《Dark Universe: Tell me Jeff》


 1

    The warehouse door opens and expels a pungent stench. The windows, so dark that you can''t peek inside, look like sockets in the skull of a stiff. The clay bricks under the waning moon pale giving a look similar to human skin. Everything on that night is like a sign for horrible omens, for white death.


    Police tape limits the perimeter and keeps the curious at bay, powers too great for a simple yellow ribbon. If that doesn''t work, the bold-faced policemen with their faces painted blue one second and red the next by patrol car sirens scare off the bravest. Edmund doesn''t know who got there first: the gossiping women were as quick as the rumors they spread; but neither could the journalists, hounds for morbid stories, be underestimated. In any case the police beat them to it, and as far as Edmund respects they won the first round.


    The curvature of his lips lifts and shows a row of well-groomed teeth, he doesn''t smile too much, but just enough to show confidence no matter that he''s on the floor. To the 50,000 people of La Crosse, he was a man to have faith in, second only to the guy on the cross, the old man in the clouds, and the president. The Kill The Killer, a nickname that makes him itch every time he hears it.


    Edmund Hopkins, the current local police captain, is the guy who rid Wisconsin of its last serial killer. The feat earned him a promotion and tons of good reputation (more than anyone could ever hope for.) He''s never wanted to become a police officer. Edmund never sought to become a protection saint). It was the state''s way of thanking him for making the streets safe again, and allowing kids to sleep soundly without peeing themselves with the thought of Jeff slicing their throats.


    The captain passes under the tape quickly, as if eager to chomp down on the crime scene. In reality, what he longs for most is to escape the stares of the crowd and the questions of the press, news vultures garnished with blood and maggots. He glances sideways at the crowd and wonders why the neighbors look so stunned by the commotion. Do they really think the streets are safe? That with good Edmund swarming around, nothing bad can happen and no black bag of surprises will appear floating over the Mississippi...?


    Well, no.


    The stench of the warehouse hits him before he enters, warning him of what is to come. His smile shudders, but without disappearing. He is the Captain, the killer-slayer who never hesitates and never sleeps more from extreme insomnia than from a lust for justice. No, killer-slayer is too violent, bad people-finisher sounds like something more acceptable than what young boys might say at mass or school.


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    The interior of the place exudes the scent of flesh and metal, like blood long stagnant in a vial. The officers greet Edmund with customary respect and then go into detail about the scene:


    Old Turner comes to check out the property to make repairs and put it up for rent, but finds more than seepage in the walls and green flies flitting about.


    "Maybe now he''ll lower the rent" he says. Others would ask more questions about Turner, but Edmund considers that spending time on that old cheapskate would be like trying to pinch a horse to death. Being a miser doesn''t make you a murderer... At least not at first. On second thought, he''ll put a couple of officers to keep an eye on the old man and connect the dots, if there are any connections to connect. "Is there any coffee?"


    They bring a red coffee, unsweetened one. Just the way he likes it.


    Neither officer raises an eyebrow at the superior''s apparent disinterest. The Captain always acts and moves in his own way. He''s the hero who saved them from the smiling psychopath... Although no one ever understood what was so funny about that bastard Jeff, even half dead he was laughing and after kicking the bucket he kept on with that dreadful grin.


    A smile of true horror.


    Edmund blames it on the disfigured face. He prays to Jesus, Buddha, or any entity disengaged enough to fulfill the request, that the next killers will be more pleasant to look at. Because more would come, wouldn''t they? They already had Ed Gein and the first Jeffrey, the Dahmer, not the Woods. Maybe the environmental nuts are right and the Mississippi pollution will turn people into soulless monsters.


    "Poor girl"


    Natalie Parker was a lovely little girl; Somewhat promiscuous but less so than most; High school student and choir flute player; Short hair framing her tanned face and lips like cherries; But most striking were her beautiful violet eyes. Now Edmund can only repair to the lack of these.


    ?If she were my daughter...?


    Edmund thought, but for the sake of his sanity he repressed the comparison.


    Two holes bathed in dried blood stare back at the policemen. Above the girl, a lone bulb streams its bluish light, illuminating and rocked by the breeze blowing in from a broken skylight. From the cuts and the pool of blood soaking her clothes and the legs of the chair where she was bound and gagged, it is evident that whoever did it had a good time.


    "Captain, look at this"


    He looks at the officer who called him, then at the direction where everyone is pointing their flashlights. On the white-painted wall is a message in large, red, tearful letters:


    GO TO SLEEP.


    The policemen hold their breath. The captain stands admiring it as if evaluating an abstract, unintelligible work of art. He takes a sip of coffee.


    "Ladies and gentlemen" Edmund sounds like a guy from the news wanting to sell you a vacuum cleaner. He turns and his smile just got bigger and more awkward to maintain. "We have a copycat"


    Inside Edmund is screaming his head off.

 2

    The asphalt six floors below calls out to me and begs to be embraced. The wind is its matchmaker, it ruffles my clothes and every time it blows I notice that the tips of my shoes stick out an extra centimeter from the rooftop railing.


    "Good view from there?"


    I looked back and saw a ghost. Wrong, my eyes deceive me. It is the neighbor. He''s a tall, scrawny guy, skin so pale it borders on purple, and eyes sunken in hollow black circles. Misunderstandings aside, he looks like a more than adequate servant from beyond the grave.


    During the time I''ve lived here, I''ve passed him more than once in the hallways. We always exchanged glances for several seconds, but without approaching each other, as if a safety glass divided our lives.


    "I''m bored" I replied.


    "Me too" he says and leans against the railing, close to my feet. He can push me. He wants to. I notice his urgency in the way his fingers drum and he analyzes the weakness in my legs. But instead he asks me: "Shall we jump together?"


    I kept silent. I understood after looking straight into his eyes that he longed for someone to fall with. I need that too. I need it so badly that I lose my breath and my mouth goes dry. I''m thirsty to death.


    I climb down from the railing. He flashes me a startlingly white smile, with a missing side tooth in his lower jaw. I find out later he lost it in a bar fight, after being accused of being a fag and coming across the border illegally. The irony of it all, is that it happened after I gave the guy a blowjob.


    For Daniel and me, nothing is good enough. We are hopeless nonconformists. We are dissatisfied with everything life has given us and with life itself. It''s like seeing the world through monochromatic lenses that are impossible to remove. The delicacies taste like dirt, the jokes are cringe-inducing, and the stories are throwaway.


    Tiara, the woman who gave birth to me, dragged me to the psychologist during my childhood. The teachers mentioned to her that I speak little and am oblivious to everything. They were right, they still are. Tiara stopped taking me when I started with the fake smiles and laughing at my classmates'' comments. Monkey see, monkey learn, monkey imitate. I''m sure there are several among you who also act, readers. Don''t be embarrassed to admit it, we are among friends.


    The psychologist insisted on continuing to treat me, he must have discovered something wrong with me, how I peed the bed when I was ten years old and how I set a kitten on fire. But Tiara being a single mother couldn''t afford to spend any more time and money. With two jobs sucking the life and youth out of her, she preferred to stop hearing that her son is broken.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Daniel also acted to save himself hassle. He was lucky and only needed to be normal until he was fifteen. An easily irritated father, an unfaithful mother, a trusting lover, add a phone call from the son and a .38 Caliber pistol, and presto. You''ve got the perfect cocktail for a murder-suicide capable of headlining any newspaper.


    I''m 16. Daniel is five years older than me. That age gap never hinders our quest for salvation, we are as equal as two peas in a pod. We yearn to be rid of that drudgery and apathy that buries and devours us to leave us as shells or walking stiffs. If there is no cure, we will at least accept death with the resignation of those who have tried everything.


