Previously on the Murder Club: Driving along a dark road looking for a decent dumping ground, Tyki finds a bloody (and armed) hitchhiker instead.
-o0o-
This was by no means the first time Tyki had found himself at knifepoint, but he was fairly sure this was a first of some sort.
"Why do you ask?" asked the hitchhiker, holding the knife. "Would you like to join him?"
Was there even a proper way to respond to that? All things considered, there probably wasn't. Still‒ "Not particularly. Would you?"
That earned him another stare, although this one seemed puzzled rather than angry. The knife was lowered too, but only ever so slightly. "No."
Getting stabbed wasn't on Tyki's agenda. As things turned out, stabbing the boy wasn't on it either though. It seemed like a long shot, but‒ "The knife," he prompted.
-o0o-
A common denominator that put serial killers aside from regular mass murderers was not just the cooling down period between kills. There was also the rather prevalent tendency of collecting memorabilia. Of course, while many harboured the urge to preserve some type of reminder, their motives differed greatly. Most took trophies in order to later re-experience past thrills of a rather perverse nature. For others however, be it a relatively limited number, the trophies were just that; souvenirs or medals of past accomplishments.
That having been said, Tyki himself had never quite developed a taste for the practice. Perhaps his lack of sexual motives along with his relatively wide striking range had played some part in it; most killers tended to go for a certain type of victim and to gather certain types of trophies after all, typically jewellery or articles of clothing.
Now Tyki's approach was a far more practical one. Rather, jewellery was one of the things that he generally avoided. Its monetary value aside, Tyki reasoned that he would rather just steal cash and cigarettes directly than risk getting caught pawning some easily recognisable necklace once money ran low. Then again, perhaps he just wasn't sentimental enough.
However, there was another thing that set Tyki apart from other serial killers as well as from the other members of the Murder Club. The latter in particular recalled their first kills with some degree of fondness, reminiscing about them akin to one reminiscing about their first kiss. Granted, like first kisses, first kills tended to be rather sloppy; messy, even if it had been carefully planned out beforehand.
Tyki's first kill had been insignificant. Truth to be told, it had come closer to manslaughter than actual murder. Heading back home after a particularly wet night, Tyki the college student had been minding his own business when someone had seen him and thought he had looked like a suitable victim. Finding himself at gunpoint, he had sobered up pretty quickly. However, rather than fear, Tyki recalled feeling annoyed. Then, while reaching for his wallet, his fingertips had brushed against the switchblade folded up in his pocket.
Killing the man had not been on Tyki's agenda; scaring him perhaps, but nothing much beyond that. However, with a sudden escalation of the situation, Tyki had reacted instinctually, employing knowledge derived from those action movies he had liked watching with his roommates.
It had been messy to say the very least, bloody. Still, it was only afterwards, when reality had come crashing in, that Tyki had begun to panic. How he had made it home without being seen was anyone's guess. Once safely inside the apartment though, thankfully empty save for him, Tyki had locked eyes with himself in the bathroom mirror and realised that he needed to act quickly.
Thankfully, even though Tyki had pretty much severed an artery of the would-be robber, the spray of blood had been directed mostly away from him. As such, he had not, as he had initially feared, left behind a very incriminating blood trail. Granted, there were still traces of blood on his shoes and clothing. The forces of nature itself seemed to be his allies though, given that the drizzle from earlier had turned into an outright downpour.
Relieved yet at the same time very stressed, Tyki had considered his options. Then, after a great internal struggle, he had finally given in and made the call.
Sheril had been surprised but quick on the uptake, undertaking the five-hour drive at three in the morning with next to no complaint.
But no, Tyki's first kill was not anything that he was particularly keen on remembering. The same pretty much applied for the second, the third and the fourth. Granted, Tyki had handled the rest a whole lot better than the first, but practice makes perfect and whatnot. Still, in a way, they had horrified him in an entirely new way; they had made him realise that he and Sheril were not so different after all. Sheril was still the extremer one, yes, but still.
Of course, to be fair, Sheril's first kill had not been a walk in the park either. It had been decidedly more calculated than Tyki's, yes; the fact that Sheril had perpetrated it at such a tender age had been all the more disturbing, but impressive nevertheless. Sheril had started out young; not quite as young as Road, but still way younger than Tyki. He had also been a lot calmer, both before and afterwards, because Tyki had emptied the contents of his stomach after his first. The latter might also have been the alcohol's fault, yes. However, whichever was ultimately the case, fact remained that Tyki had derived neither pleasure nor satisfaction from the ordeal, neither during it nor afterwards.
In a way, Tyki supposed killing was a bit like drinking, taking drugs or smoking; the first impression was seldom good. Once the initial impression had been overcome however, then it was pretty easy to get hooked. And, like the case with most drugs, it wasn't easy to quit killing once you had gotten started. Still, Tyki liked a challenge. So‒ "Why don't you give me that knife?"
The response was quick, like the snap of a whip. "Why don't you fuck off and die?"
Whoa. "Rude. I'm just trying to help."
The second response was just as quick. "I don't need it."
Tyki smirked. "You're covered in blood, walking along a deserted road at night while looking decidedly unsteady. Now, I don't know what you're hopped up on besides adrenaline, but‒If you give me the knife, then I won't call the cops on you."
