Irvine, crushed. "What?" she whispers.
"Oh and you haven't heard the best part." I'm almost bouncing up and down with anticipation. "How do you think he's won the undisputed championship? He's been letting your old man fuck him."
She just looks at him with unbelievable pain, and Irvine lowers his head in shame, his darkest secret having been revealed to the last person he ever wanted to hear it.
"All the rumors," she begins, "Everything Mark Calaway said, everything everyone else was saying... it was all true?"
She looks like she wants to strangle him, and I'm half-tempted to let her. It's exhilarating to watch people at their very worst. I fold my arms across my chest to enjoy the show as she begins yelling at him. I smirk as Irvine tries to interrupt her but like every WWE fan knows, it ain't that easy to interrupt motor mouth here.
"How could you do this?! How could you do this to me?! I gave you everything!"
Finally Irvine yells back. "Could you keep things in perspective? We're at the mercy of a killer and you're bitching about sex? When are you going to realize that the whole world doesn't revolve around what you? Two seconds from now before he fucking kills us?"
I smirk. Ah, this is such fun. It's lovely to see people who supposedly love each other fight. And Irvine and Stephanie do love each other. I've seen it between them and have waited diligently until I could take my revenge against them. Finally, the two stop their bickering when I move behind them.
"Why are you doing this?" Irvine asks warily, all the energy gone out of him.
"You should have figured that out by now. Your ego is out of control and it needs to be curbed."
"Christ, if that's the only problem, I could fix that."
I pick up my infamous switchblade, pulling the tip across the skin of Irvine's shoulder, which causes him to hiss in pain as the skin breaks. I rip away the shirt he's wearing, bring the knife down a bit, leaving a line of blood behind it. Then I discard the knife, picking up a pair of hair clippers. I turn them on, then attack Irvine's head with it. He screams in agony as I turn frantic, digging the thing into his scalp. When I stop, I'm panting as if I've just finished a marathon. Hearing sobs, I look up and see the blood on Irvine's scalp and shoulders as well as the redness of Stephanie's face. I guess she can hardly believe what she's seeing.
"Enjoy that, Steph?" I growl.
"You're insane," she says in disbelief.
"No no," I answer, "I'm just fed up. Of everyone taking what's mine. You were mine once Steph, but that ended. You made promises you didn't keep, you screwed with me, and now, you both are paying for it."
I circle her, but she can't take her eyes off of her dear lover. Half of his hair is on the floor attached to clumps of skin from his scalp. Irvine is semi-conscious it appears. Fainted probably. Don't blame him for that. I might do the same thing in that situation.
"Oh I'm not done yet, dear Stephanie. This is only the intermission to the play yet."
She sobs quietly, the tears running down over her face, her head down. "Please stop this," she rasps.
"I can't, Steph. You know why," I reply without inflection as I crouch down in front of her. "It's the same thing I said to everyone else. You know why."
She nods, not meeting my eyes.
"What did I tell you to read on the news program. I killed them as a public service. They spent so much of their time corrupting everyone around them," I tell her. "Angle, he tried to come off as a role model, a paragon of virtue." I glance up at Irvine, who's starting to come around. "Irvine, you'll have to forgive me for using one of your past pet phrases. He was one of the worst ones. He was cheating on his wife. He thought no one knew, but I knew."
She looks at me, her eyes blank. "Kurt would never–"
"He fucked you, didn't he?" I interject. Not answering me, she drops her head down again. I reach out and bring her gaze back up to me. "I know every single sin you've committed. I knew every person you've slept with. And not just men. I know about Stacy, Jackie, and Jazz."
She remains silent. I know something is going through her head; I can tell by the look in her eyes. She's afraid I may know her deepest, darkest secret. One that no one, not even Irvine or her mother knows.
"I know about your little late night visits with Daddy, when you let him fuck you."
The statement hangs in the air, then her head drops down to her chest.
"What?" Irvine gasps, back among the conscious.
I glance at Irvine briefly. "Yes, you both have been Vince's little fuck toy. I can understand why you would do that Irvine. To be the first undisputed championship. How else would you do it? You certainly don't have the talent for it."
Irvine looks like he's drowning. "God..."
"Oh it's too late to ask God for help. Oh but I'm not going to kill you yet. I've got more plans for you two."