    We look for hope in art. Picasso, Hockney, or Pollock may have given us some color with their unique ways of interpreting the world, but they turned out to be as interesting as doodles hanging on magnets over a refrigerator door. We tried the alternative: Chris Mark, Michael Hussar, Vince Locke. We felt a natural magnetism toward the weird and the macabre. For a while Daniel had an obsession with the faces of Maya Kulenovic. He could stand for hours in front of the monitor, admiring them as if eager to add his face to the canvases.


    The art kept us entertained for a couple of months. We decided to walk in the lower part of the city. We visited independent painters in humble sidewalk galleries, looking for a pearl to inspire us, but we only found pebbles, flat landscapes, imitations of styles of more talented people. Instead of artists, mercenaries capable of selling their battered canvases for small change or a mayonnaise sandwich. Fake.


    It occurred to Daniel that we could paint our unique reality. But the vision we possess is too gray, even the demons lack charm under our inexperienced hands. I understood as I held the brush and parted the leaf with a black, erratic stroke, that it wasn''t for me. Daniel said we''d have better luck painting houses, at least then we''d make money to keep the quest going a little longer...


    It impresses me how Daniel always thinks the same as me.


    When the sky is tinged with oranges and reds, we take the stereo to the banks of the Mississippi. We lie on the sand with the stereo in the middle. Daniel turns the volume all the way up and we let it rumble until we feel it in our bones. It''s hard to appreciate music when it never roars hard and heavy enough to motivate you. We explored beyond rock and metal, Daniel downloaded online recordings of funeral chants from archaic religions, or compositions that sought to mimic cosmic and profane hymns in the name of the darkest fantasy. It was never enough.


    "The only song capable of satisfying us will be the one that ends the Earth" I declared, looking at Daniel. I didn''t need an answer, I knew by inertia that he agreed.


    His eyes remain hidden under the tangle of brown hair. He half-opens his lips revealing a row whose perfection disturbs me, so out of place on such a sickly face. But the hole reminds me that he too is broken, like me.

 3

    Santana, the mistress of the earth and queen of the Necropolis, arrives in her sacred chariot and brings autumn with her.


    The chariot a good sized van replete with painted flowers, a jackal skull on the bumper, and ribbons of jingle bells that jingle in the wind... They sound to drug addicts like the ice cream truck to children. I don''t know what incantations he uses to stay off the radar of the authorities, but Santana is as unstoppable as the new year and is never late on tour. Maybe Santana also sells to the president''s children.


    Stramonium; Belladonna; Ayahuasca; Peyote; Burundanga; hallucinogenic mushrooms in a multitude of colors and flavors. Santana''s garden is a festival to stimulate the senses. She opens the door of the van, welcomes with her black teeth, wearing a vintage dress with a wide skirt and a generous neckline. Her products are expensive. The quality is worth it, says Daniel. I, inexperienced in the arts of psychedelic travel and metaphysics, just nod and trust.


    Santana invites us in and nods toward Daniel as if welcoming an old acquaintance. As she speaks she shows the onyx stones that adorn her mouth, a smile that brings out the gold of her eyes in her sun-tanned skin. She vibrates with the beauty of a coral snake, leaving me speechless. My soulless vision doesn''t stop me from longing to feel the brunette''s fangs. Kiss me and let the venom blacken my veins, noble lady.


    Something itches. It''s Daniel, his elbow. I blinked and came to. The interior of the sacred wagon possesses a suffocating air, incenses that spit trails of purple and blue smoke, with aromas that bury themselves in your skin and disorient your consciousness. The queen''s claws manage to penetrate to our gray world and color it with diffuse brushstrokes. The fact shakes me.


    "So my last baby wasn''t enough for you, it tasted half-baked like any vending machine treat, or like the feces left over after cooking heroin?"


    The lady''s sensual, sweet tone keeps a trace of latent danger looming between the spaces, like a black widow climbing up to the back of your neck and caressing your skin with her front paws. In the dim light the lady''s features darken, the gold of her eyes losing luster but not strength, becoming twin stars of sickly yellow that watch in the corner of an unknown galaxy.


    Daniel stammers an apology and wipes the sweat from his brow, but beyond the nerves that surface, there was a tent in his pants that does not go unnoticed by me, and obviously not by Santana either.


    A writer by the name of Lovecraft said long ago: The oldest and most intense emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and most intense fear is the fear of the unknown.


    Unknown. Terror, delicious feeling that vitalizes the most stony heart of men. In that instant it meant a euphoric throbbing in our breasts and crotches.


    Santana shushes Daniel by placing two fingers on his lips, a delicate gesture, almost as if inviting him to lick them. Daniel holds back, it is too soon to condemn us, there is much to prove.


    "You are forgiven. I like the benevolence, it''s very picturesque" she says as if talking about a child''s drawings. She walks away to a metal shelf, pulls out a plastic bag with fifteen mushrooms with alvine cap and stem, bathed in a shiny coating that they themselves excrete. "Moon kisses, brought here from a higher plane. Not from the moon precisely, but very close"?


    Daniel receives the bag. He hands over a roll of money next to his late grandmother''s necklace, and we say goodbye.


    It took me a while to realize we were running. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed shadows of jackals looking to bite my silhouette. I pointed to the first alley I saw, we entered, stopped, and caught our breath. The jackals ceased to exist.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    I see what looks like the entrance to a porn movie store. The flickering purple light of the neon XXX sign above the door warns us that we are on the ground, a more vulgar, everyday, earthly place.


    Welcome to the real world, please leave the divinities outside.


    We smuggled in contraband.


    We uncork a bottle of whiskey and with long gulps we cauterize our throats. The liquid blurred my vision. I felt stronger, more confident... But even the backing of the purest alcohol proves insufficient, like a pool that reaches your thighs. Finish the bottle.


    We each devour a Moon Kiss. Eating it is like chewing cold, half-softened fat, leaving you with a slimy trail that travels down your esophagus. Done. Swallowed. All that''s left to do is wait...


    Drops of colors splash in the space, creating expansive waves that collide with others, which in turn generate more growing circles, and saturate until there is no reality left and only colors reign. I blinked and returned to the alley. I looked at my hands, they lengthen until they hit the ground and my fingers become blurred trails that furrow the air in erratic directions.


    I wandered the sidewalks like a zombie. Daniel disappears, but his laughter doesn''t go away. A groundhog follows me, maybe it''s him. Chimneys spew raspberry bubbles, or blood. Open doors release profanities against the windows. The sun is so low it looks like another mundane streetlight. Pedestrians remove their human masks to reveal their red-eyed cow faces, mooing themselves blind and deaf from plastic, dyes and ever-larger televisions. Satisfied on their way to the slaughterhouse.


    That''s happiness... Why was something so vulgar denied to me? It''s not fair.


    The elevator in the building is out of order. I crept up the stairs and continued to the sixth floor. Tiara shouts something unintelligible, scolding for sure, and points the kitchen knife at me. She sensed my stench of alcohol before I walked through the door. As she jabbers her head falls from her neck, severed by an invisible thread, and rolls to my feet, still talking. I tapped the head with the toe of my shoe and something clicked in me. I let out a laugh, then another, and then I couldn''t stop myself.


    "Joshua" Mom says my name with her pallor fading and her head back in place. She looks at me as if she doesn''t recognize me, or as if for the first time it dawns on me what I really am.