No one had ever accused Tyki of being kind. Odd? Certainly. Creepy? Occasionally, yes. Mysterious? Yeah, certainly. Sexy? Well, a whole lot of his female victims had seemed to think so, at least initially. Kindness however was not something that Tyki typically dabbled in, save for when retaining at least the illusion of it served his objectives. This one had good instincts though, so Tyki's usual arsenal of tricks would only take him so far.
"Go ahead," the boy snapped, keeping up the bravado in spite of the very obvious physical tremor. "I dare you."
On one hand, Tyki felt sorely tempted to do just that. After all, even if he summoned the cops to the scene, there was a definite possibility that he would still get away with it. After all, if he called in a bloody and armed teenager walking along the highway, then the police would hardly have a reason to check out Tyki's trunk now, would they? Then again, if he called and made a report and the first responders brought along dogs, then‒ Tyki would rather try his luck with the teenager, knife or no knife. "Look, we could do this all night, but I've got stuff to do and places to be and that arm of yours has to be getting tired, eh?"
The knife was not lowered, but the boy drew it closer to himself, evidently guarded. "What do you want?"
That was a rather excellent question actually.
-o0o-
Throughout the years, Tyki had wanted a lot of different things, many of them fickle and materialistic, like candy or the latest technological wonder popular amongst his generation. Then, there had obviously been cigarettes and booze, things his overbearing older brother had stubbornly refused to provide for him.
Even now, Sheril frowned upon these habits, as if his own wine-drinking was somehow better. Granted, Sheril's drinking probably took place in a much classier setting, yes. No matter the pretences though, drinking was still drinking, even if the glasses and the consumed amount differed. Of course, when it came to Sheril, matters usually came down to semantics, so Tyki generally knew better than to debate the issue. Besides, Sheril had always retained a habit of explicitly forbidding Tyki from doing something right before or immediately after partaking in said activity himself.
"Don't stay out late," the teenaged Sheril would say before heading out himself, returning in the wee hours of the morning wearing that look again. "Don't talk to strangers," he would say, shortly before engaging in a friendly conversation with the creep down the street. "Don't follow strange people into the forest," he would say, emerging alone from the same forest, slightly out of breath and sometimes with cuts and bruises. "I don't care if they say they have candy. No is still no."
And, for further emphasis, Sheril would occasionally grab Tyki tightly by the shoulders, look him deep into the eyes and say something along the lines of: "If they try to touch you or feed you anything or even look at you strangely, then you come tell me straight away, 'kay? And if I'm not around, God forbid, then be loud, aim for the groin and run!"
Years along the line, Tyki had told some of his drinking buddies a few anecdotes of Sheril's life lessons. Even though Tyki might have toned things down a bit and edited out most of the gruesome details, fact still remained that only a handful had believed him. "Your brother must've had it rough, looking after someone as dense as you," one of them had noted. Although Tyki did not like being called dense, he had still been willing to admit they had had a valid point; he was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, though he had become a somewhat better judge of character in recent years. Practice makes perfect and whatnot.
"What do I want?" Tyki repeated, scratching his head. "The knife would be a good start."
The boy held it out to the side and then dropped it. It clattered on the asphalt, but Tyki knew better than to be distracted; it was a classical technique to turn the tables on an opponent. Most people would after all focus on the knife, realising moments too late that the real danger lurked elsewhere.
"Kick it towards me."
Going by the look sent his way, the boy would much rather kick Tyki in the groin and stab him than obey. Still, he eventually did it, though it was obviously a not only grudging but also strenuous endeavour. Nevertheless, Tyki appreciated the effort. He bent down to retrieve it without shifting focus from the boy who regarded him warily in return.
Briefly, Tyki considered paying homage to the trick the other had pulled on him last time around. Ultimately though, Tyki knew himself to be a whole lot smarter than that. It would have been funny and interesting no doubt. However, it would also have put him in unnecessary danger, not to even mention it being a waste of effort on his part, considering just how long it had taken him to get the other to surrender the knife in the first place.
Still, Tyki found himself even harder pressed to restrain the sudden and completely foreign urge to pat the other on the head, returning to the car to fetch a blanket from the backseat. Grey eyes followed his every move, but thankfully, the boy didn't bolt. He looked more than ready to do so however, even though Tyki made a very conscious effort to remain unthreatening. "Here, take it."
The grey eyes widened briefly and then narrowed, the pale face settling into an expression of puzzled distrust. "Why?"
Tyki considered it briefly. He didn't have a very good answer; none that he could immediately put into words at any rate. Or well, to be exact, he only had one good motivation at hand: "Because it's cheaper and easier to discard some clothes and a blanket than getting the blood out of my seats?"
Granted, Tyki did know a thing or two about getting rid of bloodstains. Still, that didn't make it any less of a pain in the ass.
"Who says I'm getting into the car with you?" the boy snapped, tensing as Tyki moved.
Soon thereafter, Tyki produced a half-squished candy bar from his pocket, dangling it. "Want one?"
The boy snorted now. "Really? What's next? 'Get in the car. We're going to Candy Land'?"
To the extent of Tyki's knowledge, Candy Land was technically the name of a very simple board game. Oh well. "Then how about 'Get in. We're going to Vegas'?"
That earned him a decidedly deadpan look. "Okay, look," the bloody hitchhiker finally spat, taking a measured step backwards. "Today has been terrible. It doesn't seem to be improving either, so… please just fuck off, compadre."
Tyki smiled at that. "Well, that's improvement, I guess."
That earned him a slight frown that swiftly morphed into a more guarded expression. "Improvement?"
-o0o-