TITLE: Don't
Be a Bad Boy
AUTHOR: Anansay
RATING: PG-13 – for mature theme and description of a crime
SUMMARY: A killer is on the loose in Las Vegas. Three people have died in
as many weeks. There is no evidence pointing to anyone.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters and am making not one
red cent from all this hard work.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my garbled nonsense attempt at a
case file. I wanted to do something from the perspective of the killer – to see if I
could successfully delve into a deeper, sinister side and come up with something plausible
– thus the beginning. This is what I came up with. Read at your own risk. J
Don't Be a Bad Boy
by Anansay
September 3, 2003
1 - THE BOY
He stared at them from the window. Those people who always came to
the scene, after the cops did. Those people with those dark blue uniforms with CSI marked
on the back. The cops picked you up, but they got ya good. He hated them. They were his
enemy. His nemeses.
He thought about the boy in the house. The house they were walking into
just now. He thought about how he had looked that day, in the grocery store. Not a boy,
really. A young man, picking out his fruits for the week. His ash blond hair falling
partly over his face, half covering it before he tossed it back to gaze more intently at a
pear in his hand, sniffing it, feeling it, squeezing it.
Hmm, the squeezing he had watched how the man's hands had
handled the pear, so delicately, so gently and felt the familiar tug in his groin. He had
picked up his own fruit and had made as though he were shopping. The basket hanging from
his elbow joint held some odds and ends of his blind choosing, just putting things in so
as not to arouse suspicion.
The young man had finished choosing his pears and was walking away. He
watched how his hips swayed just slightly in his jeans one size too small. Such a firm
butt, he thought and swallowed. He imagined his hands on those cheeks, caressing,
squeezing, just like he had done with the pear.. testing its firmness, its readiness,
before the final plunge was taken.
Now it was cucumbers. Those long hard fruit, that people still called a
vegetable. He felt the anger rise in him at the voluntary ignorance of so many people. It
was a fruit dammit!! He took a deep breathe and exhaled slowly.
"Th-those are n-nice cukes." He'd said to the young man,
who looked up at him and smiled.
And his heart almost stopped. Those eyes, oh god such intense
blue, like that crystal you find in those really expensive china shops, the ones your
mother never took you to because she never trusted you enough. Crystal clear and blue and
so deep. And the smile only added to his beauty. He assumed the man to be in his early
twenties, probably fresh from living with his parents, enjoying the new freedom of
independence. Maybe a freshman in college. A man-boy.
"Yes, very nice." The man-boy said as he picked one up and
held it suggestively against his gut, his fingers gently squeezing the circumference,
going lower as he checked every part. His eyes stayed on the young man's fingers,
tensing and relaxing as they moved down the shaft cucumber!
Slowly he brought his eyes back up to the young man's whose were
now darker and more suggestive, having caught the older man's glance.
"I'm making a salad tonight. Gotta have your greens, you
know!"
"Uh-huh greens g-good for you" he swallowed
hard when the younger man's tongue snuck out to lick his lips which really
didn't need licking. "T-tell me, is a c-c-cucumber a f-fruit or a
v-vegetable?"
The smile faded as he'd considered the odd question. "A
fruit, the seeds are on the inside everybody knows that."
"N-not everybody." He'd grumbled in return. Then he
smiled, the smile he knew men like him found attractive. "I'm Carl." He
tilted his head a bit to the side letting the smile falter just so.
"Marcus."
"S-so nice to m-meet someone who knows the d-difference between a
f-fruit and a v-vegetable."
The younger man stared at him a bit, his eyes boring into his. And then
he leaned slightly on one leg, jutting his hip out to the side, resting his own basket on
it. "Would you like to come over for some salad?" It was damn near
impossible to miss the suggestive undertone in that outwardly simple request.
He had regarded him with a feigned mixture of surprise and then a smile
of his own had come over his face as he had accepted the young man's invitation.
So he had followed the man-boy home to his place and indulged in a very
good salad with a variety of vegetables and seeds. He was duly impressed and even had
second thoughts about doing what he came here to do. Such a culinary artist should not be
wasted on one man's perverted desires. But, alas, as his father had always taught
him, Always follow through with what you start, son. It's the sign of a efficient
man. And he was strong, dammit! Very strong.
So he had done it.
His crystal blues those eyes will never shine again without the
help of the medic's flashlight shining into them. And his body, so soft and willing
against his own, would now be hard with necrosis of the flesh. His beautiful face with its
dazzling smile never again. His hands that had brought a similitude of pleasure to
him would never again caress another or himself.
His beauty had been desecrated.
He watched now, as the stretcher came out of the house, the white sheet
covering his body now spotted here and there with the blood that he had left on the body.
No need to clean up. He hated cleaning. His mother always made him clean. And his father
always made him finish. Finish what you start, boy! It's the sign of a strong
man.
He watched as the two orderlies, er ambulance attendants,
"escorted" the body. Like, what, the body was going to get up and walk away?
He – it – was wheeled and heaved into the back of the
ambulance. He felt nothing. Nothing at all. There was no joy in his heart. And no sadness.
Nothing. A gaping empty hole in his chest. A black hole that seemed to suck all emotion
from his body. He felt nothing.
It was always like that afterwards. During the act itself, it was pure
exhilaration as adrenaline coursed through his body, firing his impulses, clearing his
senses, making them stronger, feeding his brain. He was intelligent during the act. He was
powerful. He was strong.
He was his father's son.