    I wander to my bedroom, holding myself from wall to wall, laughing so hard that tears come to my eyes, and my stomach twists in pain. I collapsed on my back on the bed. Humanoid mushrooms, albino and alien, dance in an open portal in the ceiling, circling and cannibalizing each other in an act more barbaric and beautiful than any ritual invented by mankind.


    My soul detaches itself from the fleshly vessel and floats away from the building and the country. It escapes from the speck of dust known as planet Earth.


    The red Mars of blue people. The gaseous and bubbling Jupiter, just like its people. We fly beyond the solar system, to other galaxies, full of war, full of fantasy. And beyond? I see an infinite blackness, where the primordial and primordial collide since the Universe was born. And outside the book is white, nothingness. Without time or life or death. Turn around and face God. Cry to him, sing to him, beg him to testify your courage, pray to him to be happy or curse him for your misfortunes.


    It is useless, it has no ears to hear you, no mouth to answer you, no intelligence to understand your signs. God''s countless eyes remain fixed nowhere. They blink with you and everything around you contained in the well that are his pupils. You, me, the universe, the tragedies and the wonders, we are only the slow and incomplete unzipper in the eye of a retarded and primitive creature.


    Where is our value, Daniel? Is it at the end of the search? Does it even exist? They always tell you there is, that you must get up and keep trying until the brimstone of hell turns to ice. But the truth is that no one knows the truth.


    The effect of the Moon Kiss threatens to end. It puts me back to bed without dances or extraterrestrial mushrooms. I tossed the existential doubt around for a couple of minutes, but the only thing that came to mind was Santana''s cleavage, two fleshy, brunette, perfect hills that made me salivate. I unbuttoned my pants and brought my hand down to my crotch, taking my time to satisfy myself.


    Vulgar and earthly... It matters little how far our minds fly, that''s what we are, even if we are denied the most mundane pleasures. Is there beauty hidden within all this filth?

 4

    Santana left as soon as she came, she took off from this world to new planes and horizons, where mountains fly and buildings are as tall as infinity. Also, sooner rather than later, the moon kisses ran out.


    That minuscule taste of what lurks beyond the veil of reality, of the mountain of madness, made us grateful for the pumping of blood through our arteries. But without mushrooms we need new alternatives....


    Breathe in the leathery smell of the briefcase, the rust of the machines, and the radiation of the monitors, slave common man. You, the scholar or the nonconformist, taste the happiness of your nerves blooming with Ecstasy. Throw yourself into the K-hole as dark as Limbo. Embark on a sea of lysergic acid under a shower of angel dust falling from smiling clouds.


    Nice whirlwind of dyes. But it''s time to go further. Where else...?


    "The meat" Daniel proposed as he vomited a cocktail of Doritos and alcohol into the toilet. I held his hair. When he finished, I flushed the toilet.


    The night is our friend. I wore ratty pants and a white anorak I bought for nothing at a yard sale. Daniel wears skinny jeans and a sleeveless shirt that reveal a tangle of interlocking slashes running up from his wrists to crown the middle of his arms. As he passes under a streetlight, the light brings out those deep, intrinsic webs opened by razors and razor blades, badly healed by time.


    "On special nights I don''t hide them" Daniel once told me. "It is believed that the full moon brings out the worst in people. Nonsense. It only shows us how we really are"


    And the round star now rules the sky. It sends us a wink in celebration of all the rapes, overdoses, murders, cheating, and suicides cradled in this barnyard called Earth. But how naughty they are! Such hopeless little devils. I almost heard her scoff.


    Whores are the courtesans of the night. The game is simple, you pay and you get, like going to buy bread. They are all cold but they still come out scantily clad, and bathe in perfume to mask the stench to other men. It''s a marketing thing.


    I remember about the first one, Daniel gave me a condom, a pat on the back and wished me good luck before he saw me enter the motel. I had a fake ID in my pocket, but I didn''t even have to show it, it was enough to pay for the room. Her pseudonym began with a "P" and ended with.... "A". I forgot the middle. What I do remember is the tattoo of a blue rose on her abdomen, next to the C-section scar, while she moved on me like a slug trying to eat me. It took me about ten minutes to ejaculate.


    The next few sessions were longer, but just as tasteless, and I would even say embarrassing. Then Cherry appeared, hunched over by the trash cans like a battered stray cat, with her hand in her mouth and blood leaking through her fingers, the gift of a well-delivered blow from an annoying customer.


    Daniel and I exchanged glances. Cherry almost crawled up to us and offered us fellatio in exchange for a handful of dollars. Tongue, saliva, tears, and blood made for a nice, warm, pleasurable, and playful combination that I recommend you all try at least once. She took the trouble to swallow without complaint. Daniel paid her for both, and she also wanted to pay for the attention of the guy who hit her and left.


    "That''s not necessary, honey"


    "Come on, it''s only money" Daniel insists with the favor.


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    She finally accepts and thanks us, still hugging herself. I look her up and down, her arms and legs glistening like fields of holes, desecrations of many needles fighting to find a vein. Something small and red falls from her. I bend down and pick it up..... It''s hard, and white behind the layer of blood. A tooth. I wipe it on my anorak and try to give it back to her. Cherry shakes her head.


    "Keep it, honey. Maybe it will bring you good luck"


    She tells us her nickname, in case we want to repeat another day, and walks off back to the concrete garden.


    On the way to the apartment block, I ask Daniel:


    "What if something hit us? There are like twenty thousand venereal diseases now, dude. Each one worse than the last"


    "Relax. It''s not like we''re going to last a hundred years either"


    "That''s true"


    The next morning, the beaten face of that prostitute comes back to my mind. Also in the afternoon, superimposed on Tiara''s face as she tried to convince me to enter a rehab clinic. I couldn''t call Cherry beautiful, her expression more fitting of a victim in a domestic crime documentary than a living being. Maybe that''s what attracted us... An asphalt flower ready to wilt, sugary femininity mixed with bitterness from beyond the grave. I closed my eyes and imagined the beautiful, healthy young woman she once was, degenerating into the wreck she is now.


    We hired her for ten consecutive days. At first we took turns: First Daniel. Then me. Then both of us at the same time. Daniel preferred the tightness of her ass. I preferred the intimate and aphrodisiac juices of her vagina. The mouth remained on neutral ground, but I admit the girl was talented enough to graduate to giving great blowjobs. She loved the joke.


    We would talk after sex, and I got to a point where I wanted that more than the carnal act. I discovered that we shared the same age, but she looked 10 years older because of her pimp''s drugs and beatings. I wasn''t aging like fine wine either, these months of searching took their toll on me. I told her so, and she replied I''m not that bad. Her laugh was beautiful, so much so that it seemed alien, and I felt the urge to ask her to marry me, to run away and start from scratch somewhere else...


    We would recover, we would be happy, a house in the suburbs and a couple of little kids, then this whole stage of our life would be behind us, I know. A halfway happy life.


    So I held back.


    Then, being so drunk and stoned that we were mistaken for demons, I tied Cherry on the bed and Daniel brought along a stray dog who, with his tongue, made her reach a wet and embarrassing climax. I watched it all from the doorway unclear what was true and what was a dream. Daniel couldn''t see it, he passed out in a corner.


    Three days later Cherry''s body was found in the same alley where we met her. The chronicles and news reports describe that all her teeth were knocked out and her face was so bulging from the blows that it was hard to recognize her.


    A pig (Policeman) held a press conference blaming the criminals from the neighboring county, and a pig from the neighboring county held a press conference blaming our criminals. The public accepted both versions, it''s easier to live with that fantasy of distant evil than to think about the whores murdered a few blocks from the church or public school.