An hour later, Stephanie has been thoroughly violated sexually and is missing some body parts. Irvine sat in agony as I dissected his precious Stephanie. It was a mercy killing by the time I plunged the knife into her black heart. And no one will ever look at her again.
Irvine hasn't been able to take his eyes off the lump of bones and skin that used to be his lover, but he can't even see that now, because he's bent over the chair. My clothes had been discarded before I took care of Steph. And I really didn't see the point of getting dressed, since Irvine would be suffering a similar fate. But I'll take my time with this. He's taken more from me than anyone. He probably even has a part of my soul.
Staring at his ass with hatred makes me so hard I can hardly believe it. I thought fucking Steph earlier would be about the most pleasure I'd get but no. And I'm going to need to take my time if I want to be completely sated. And I do. I move behind him and thrust into him fast and painfully. Very painful for him and it gives me enough grip to be painful. I'm not surprised, though, to find that he isn't as tight as I thought he'd be, because the little slut has been around the block so many times, he probably has the block named after him. Unfortunately for him, I'm going slow enough for him to get some perverted pleasure from what I'm doing.
"If you come, I swear to god, I'll cut your dick off. And you know I mean it," I rasp between grunts.
He whines briefly. "This situation is not exactly what I wanted but I'm human. How can I control that?"
I stop for a moment. "God, you're more perverted than your whore over there. But if you get off, I will cut your dick off with a very dull knife."
I start moving again, making sure I'm buried to the hilt inside of him. And I know he's turned on by this. He's such a masochist. I thrust again and again until finally, I come inside of him, and I smile darkly as Irvine ejaculates as well. I withdraw from him and pull on my jeans, then put Irvine back in the chair, shackling him into place. He looks utterly terrified. This is going to be such fun.
It's a week later now. The WWE has temporarily suspended its shows, forcing everyone off the road and back to their respective homes. I'm not surprised. I knew that after the police received the box of various body parts of Stephanie and Irvine, the entire country would be in a panic. In the box was Stephanie's hair, ears, the ring and pinky fingers of her left hand, and her fake breasts, as well as a piece of paper with "GREED" written in blood. Also inside was Irvine's hair and parts of his scalp, his ears, right hand, tongue, and his cock, and reference to his sin of "PRIDE." The FBI is involved, since the murders have gone over state lines. I was prepared in each of those states. Pardon the pun, but it pays to have money.
CNN has been covering the story non-stop. They've been bringing in cops, psychologists, everyone they can think off to try and figure out what kind of sicko is doing all of this. Even though they have no clue who's responsible, I love the attention. I've been called so many different things. A deviant, a sicko, psychotic, depraved, sadistic, inhumane... the list goes on and on ad nauseam. 'Sadistic' is my favorite moniker. I'm probably on my way to becoming the most infamous sexual serial killer of all time. Eat your heart out John Wayne Gacy!
This next death, however, will be my last. I have gotten rid of so many people, and quite honestly, I need a break. I've killed twenty-one people, and the authorities are no closer to finding me than they were when it all started. Angle, Rock, Kane, Booker, Jackie, Test, D-Von and Bubba Ray, Stacy, Jazz, Regal, Hogan, Shawn Michaels, Hall, Nash, X-Pac, Jericho, Stephanie, Flair, Big Show, and Benoit. And even though I classified all of them under six sins, I classify all of them under "WRATH" as well. When I killed each of them, the hatred and anger I had for each of them was.. it was amazing how much I actually hated each of them.
This last murder, I think I'm going to enjoy this one most of all. Killing the Rock, Angle, Flair, Jericho, even Stephanie will not be as satisfying as this one. I hate this man so much. He has everything that could have been mine in a different world. He gives off the image as someone who will never be a corporate kiss ass, but here he is, one of the top names in the business. Yes, the ever mighty Undertaker has kissed more ass than Dwayne Johnson, Chris Irvine, Kurt Angle, and Shawn Michaels combined.
I head downstairs, back to the panic room. Once inside, I see that he's still unconscious, his head down. I used a metal alloy in the shackles on Calaway, since he's stronger than Jericho, Dwayne Johnson, and obviously, Stephanie was. He'll not be able to break out of these shackles. I grab a small vial, uncap it, putting it just below his nose, the stench of it waking him up almost immediately.