But afterwards, it all went away. And he was left as he was before:
dumb, stupid, idiotic. Just like his father told him he was. What's the matter
with you, boy? What are you, deaf? Didn't you hear your mother? She needs more
potatoes! It was little things, his mind told him. But little things have a tendency
to grow big when piled one upon the other.
And now the CSI people were coming out and conferring with that big
guy, the cop detective one. He watched as they scanned the area, walking oh so gingerly
around lest they should spoil any evidence. Stupid people! Didn't they know? He never
left anything for them. He didn't even like them. Why leave anything for them?! For
the past three times he'd never left anything lying around. He was very careful with
that. Only one drinking glass which was wiped clean after the act. He brushed his hair
thoroughly before every hunt to remove any loose ones. He always remembered everything he
touched and wiped those down too. And he was careful to touch very little. It was too hard
to remember.
Keep clean. Always. Clean your room, son. It's a sign of a
proper man. A proper man.
That he was. He always cleaned up after himself. If anything was found
out of place it was bad. Real bad. He shut his eyes against the memory as his body
shuddered. He bit his tongue and tasted the blood in his mouth. His blood. He opened his
eyes and milked his tongue with his teeth and gums, tasting more blood. The coppery taste
stayed with him while he watched as the CSIs walked around the house, head down, eyes
trained on the ground, silver cases in hand in case they should find anything. He watched
as one of them bend down and closely examined some infinitesimal piece of supposed
evidence. He smiled as he imagined their faces when they realized it was nothing. Nothing.
He had learned how to be impeccably clean and tidy. It was a
requirement of the hunt and its subsequentness. With absolute control of the senses –
never giving in – he would perform to the best of his abilities. Glorifying at the
exquisiteness of it all.
Now they were leaving. His butt was sore, the hard wooden chair
pressing uncomfortably on the bones, making the little knotted hole that was his anusprotrude painfully. He squirmed in his
chair, wincing as the pain gave way to a sort of quasi-comfort level. He leaned over and
rested his head on his hand, elbows on the window sill. He gazed down again. Most of them
were gone, just a couple remained, one standing, the other taking photographs. Some of the
house, some of the ground, some of the surrounding throng of people – like he'd
be stupid enough to be down there at a time like, stupid fucks!
And then woman suddenly craned her neck upward with the camera stuck to
her face and he saw the faint flash of light. He ducked back inside, his heart fluttering
painfully in his tight chest, blocking the air intake. Dropping from his chair, he hugged
the wall, his hands to his chest, eyes darting maniacally around himself, noting
everything and anything that might lead back to him.
After a few minutes, he pulled himself up slowly, fingers on the sill.
He peaked through the window but there was no one. The crowd was thinning. No more of
those cop people traipsing over his territory.
He was alone again. Alone with satisfaction of having beaten them
again.
Alone. Alone with the pain.
The voice started whispering again.
Stupid boy fucking idiot! It ain't over. Get up! Get
out, you stupid fucking idiot!!
The man groaned, cupping his head with his hands, shutting his eyes
tight. Through his tightly pursed lips a small wailing could be heard forcing itself
through. His body began to rock back and forth, faster and faster until his head was
almost banging against the floor. He rocked and rocked, humming loudly in his mouth to
drown the voice in his head. No no no no
It stopped. He didn't know when it stopped, only that his stomach
hurt from keeping his head from banging the floor and his back hurt, his legs hurt, and
his head felt like someone had poured molten lava and it was hardening, pushing against
the sides of his skull, his temples.
He looked around himself and his eyes burned, filaments of pain
extending across his eyes and shooting to the back of his head. His stomach gave a violent
lurch and he rolled to his side, clutching the outlaw gut that threatened to take over and
spill itself, soiling the floor. Groaning and breathing heavy, he slowly gained control
over his body, bringing it to his will.
Always his will. It was his body, wasn't it. He was the one who
controlled it.
After a few minutes, the quaking settled and he was able to roll
himself back up and onto his feet, hand against the wall for support. His head gave a
massive thump blinding him with white lights and he lost the wall, and then his hand, and
then his arm.
Oh god, his body was disappearing!
He took a deep breath and the feeling came back slowly, pins and
needles down to his finger tips. He needed to find the door. He needed to get outta there.
His body was betraying him.
The stairs moved beneath his feet, coming at him and then dropping from
beneath him. Leaning against the wall, one hand on the railing, he slid down the stairs,
his feet like cement blocks covered in rubber.
The light of the day greeted him with a searing pain that shot through
his body like a lightning bolt. He groaned and covered his eyes with a hand, the other
searching madly on his body for his sunglasses. The extra darkened lenses took away some
of the glare but he still had to squint, tensing muscles that didn't need any more
tensing.
He caught the bus, sliding down into the seat and drawing his knees up
to his chest.
Sleep. It was all he wanted. It was always like that, the antithesis of
the exhilaration of performing the deed once again. The flashing of the passing buildings
caused the pain to swell to massive proportions. He groaned and shut his eyes, covering
them with his hand. Then the shaking began, the interminable shaking that wouldn't
stop until he'd rested his body.
He opened his eyes and was instantly disoriented, a wave of fear
washing over him when he didn't immediately recognize the buildings. His eyes went
from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of anything familiar. And there it was,
Smith's Markets. Another block and he would be home. Thank God. He pulled the string,
stumbled off the bus and managed to get his key into his lock on the fifth try, the
shaking in his hands becoming spasmodic. His unmade bed greeted his falling body and he
closed his eyes again, this time for a very long time.
~*~
Copyright © 2003 Anansay