    In case you doubt it, Daniel and I never hurt Cherry. We used her in many ways. We licked and touched those corners of her body that even after years of prostitution were virgin (Her regulars lacked our imagination). But whoever plucked her from the garden was surely her pimp, or one of those angry guys who then put on the mask of a parent.


    The beloved grandmother falls down the stairs and is devoured by cats. The kid with good grades stumbles on the road and gets his head crushed by a truck. The unfaithful wife passes away with a smile in bed next to her husband of decades, surrounded by a ring of other men''s children. What a tragedy. What a comedy. And who is Cherry? And where did she come from? And who was the father of her unborn? No one knows and no one seems to care. Life is a very long joke.


    "Death visited our friend. It was not beautiful, not cathartic. She deserved better. We could have given her something better" Daniel says. He tosses a half-finished beer can into the Mississippi stream.


    "If life has no charm, why should death?" I ask, sitting on the wet sand with my arms around my knees.


    "I don''t know. But sooner or later, yes or yes, I''ll have to find out. Especially now that I''m starting to get bored with orgasms"


    "Are we done with the meat?"


    "Not yet. Let''s fall in love with a nice young girl from a good family. Virgin, if that still exists. I want to corrupt something beautiful"

 5

    From Stacy to Melanie, from Melanie to Carol, from Carol to Rose. We jump from girl to girl with the journey paid for by deep kisses and empty promises. Our bed will never be cold as long as excitement and romance are a contagious disease, an easy way to get a woman''s most intimate nectars gushing. Daniel took most of them... There is nothing more attractive to a teenage girl than a grown-up boy to show them what the world is like and make them feel more mature than they are. Then all it took was a whisper or two close to their ear to convince them to share original sin with me.


    After getting tired of going over and over the mount of Venus, we delighted our baser instincts with the androgynous skin of those young men who visit night clubs in search of loud music, even more deafening emotions, and perhaps an answer to the uncertainty they kept about their sexuality. The appearance of the chosen one differs with the nights and with our whims. Sometimes taller or shorter, or stockier and more direct, or shy and hesitant, or intense and crazy. But we approach them all the same, with the caution and eagerness of the best predators, blending in with the crowd and the lights that stun the vision. Sometimes we use drugs or alcohol, for adulterated glasses and pills are keys to the body and the heart.


    In a motel room, or bathroom, or parking lot, or wherever it happens, we lay our bodies in a slow, tight dance. Eyes glazed; Pink lips half-open, glossy and eager; We nibble the neck near Adam''s nut and roam the bare skin of the shoulder; Tender moans gush forth, like a woman''s, or even sweeter and more indulgent; We stain with our ejaculate the stranger''s palate and then taste his bitter seed. How many have we shared the bed with...? I''ve lost count. Or I never started it. Liquor and substances leave deep gaps in my memory.


    The company of strangers was not enough, and we decided to unburden ourselves to each other. Two halves coming together to explore each other''s innermost layers, we harvested our panting with our tongues between very long kisses. Daniel wanted to try being the passive one first. During penetration I buried my fingers in his back and plowed the skin, and harvested his blood and his cries, and then he came in an orgasm immediately. I cleaned with my tongue the crimson fluid that was dripping down her back. We turned the tables... It was brutal to interrupt in my loins, the first time tearing me apart. It made me cry, and scream his name, and beg for more.


    Nights of debauchery. Taboos that multiply. Life is a toilet that turns without taking the excrement, and even when we are up to our necks in shit, we keep looking for what makes us say: It was worth it. Money, power, fame, family, religion? Or in our case, an extravagance that is not born in places where ethics or morals illuminate. Most people give up. People like Daniel, people like me, never stop trying until life ends.


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "Let''s murder someone" Daniel once said. I can''t remember when. Maybe I dreamed it. Or maybe he told me when he was ramming me against the bathroom wall. Sensation. Palpitations. The warmth and fade to white that takes away the vision for a second, a symptom of reaching climax. Everything looks so cloudy.


    And in the background a crazy man does not stop laughing.


    Thou shalt not kill... Demands the text that, together with the Communist Manifesto, has given free rein to the worst massacres of humanity. Time goes by and nothing improves, nobody learns, or simply nobody wants to learn. Death becomes a statistic when it visits the majority, a business if the stiff is a singer or actor, or a reason to celebrate if the one who dies is an alleged rapist, murderer, or dictator. Every second someone in a corner of the world dies, maybe from cancer, or a traffic accident, from starvation, from suicide, or from someone else''s actions. Death is mundane... Or am I wrong? Is murder a diamond in the rough? Is it the missing piece of our spiraling puzzle-path? What''s at the bottom? Sulfur and fire, or a white rabbit?


    It''s time to go ahead and find out.


    Daniel is with me on this.


    We''ll get there in the end.


    I know we will.


    "We all end up like sacks of rotting meat in maggots, Josh" In the cold and in the pale light of the waning moon, he buries the shovel. I did the same. The soft, wet earth yields easily to our rape. "So what? Forget the result and think of the cause. Remember our friend, Cherry?"


    How could I forget her? Look around at the hundreds of mist-laced graves. It''s an elegant place, she would have liked to be buried here.


    Daniel continues the monologue.


    "I bet her last moments were the most exciting and cherished of her entire fucking existence. Every bump, every crunch of bone, had to fuel her longing to breathe and to see another sunrise. Ironic thing if you stop to think about how little he cared for himself. You know what I think? I believe that the soul, and consequently the world, shows its true radiance, its most beautiful and intense colors, at the crucial moments. During the imminent end. How beautiful and intense is it? I don''t know"


    I nodded in sympathy, and we continued working. The mound of earth beside us grows and becomes complete. We break the seal of the coffin and almost tear the lid off its hinges. The stench of the afterlife wafts out, reeking of wilted lilies and dead rats. Dark basins face us reproachfully. Daniel raises the shovel with both hands, reaches down and drives the tip into the corpse''s neck, cutting it off with a single lunge.


    With the skull blackened between his fingers and the skin cracking like papier mache, he takes a seat on his mother''s tombstone and gives her a kiss as innocent as the May roses. The lips fall off.


    We cover the grave. Daniel carries the trophy under his arm and we march to our building. He slept with his mother for the first time in a long time, made love to her until she fell apart in the face of his onslaught, and told me every obscene and loving detail.


    A happy reunion, I guess.

 6

    Murder. Homicide. Annihilation. Massacre. Extermination. How many words exist to refer to causing the end. Our language is enchanted by the act of killing. Obsessed, I would say. History from its beginnings is marked with the shadow of death. Let''s pull back the thick veil and take a look at the first murder of mankind: Cain, seething with jealousy, lifts a stone and strikes his brother Abel, taking his life. I imagine God''s chosen one in a growing pool of blood. It adds color, brightness to the already picturesque scene of fratricide.


    Spell it with me: A-S-S-A-S-S-I-N-A-T-I-O-N. The story goes that the word comes from a community or military order of Muslim fanatics, called The Assassins (Ha??¨¡?¨©n). Giving death was their job and they did it so well that their name began to be used to refer to the concept. An exercise as old as the world deserves more than to be stigmatized as evil. The art of giving death is an honorable job. To do it properly takes effort, planning, nerves of steel, skill to get away with it, and a dash of luck.


    I encourage all of you to try it, or at least imagine doing it. Who would be your victim? An acquaintance or a stranger? What weapon would you use? The hammer or the dagger? Would you attack in broad daylight or protected by the cloak of night? Do you have clear escape routes? Close your eyes, clasp your hands together and squeeze. Fingertips sink into the neck muscles. The victim try to breathe, but your palms block the breath. Glassy eyes face you. Your victim kicks beneath you. The soul slips between your fingernails. Keep pressing. Until faces turn purple. Until the eyes burst.