"Fuck..." he mutters under his breath. Neither his eyes nor his mind are quite completely open yet. But he's aware of the fact that he's shackled. "What the fuck–" His head snaps up and he looks around like a blind man who has just begun to see. "Where are you, you son of a bitch?! Come on out! What are ya, a coward? Goddammit!" He begins shaking the shackles, desperate to free himself.
I shake my head and flip the switch that throws the room into darkness. Then I pull on the infrared night goggles I used when I sedated Angle's wife. Oh he's so helpless. Such a turn-on. He stops moving when he hears me scuff my feet, making him aware of my presence.
"Who the fuck are you?!"
I remain silent as I kneel in front of him. My hands work at unbuttoning his jeans, causing him to yell at me. I smirk as my hand burrows in to find his cock. A few slow strokes and he starts to harden. I take off the goggles and lower my mouth to his cock. So sweet. I roll his balls between my fingers as I take in as much of his thick cock as I can. Oh he tastes good. I squeeze his balls tightly and pull back a bit. I hear him moaning and pull completely off of him. Lord. Are they all masochists? Irvine got off on me raping him and now this guy? I smile as Calaway swears profusely.
"Temper, temper," I chastise softly.
"You son of a bitch! You sick son of a bitch!" he yells, his sexual frustration evident.
"Maybe I like being a sick son of a bitch. You ever think of that?" I pause. I know he recognizes my voice now. "Besides, you're not here to get off, you're here so I can kill you."
His breath catches. "Did you say... kill?"
"Yes, I said kill. Just like I killed everyone else."
"Who are you? Why–"
He breaks off when I flick the lights back on. I walk in front of him and shock covers his face. "You? I don't–"
I interrupt him, pulling out my favorite toy, the switchblade. "You don't get it, yes I know. It's the same thing all the others said."
I sigh deeply, then attack Calaway with the knife, and after a vicious series of slices, I separate him from his cock, which retch screams of agony from his throat. Music to my ears.
I'm not much in the mood for talk either. If he doesn't know by now why I've been doing this, he's dumber than he lets on. I circle him several times, and I'm rather impressed that he hasn't passed out yet. He must have some testicular fortitude despite what I just did to him. I toss the appendage aside, then attack him with the switchblade again, furiously cutting off his ears, his fingers, and cutting his tongue out. I step back from him, my arousal painfully obvious. I unzip my jeans, pull my cock out, and wrap my bloody hands around it. I bring myself to orgasm in a ridiculously short amount of time, my seman jetting out in creamy white streams which creates a sick little road map on top of the blood smearing his chest.
And yet, he's still alive. With one quick movement, though, I dig the blade into his neck, severing his jugular, and I just watch in sick pleasure as the blood bubbles out, down over his chest. A few hours later, police are directed to another building on fire. Once they put the fire out, they'll find Calaway's body, although there is nothing visibly recognizable about him anymore. They'll need his dental records for this.
I'm actually glad I'm done with this. I think I may just spend my time sleeping. I've been so absorbed in my plans that I haven't had time for anything else. I've already destroyed all the evidence in my house of the things I've done; it just looks like another wall panel. Evidence at the scenes of crimes that could have any hairs or fibers, like at the Dudley-Stacy scene, I took with me. I took the blanket on top of the bed and destroyed it. Small things like that, I took care of. Things that other killers probably wouldn't think about, I took care of. And blood is quite a bitch to get out of clothing, so I burned it all.
The most incriminating evidence, my hidden panic room, will never be seen by anyone other than me. Videotapes of the killings are all stored down there. I'll be dead before dawn if anyone found that room, but I've thought every possible thing through. Even my fingerprints and DNA. I substituted my samples with someone else's. It was easy to do. I'm in the clear.
And now, my work is done. It's over. The police have no inkling as to my identity. On the surface, I have no motivation in killing the people I have. There is no grand, intricate purpose to be understood. This has been my play, and now I'm leaving the stage. All the wrongs have been righted. The evil is dead so the good can flourish. Everything's as it should be, and now, I'll go back into the background as I've always been. The killing is over. It's all over. Quote the Raven, Nevermore.
THE END