Dreams are for children, the innocent. I lost my innocence when I was three, when my mother was sawn up into pieces in front of me. I don't dream it, but I've had flashbacks of it. Screaming, blood, death. All that made Damned Dexter cry as an infant now makes his Dark Passenger delighted. Except for the mess, of course.
Dreams are for adults too, so I've heard. For those whose nights are easily broken up, occasionally to be woken by a nightmare. The only thing that wakes me up is Harrison's own interrupted nights. Now that Rita's gone, taken from Determined Dexter in a final surprise attack courtesy of Terrible Trinity, I'm all he's got. He's all I've got. Astor and Cody prefer it up in Orlando with their grandparents, and I don't blame them. What could Dismally Domesticated Dexter possibly help them with, except in disposing of a body, or in their science home-work.
That aside, I do daydream, at least. The Dark Passenger and I navigate thoughts of our next victim. It's always disappointing that a murderer can be called such. But as long as we'renever called a victim, I can let it go. It's a shame I can't say the same for Ray Neng, a half-Asian restaurateur who puts more than what's offered in a butcher's shop into his dishes. No one's complained, of course, but how was anyone ever to know how similar pork and human meat taste? His restaurant's always clean, always well-presented… even if the red carpet is hiding a few minor blood stains here and there.
Neng's kitchen, on the other hand, is chaotically grotesque. But running it with just him and his brother is bound to be stressful. Even more so when there's an entire body to cut up and get rid of most nights. I never have that problem to stress over, but then again, I am a neat monster. That, and I don't feel to need to serve my victims up as food. I'll stick to bringing in donuts for Miami Metro's Homicide Division, where I work as a blood spatter analyst.
Tonight, however, I'm the health inspector.
Ray Neng comes to wrapped up in cellophane atop his electric cooker. One of them, anyway. The other is already on, and a large pot is simmering nicely. This is one brother I prepared earlier…
"What the fuck is this?" he orders, making full use of his vocal chords. "Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck is Leo?"
Two thoughts run through my mind: why would it matter where Leo was in a situation like this, unless you were enough of a Judas to want your guilty brother to suffer with you (which is good; I never like being wrong)? and I wonder who has more fucks to give – Ray or Deb?
"Don't worry," I tell him, "Leo will be with us shortly." I like to think that the service I offer is impeccable, for the most part. I must remember that my lack of thriving to please has already resulted in one innocent dead, not to mention my late wife.
As is the most important part of the ritual, I slice open his cheek and take a sample of his blood. He grunts like a pig, and then squeals, "Hey, what the fuck, man, what the fuck's your problem?" Has he not realised that he's strapped down yet? Does he not grasp the seriousness of the situation? Or does he not, like me, experience fear on the same level as other people?
I admire the perfect circle of blood in the centre of two slides, before putting it to the side.
"Ray, Ray, Ray," I tut like a disappointed parent. Thankfully I haven't had to go through that yet with Harrison – which reminds me: whenever the time comes that I should be more than just joyous about his existence in my life (is that when he's a teenager, or when he starts speaking full sentences and won't shut up?) do I frown and disagree with his growing up, or do I try and talk him through it? …I'll look it up at some point.
My Dark Passenger, ever present and as bold as he'll ever be, scowls at me and tugs at my darkest urges, which are far away from my son. He does not like it when I'm distracted, but he dislikes it even more when I insist on talking to our victims and hold us up for the kill. The Dark Passenger, if I allowed him, would not discriminate; he doesn't care for a Code. But I do. And before we release anyone from their miserable mortal coil, I must first make sure that they know what it is they've done, and what it is they're guilty of.
I don't have pictures of Ray's victims for him. Instead, the leftover body parts of his fellow restaurateurs are hanging on the hooks usually preserved for pots and pans. Hands and feet and other uncookable extremities (heads, for example…) dangle around his prone body.
"Some people would close a restaurant by putting in a complaint to health and safety about the kitchen. But you went one step further."
"Those fuckers had it coming," he growled. "Their restaurants were taking mycustomers." No attempt at hiding his crimes or denying them. No guilt. I didn't like that. …I wondered if he saw the irony of his restaurant becoming popular by the use of his competition as the food. "They had to be permanently shut down!"
"And you didn't waste anything, did you?" I examined a hand hanging above him. "Except for what would be rather too obvious to serve up on a plate."
"Choke on it," he spat.
"I'd rather not."
I knelt down and studied the cooker. It had dials which turned four different hobs on and off.
"Did you ever watch Ready, Steady Cook?" I asked, standing back up.
"The fuck are you talking about, man? Get me out of this whacked-out contraption and I'll give you something to take home. For your wife, eh?" He grinned conspiratorially.
"My wife's dead," I told him. The Dark Passenger growled gleefully. I turned a dial all the way around until it clicked.
"Aww, I'm sorry, man," Ray said. "But I'm fucking tied to a cooker!" There was a heavy pause as if we were both waiting for something to happen. Nothing exploded. Thankfully. Finally he sniffed the air and then squirmed uncomfortably against the cellophane. "I'm fucking tied to a cooker and burning!" he screeched.
"Yes, you are," I agreed cheerfully, turning the three remaining dials round one by one. "Scream as loud as you want," I assured him. "The restaurant's closed for the night."
"I had bookings, motherfucker," he cried.
"Cancelled," I informed him. " 'Had' is entirely right."
"Turn this shit off, man! We can talk, we can talk!"
"We are talking." I smiled at him and, continuing to make jolly small-talk, said, "It's rather convenient that you're in an isolated part of the city… especially since you killed off your competition. With no one to take over the restaurants, most of them had to be closed down. Sold off. There's no one around to hear you scream… and I'm your only booking for tonight."
"Leo will get you for this! He'll have your head! Ahaha! Don't think this ends with me!"
"Oh, I don't think so, Ray… I knowso."
I moved over to the other cooker, and lifted the lid off the pot. I stirred it with a ladle, and looked back at Ray.
"As it is, Leo's joining us for dinner."
If Ray wasn't screaming, he might have heard me. But he soon stopped, temporarily, when I put Leo's tender head on his chest, staring blindly at him.
"Motherfucker!" He resumed. "Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker!"
"It's a shame you and your brother left off on a bad note," I jested. "I'm sure you can both head off your differences."
"Motherfucker!"
"You're right, that was a terrible joke." I was apologising to my Dark Passenger.
I went over to my knives and picked out the sharp, slashing steak-knife, serrated and shimmering. But no. As ever, ritual. My beautiful all-purpose large kitchen knife, shiny and silver.
"…you know," I said, standing over Ray. "Before, you reminded me of my sister – with your swearing, that is. …not the serial-killing. I'm the serial-killer of the family. Not my family." I could hear my Dark Passenger snarling in my ear. We were ever so close, the knife raised high, and I still continued to talk, ruining ourmoment. "Doakes," I said, finally. Except the late Sergeant Doakes hadn't met his end by me.
"…sweet dreams," I grinned, and brought the knife down in one sweet arc.
I don't dream. But I think that I'm enough of a happy hacking killer to not have to.