    The composition of a good murder demands more than assholes fighting over a woman with broken bottles. Or a dark alley, a knife and a drunk looking for trouble. Let''s spit on the forgotten murderers in prisons, or the crimes of a weekend. Praise Charles Manson, who with his mind and voice rampaged the barbarism of his lovers. Let us sing in honor of Jack the Ripper, who never was and never will be discovered. Dorangel Vargas is my pastor, and with Jeffrey Dahmer the meat will never fail me. Let''s applaud the latest fashions from designer Ed Gein. Let''s laugh with Pogo the clown. Let''s stroll with the monster of the Andes over mountain ranges of infantile ribs. And at the end of the day, exhausted, tired and splattered with mud, let''s take a revitalizing rest in Countess B¨¢thory'' s bathtub , accompanying the bath with audio-books softly narrated by Ed Kemper.


    Design. Scenario. Light and shadow. Fury or coldness. Domination and creativity. The poetry of death. Everything is important in an act of this ilk, or at least one worth remembering. Down with those who hire mercenaries or take the cowardly route of noxious potions. Poisoners and anesthesiologists, wrongly called Angels of Death, are dung compared to the classic cutthroat.


    Let us continue descending this spiral staircase. Let us plunge into the vast improvised courts, temples of sacrifice built by those who saw themselves as judges, jurors, and executioners of their victims. Be it wife or husband. Lover or enemy. Neighbor or stranger. We can all be killed. That includes you and me. Fascinating, isn''t it? Equally fascinating is the alternative of being the one who attacks.


    You, future prey or hunter, don''t put your head down if it''s your turn to be the former. It is better to fall being the work sculpted by the blinding hand of the one who attacks your life, than to die bedridden victim of old age or disease. The edge of a knife or the sturdy hammer are temporary evils and bearers of such mercy that the seeds of cancer or the flaying of time cannot compare.


    Every murder has its shades. Proper reds, primary and secondary reds. Infinite forms to capture the corpse lying and frozen. Just as there are sculptures, paintings, films, engravings, songs, video games, etcetera.


    The majority public is satisfied with anything as long as it contains exaggerated liters of wasted blood. The man of culture demands more than guts hanging from the curtains and gray matter scattered on the floor. As with all art, it is indispensable that homicide be studied and assimilated.


    Wisconsin has its own personal catalog of monsters. A while ago I mentioned two: Ed Gain (1906 to 1984) and Jeffrey Dahmer (1960 to 1994). The former was a corpse plunderer and later murderer, who enjoyed turning his victims into dresses, belts, mugs and fur vests. His kill count was low (barely 2 women), but he made up for it with an exquisite eye for designing clothes and accessories. The second, nicknamed The Milwaukee Butcher, improved the number (17 kills). He was a male meat fanatic whose love of submission crossed the barriers of death and the culinary standard of the region. Daniel regrets not having known him, resigns himself to fantasizing about lying down and then being devoured by him.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    There is one artist I must introduce who, in addition to being a novelty, is the latest in police chronicles: Jeffrey Allen Woods, better known as Jeff the Killer. We came across his story in the local library, among old items stored in the public computers. Reading that nickname is like a bell ringing in my head. I hear Tiara''s voice warning: Be careful on your way home from class, and if anyone follows you, run to the police. The bodies of Woods left behind have yet to melt into the earth.


    "Yes, I remember it more or less well" said Daniel, leaning over to read the headlines on the monitor. "It lasted from 2001 to 2004. News spread of people being killed in their sleep. More than one got used to having a revolver under their pillow. Are there pictures?"


    I shook my head.


    "How many people did he kill?"


    "It doesn''t specify" I said. "Look, I found an article that talks about a survivor. It says she was the killer''s first appearance"


    I read it out loud:


    June 3, 2001. Katie Robinson, 18, claims she survived an attack by a creepy character. She bravely recounts the events.


    ?I had a bad dream and woke up in the middle of the night. It was very cold. I noticed that for some reason the window was open, although I remember that I closed it before going to bed. I got up and locked it once more. Then I got under the covers and tried to go back to sleep. That''s when I had a strange feeling, like I was being watched. I looked up and almost jumped. I could see them thanks to the light coming from the street lamps. There was a pair of eyes. They were not normal eyes, but dark, sinister. And his mouth... A wide smile, so hideous that I almost fainted. He stared at me for a while. He never blinked and never stopped smiling. Finally he spoke. He said something, a simple sentence, but said in a way that only a madman could say it.?


    Go on...


    Go to sleep...


    ?I shouted. Something flashed and I realized he pulled out a knife. He jumped onto my bed, but I fought back. I lifted the pillow and that''s what protected my heart. A lot of feathers came out and I thought I was dreaming. But the fear was real and made me stand up. In the chaos I ran to the door, but he immediately knocked me down and stood over me. His hands were... Icy, so white. His breath reeked of alcohol, not liquor, but the kind doctors use. That''s when my father came in. The man threw his knife and pierced my father''s arm. He probably would have killed us had not one of the neighbors alerted the police. I later learned that Mr. Florek said he saw someone suspicious crossing the roof of our house and that''s why he called. We heard the sirens and the windows reflected the lights. The stranger snatched my father''s knife and fled down the hallway. I heard a noise, like glass breaking. I looked out and saw that the window that was pointing towards the back of my house had been broken. That was the last time I saw it. But I can assure you of one thing: I will never forget that face, nor those eyes, nor that psychotic smile. It scares me to open my eyes and find him again in the middle of the night.?


    The search for the culprit is still in progress. If you see anyone who fits the description of the subject of this anecdote, please contact your local police department.


    I finished reading the article. There is a pencil portrait of the alleged killer, resembling him more like a Halloween mask than a human being. Next to it is a photograph of the "heroic" Katie Robinson.


    "What a homicidal failure it must have been not to harpoon that whale" Daniel points to Katie''s chubby face on the screen. A pretty big target, chasing her must have been like hunting two people tied together by the leg.


    I looked for more news. We found three more victims, these did end up with their throats slit. We also read the conclusion of the murderer at the hands of the current police captain, Edmund Hopkins. This was the culprit who terrorized the county for four years? A lot of style and little substance?


    "I''m sure he killed more people" I said, feeling it in my gut. "There''s missing information. These are just the murders credited to him. Maybe there were others, but they didn''t have enough evidence to link him. It tends to happen with some serial killers... I''d like to investigate further"


    "We''re talking about the library files and the local police. Don''t expect miracles"


    We left the library and passed the liquor store, I waited outside while Daniel took care of the shopping. Then we entered the first dark alley we encountered.


    "Any particular reason why you''re interested in Jeff the fuckin killer?" Daniel asks and hands me the vodka.


    I clenched the bottle between my lips and then handed it back to him. I leaned my head against the brick wall. I closed my eyes. The black and white portrait floated in front of me. I gave it depth, colored the features, darkened the disheveled hair, endowed its smile with red, and outlined the eyes.... Unlike many humans with monster innards, Jeff is a monster inside and out. His expression is full of nuances, none of them good. I sighed.


    "I think I''m in love..."


    Daniel bursts out laughing. Soon after, he shows me the knife he bought yesterday. Curved-edged, silver, born for meat. Let''s step forward and build our temple.

 7

    Frank Deep says goodbye to his girlfriend, Natalie Parker, with a kiss on the mouth. Tender, prologue, strawberry-flavored, girl lipstick. It was around 10:00 pm, under the front door of the Samberg house. A typical suburban home belonging to a wage earner and a housewife, who at the time of the event were staying at a hotel to celebrate a second honeymoon. The child of the family, an 8-year-old boy named Bob and nicknamed Bobby, is mesmerized by the TV in his bedroom, where he shoots polygonal ships with the controller of his game console.


    Natalie, famous in La Crosse for the exotic violet eye color, lays on the living room couch with the bowl of popcorn. A Nightmare on Elm Street plays on the TV.


    Frank walks away from the house, pulls up to the curb and unlocks his car: a light blue 2001 Chevy. Before he gets in, he feels a chill on the back of his neck and a heaviness in his stomach. He peers over the car. Two silhouettes wait under a lighted streetlight on the opposite sidewalk... Men, one taller than the other, both dressed in dark clothes. Frank can make out the movement of their mouths. The strangers speak to each other in a low, indistinguishable voice. They both look back at him, one says something that makes the other laugh. Frank suspects they are making fun of him, and the discomfort born of an unknown fear is replaced by an irritation he feels more comfortable with. He skirts around the car and walks over to glare at them.


    "What do you want?!"


    "We negotiated a blowjob, interested?" says the older one. The shorter one laughs.


    Frank''s eyes narrow and he clenches his fists, wanting to beat their mouths shut. But he decides that staging a scene in the middle of the suburbs in the middle of the night would only lead to trouble, so he gets in the car and starts it up. There''s a game tomorrow, he needs to rest. Frank doesn''t suspect that prudence and luck saved his life.


    An hour passes. Natalie turns off the TV, goes to the kitchen, washes the bowl and puts it away in the cupboard. She goes upstairs to check that Bobby is asleep. She opens the bedroom door, the strip of light from the hallway illuminates part of the bed. The sheet rises and falls to the rhythm of the boy''s peaceful breathing.


    Natalie returns to the living room, begins to turn off the lights and makes sure everything is properly closed. On her way back upstairs to rest in the guest room, she hears a knock. She freezes halfway up the stairs, at the same time two more knocks sound... The knocks coming from the front door.


    Natalie thinks maybe Frank changed his mind about staying. She retraces her steps and walks to the door. She peers through the peephole, but the only thing that returns her gaze is the night and the loneliness. Natalie peeks through the window curtains to make sure the possible pranksters are gone. Next to the curb, someone has parked a gray van, lit up. It has no license plate.


    A loud creak breaks the stillness. Natalie instantly catches where it''s coming from and runs to the kitchen. The door leading to the patio lies open, the bolt broken and shaken by the cold wind that blows in. Natalie pales, and the shadows around her feel crowded. She hears footsteps. A breath on the back of her neck. She hurries to press the switch on the nearest wall and the light returns. Table; stove; refrigerator; cupboard; dripping sink; countertop with the bowl on top. Nothing changed, but the worry remains. Alert, Natalie walks to the door to check it... That''s when she sees it.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Lights from neighboring houses reveal in the yard a figure in dark clothes, his identity covered by a cheap plastic blue bunny mask. Between gloved hands he carries an iron sledgehammer. Natalie freezes again. The stranger steps forward. The girl awakens from the paralysis of fear and slams the door.


    Natalie picks up the wall phone and runs into the living room. Her trembling hand makes it difficult to dial 911. She looks into the kitchen, from where the rabbit pokes its head out. Natalie opens her mouth to scream, but a hand covers her lips and whips her head against a picture of the Samberg family. The glass explodes and snaps into her forehead. The world turns red.


    Upstairs Bobby is awakened by the commotion. He looks at the bedroom door, where light from the hallway filters underneath. He hears strange noises. A kicking. Something breaking. Banging against the walls...


    The boy sits up, figuring maybe Natalie left the TV on. The commotion stops. A couple of minutes pass where he expects to hear his nanny''s voice, but nothing.


    He picks up slow, cautious footsteps, neither hurrying nor stopping. Bobby distinguishes the sound of the doors opening slowly, as if that presence was looking for something in the rooms. The footsteps sound closer and closer, until the shadow of two feet interrupts the light in the corridor. Bobby feels a shiver, throws the blanket over his head and turns to the wall. He closes his eyes and hides his face in his hands. The doorknob turns and after a click, the door gives way with a creak. The presence moves to the side of her bed, Bobby hears her breathing.


    "Natalie?" Bobby asks in a very low voice. He immediately regrets opening his mouth, and wishes the bogeyman was tone-deaf.


    But the man listens.


    "Quiet" the tone is soft, boyish, that of any boy you meet on the street. "You''ll wake the neighbors. That wouldn''t be polite"


    Bobby obeys. He has a hunch that if he angers the stranger, something bad will happen. The mattress tilts under the new weight. The fingers of a gloved hand caress the boy''s head through the blanket.


    "W-Where''s Natalie?" Bobby tries to sound calm, but the words come out shaky.


    "Downstairs. We''re her friends"


    "Friends...?"


    The boy lowers the blanket, sits with his back to him. Blue bunny ears sticking out of his face. The cheap carnival mask slowly turns to face the little boy''s glassy eyes.


    "Is she all right?" Bobby asks.


    ""


    The youngster shudders, and notices the iron mallet resting on the rabbit''s legs. He tries to slide off the bed, but the visitor''s hand pushes him back onto the mattress.


    "Don''t get up. It''s late"


    "I want to see her"


    "She''s busy with my partner. You don''t want to disturb him. He hates noisy childrens" he warns and covers Bobby with the blanket up to his neck. He brings his face close to the boy. The cold, liquor-scented breath numbs the child''s nose and makes him nauseous. "I''m the sympathetic one"


    The rabbit rises from the bed, the mallet resting on his shoulder.


    "Go to sleep" Josh adds without looking at the child and leaves the room.


    The lights in the house are turned off. A van purrs down the street. Bobby stares at the ceiling of the room until he falls asleep.


    The police find Natalie Parker''s body the next night.

 8

    Daniel plucked the eyes out of the corneas with a spoon. According to him, for the memory. The girl was already dead, and that bothered Daniel because he felt he should have done it sooner. When she kicked and cried, and pissed herself. Our debut in the art of snatching life was like an unpolished poem, it didn''t shine bright enough to satisfy my accomplice. I know he urgently wants a second attempt.


    The van was loaned to us by a friend of Daniel''s, a guy named Chuck, a guacamole and Doritos-loving pig. The guy owed Daniel a favor for giving him an alibi after the rape of a girl scout. Chuck evaded justice, and now waits on his living room couch for more girls selling cookies to ring his den doorbell.


    I throw my head back. The ceiling fan spins and spins. I sniffed my fingers, they still smell of cheese and blood, and with the metallic scent emanate memories. I cocked my head to the shelf, to the jar.


    Violet eyes floating in formaldehyde, do they see the world differently? I thought they did. That''s why I followed her after choir practice and stalked her for days. I even apologized when I deliberately tripped her on the sidewalk. She smiled and combed her hair back behind her ear. I remembered that smile as I cut her off.....


    Blood spurts. Violet eyes move trembling, they cry. The gagged mouth is unable to scream. They look at me, recognize me from the sidewalk, silently beg for mercy. Can one read the plea for mercy in the gaze of others? Yes, it is a singular glow, a tremor in the pupil, the exact dilation to transmit the most absolute horror. I continued cutting.


    I drew lines from the forearm to the elbow. Cheek. Forehead. I moved up her abdomen ending at the left breast. Chest rose and fell to the rhythm of agitated breathing. She sweated terror. I sliced the nipple. My hands wore red and glitter, rust and Doritos stench. Damn it, Chuck, clean your car.


    Daniel dawdled with the sledgehammer. He hit the femur, then the knee, which crunched, and on the third blow a bone popped out to say Hello. Daniel swung it back in with another blow. The guest jerked and I had to tighten the restraints. My friend dropped his pants. I told him I forgot to buy condoms. He cursed and relieved himself with a punch in the girl stomach. Coke and semi-digested popcorn sprouted between the gag.


    What a night.


    I left the bedroom and in the dining room I found a surprise guest. He reminded me of the boy from the other night, but it''s not him. He''s paler, younger, blond hair, small nose, white sailor suit. Duct tape keeps him from falling off the chair.


    "How is Tiara?" Daniel asks, facing the sink and with his back to me.


    "I don''t know. I hardly ever see her anymore"


    "I can''t wait to get my teeth into her. She''s a little older, yes, but she''s still pretty. She reminds me of my mother... Don''t forget the condoms this time"


    "Shall we go now?"


    "Sorry. Busy"


    "Where did you get the kid?"


    "I rescued him from a hole. What kind of bastard buries a perfectly usable child? The world gets crazier every day"


    Daniel''s heating the oil in a saut¨¦ pan. He''s cooking. He never cooks.


    "I''m going to see someone" I revealed.


    "It won''t be your weirdo friend from the internet?"


    "No. He lives in Venezuela"


    "Well... I''ll save you lunch. And get some good hand soap, my fingers stink of Doritos"


    I nodded and left the apartment, rambling in my thoughts.


    Why admire another person? It is common for a man or woman to have an example to follow or praise. It can be a teacher, doctor, scientist, composer, writer, film director, and so on. They are usually people with ideas or stories that have managed to bury themselves deep in the sentimental vein of those who look to them with hope. They have something that those who drool and applaud lack. Call it intellect, money, or power. Admiration is the cute sister of envy, because when we can''t be anything but mediocre, all we have left is to cling to the superior. It is not our fault. From birth you are told and instructed to be the best version of you, and that version of you is, shall we say, practically unattainable. Besides, how can you be sure what it is to be "better" and "good"? Such a definition changes with times and societies. A decent man from the conservative Middle East stones an adulteress. A decent man from the progressive West applauds the adulteress.


    My case is a separate issue, because when everything looks opaque and morals are of little interest, it is necessary to dig deeper into the mud to find the person who pushes you and forces you to ask questions. In the same way that many praise Gandhi or Martin Luther King, another majority applaud the names Stalin or Fidel Castro.


    Sharpen. Cut. Press. She cries. GO TO SLEEP, whispers a voice in my head.


    A week ago I found a website tribute to Jeff the killer. The site is called Dime Jeff. I hit it off with the site''s administrator. One night, drowsy from five hours of non-stop chatting, I confessed to her that my friend and I gouged out the neighbor''s puppy''s eyes. She asked me how much I enjoyed it. I replied that I enjoyed it very much. Nina was happy for me and sent me the address where she meets the group.


    The place is here in La Crosse, but I won''t tell you the exact address to avoid snoopers. I descended the stairs at the back of the building. On the metal door leading to the basement, the name of the website is written in wild strokes, red letters that weep like sockets into which a spoon is inserted....


    I reminded Daniel of Jeff''s phrase, he thought it was funny to scribble it on the wall of the storage room. GO TO SLEEP... That at this hour bad children play, and a white face haunts my every step.


    GO TO SLEEP... That the specter wants to take your place.


    A ring of chairs, only five people, six counting me. Nina takes place at 12 o''clock; A random guy on my right, in a cheap clerk''s suit; The veteran in military uniform two chairs to the left; My geography teacher sits to Nina''s left and made as if we were strangers, a gesture I replied; A fat guy with a dark beard takes place two seats to the right of the hostess.


    Nina is the same age as me. She wears a lot of makeup, not to look beautiful but to get closer to her idol, her face leaves behind the ultratomb pallor and goes into the style of black and white photographs, with thin red lips like rose petals breaking the monochrome; Her hair ends in an inky ponytail; She wears garish purple clothes and long orange-striped stockings. Nina flashes a big, unnatural but true smile.


    "We begin the thirty-second meeting of Jeff''s Club. Welcome, my princes" it was an affectionate nickname. The squeaky bell voice reminds me of a babysitter''s tone. "We have a new guest today. Say hello to Josh"


    The others greet me in sync, none of them sounding animated.


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    "Josh contacted me about ten days ago. We chatted a lot, learned quite a bit about each other. I could almost swear we''re soul mates" she looks at me. Everyone looks at me. Including the pale face floating in the background that no one else seems to see. "You know I''m very careful about bringing in new partners, so don''t be suspicious and be open. He''s like us, a maverick. From what exactly? You know he tends to vary"


    Her gaze travels clockwise.


    "Work. Society. The country. The family. Even the simple fact of living is often a source of dissatisfaction. We are unhappy, that''s a mistake. Jeff was the same way. But he found the answer in suffering, his own way to happiness. There is an answer! That''s the key phrase! Repeat after me"


    There is an answer! I clamored out with the others, feeling like an idiot. But Nina was somewhat right that we are a society of unhappy people.


    "To understand what I''m saying, you need to hear and learn Jeff''s story" she says, then looks at me. "Do you understand, Josh? Little is known about him, the police want little to be known. Thanks to some friends of my father''s, I was able to obtain privileged information. Pay attention"


    I nod. She begins to count.


    Jeffrey Allen Woods. Birth: April 3, 1986. Son of a conventional marriage. Brother of Liu. Middle-class family with no great joys or sorrows. The father got a promotion and was transferred to Wisconsin, which led to the family moving to a suburb of the county. Jeffrey''s school records reveal that he had good grades, although he always fell into fights with bullies. One event that set off several alarm bells was when a boy ended up stabbed in the arm during a fight that included him and his brother. The police investigated, and Liu decided to take all the blame. The prosecution, taking into account Liu''s age and lack of a prior record, was lenient, sentencing him to half a year in corrections. The event greatly affected Jeff, feeling guilty, saying that he was the one who stabbed the bully and beat the rest. He was distracted in class or sometimes fell asleep in the middle of a conversation, hinting at insomnia problems.


    A fortnight later a suburban boy''s party was held. Jeff was invited. His mother urged him to attend, believing that perhaps it would improve his mood. By eyewitness accounts, Jeff got along well with the other children. Until the same trio from the fight with Liu burst into the backyard of the house. One carried a gun. A gunfight ensued, though no one died from gunshot wounds. The ringleader of the group died from a blunt force trauma to the chest area, Jeff''s knuckles scarred into his skin. Another bully was knocked unconscious. The last one got into a fight with Jeff that took them all the way to the bathroom of the house.


    "They were showered with alcohol and bleach from the shelves!" Nina exclaims as if recounting an event from the bible and jumps up from his chair. "But... "She lowers her face and voice as she places both hands on his chest. "One had a lighter and the other didn''t... My prince ended up being the lucky one. Suffering burned away the veil and he could see the truth, he could be free"


    I imagined the scene. The alcohol burst into flames and the chemist went into the craters opened by the heat. Desperate screams. Faces of astonishment. The child of alcohol and lye is born from a wave of fire.


    "Jeffrey ended up in the emergency room at The Sacred Heart Hospital in Tomahawk" Nina continues. "He was unconscious until the end of the year" she adds and sends for a small rolling table with a TV and VHS player on it. "I got the tapes a couple of months ago. Don''t ask how. A girl has her contacts and secrets"


    "Is it legal to tape patients?" I wanted to know.


    "Because of the problems the country has with the communist threat and the terrorist wave, everything is recorded here. Of course, in secret so as not to scare away those who think we live in a free society"


    Communist threat... At this point it sounds like something Mr. Burns would say to Smither.


    They pull the tape in and the monochrome image dances with the static before stabilizing. There is no sound. It shows a patient sitting in a hospital bed, his face bandaged up to his neck. A nurse and a woman, whom Nina points out as Jeff''s mother, sit waiting.


    Jeff keeps his head down, his body hunched over and his hands clenched into fists. He remains in that position for long minutes. Not much else happens, just the sight of a broken young man.


    Nina changes the tape to one from a week later. The family (Except Liu) gathers to see the state of Jeff''s face. As the bandages are cut and fall off, the horror is apparent in the visitors'' expressions. The burnt lips are a pair of shadows; The immaculate skin like a blank sheet; His straight brown hair mutated into a tangle of black shag; The flat face and the lousy quality of the video, turns his face into a white blob oblivious to all that is human. The mother bursts into tears on her father''s shoulder, the father on his side shudders. The nurses look incredulous at what they see, exchange glances with each other, one of them runs to call a doctor, another brings a hand mirror to the boy who insists on seeing what he looks like. Facing his reflection, Jeff shudders, then throws his head back, his shoulders dropping and rising, his mouth wide open to the rhythm of muted laughter due to the lack of audio. Nina pauses the video just at the frame where his face looks most inhuman.


    Is it normal for it to end like that? I asked, and Nina said no. it''s a miracle, and goes on to explain.


    "He went crazy. He needed urgent psychiatric care... Maybe even to be hospitalized. But the father said no, and bribed the hospital to take Jeff away. Disfigured and demented, the Woods wanted their little boy back. Very sweet... That same night my prince used a knife to carve himself an ear-to-ear grin, burned his eyelids with a lighter, and finally murdered his entire family. He sent them to sleep forever"


    "Why did he do it?" I asked.


    "What?" Nina blinked repeatedly, as if puzzled at being questioned.


    "Everything"


    "The smile? Maybe to always be cheerful. The eyelids? Perhaps he loved his new face too much and longed to admire it without interruption. The murder? There are hungry demons in the human heart that cannot and should not be controlled. But in the end... What do I know? I''m just a fangirl"


    The big bearded man takes the small table with the TV. Nina resumes her words.


    "It is normal that little by little a strange sensation invades us, that almost seems random and leaves you with many doubts. Say emptiness, say impulse, say the need to feel satisfied and satisfied with your life. Be born, grow, reproduce, and die. We are not animals, it takes more than that to complete us. Sometimes what we need is not pleasing to the world. But it doesn''t have to be, the important thing is that we feel good and free with ourselves"


    Each one had their turn to tell their dissatisfaction, and explain the answer they believe is ideal and unique to definitely quench the thirst that blackens their days and is not quenched with water. The veteran is eager to kill the immigrants and their defenders, he calls them leeches who flee from countries in ruins to suck the blood out of their own from within? Surely if I knew Daniel I would take a dim view of him because of his Latino heritage, and even more so my friend from Venezuela. The veteran plans a killing spree at a Walmart, and we all wish them luck.


    The wage earner complains about work, saying that he has been turned into a machine with no ability to think or have an opinion, trapped by the shackles of salary and debt, those that bite you in the teeth as soon as adulthood begins. Rent, bills, taxes. Locked in a cubicle until his eyes melt from the monitor''s radiation and arthritis causes him to be replaced by another, younger, equally disposable robot. He wants to shoot himself, so the veteran gives him a glock.


    It''s my teacher''s turn.


    "I can''t resist. Images fly into my head, in my dreams, when I walk in the park, while I''m eating lunch or taking a shower. It tends to vary... Sometimes it''s a car, or in bed in my apartment, even where I work. It might be a coworker, or my sister, or my aunt. I smile contentedly... I want to be happy.... But it''s so... Inappropriate. It''s a sin. I don''t... I don''t feel ready"


    "No pressure. It will come out when it should" Nina says, and sweeps her eyes back to us, preparing to deliver another lecture. "What we do is not corruption. It is filtration. It''s assimilation and release of our inner demons to achieve wellness. Enough of hiding behind the masks of morality imposed by people no more talented or better than us. Let us abandon emptiness, let us feel full. Purification, enlightenment, Nirvana... That is the answer that must be reached at any cost. Only then will you be happy. Happy like Jeff. And when it is time for you to sleep forever, you will leave this plane without regrets"


    The meeting ends.


    I arrived at Daniel''s apartment. The aroma of freshly served beef and vegetable stew greets me. The little sailor from the morning is gone, replaced by a balding, paunchy little man with a broken nose, wearing a T-shirt with a dark sweaty collar and underpants reeking of semen. Duct tape holds him still in the chair.


    "Hey, Chuck" I greet the pot-bellied man.


    "We''ll burn the truck with him" Daniel warns as he sets me a plate of mashed potatoes and broth with beef squares. He wipes the blood from his knuckles on his apron. "Not beside to him, with him"


    "I got it the first time. Did you talk to the police?"


    "Not yet. But you''d trust this scum?"


    "I just trust you" I affirmed, poked a square of meat with my fork, and popped it in my mouth. Chewy.... Greasy, mushy and bitter. Tastes terrible. I looked around, "Where did you put the kid?"


    "Bon App¨¦tit" he replies with a magazine smile.


    It didn''t take the police long to drop the case of a pedo turned to charcoal. I''m sure they even applauded after hearing about it. On the other hand, the case of the student decapitated with a paper guillotine received more attention. The culprit was caught, and the school needed to find a substitute for my geography class.

 9

    Monsters need time to mature. No one is born predisposed to be evil. To say otherwise would be to underestimate the depth of Homo Sapiens Sapiens. Beings spat out of the womb as the most harmless organism on the planet, only to become the supreme kings of the food pyramid, super-predators.


    It is easy to say that serial killers are crazy and belong to the black sheep of the flock. The fucked up thing is to accept that they are like you and me, but marked by different experiences that triggered the horror. I think, even I, would have come out differently if Tiara had spent more time for me instead of spending all day working, or if she had sat down with me to ask me seriously if something was wrong, or if I felt in order inside me....


    But the above is just a hypothesis impossible to test at this stage of the game.


    To admit that monsters are built, would be to accept that everyone from the priest in a church, to the lady running the charity auction, can reach a level of cruelty that surpasses the instincts of wild creatures. No one wants to bear the responsibility for evil. The masks and costumes of monsters in movies are not to protect the killer, they serve to protect humanity, to make people believe that evil is inhuman, when there is nothing more human than evil.


    Rest assured, you can''t rape, or kill, or appear as the villain in a TV documentary... What a sweet lie.


    They give psychopaths nicknames for a reason. They turn them into advertisements, two-dimensional monigots that plague the headlines of newspapers to entertain or scandalize. He is not Pedro Alonso Lopez, he is the monster of the Andes. He is not Jeffrey Dahmer, he is the Milwaukee burner. The media machine turns them into stories that sell well, as real as Michael Myers or Chucky. We can make movies, articles, songs, so much noise that the sound of flesh being cut and the screams of help are hardly distinguishable. A minute''s silence for the deceased. A lifetime of uproar for the one who killed them.


    Minor and major crimes. Minor injuries, major injuries. Serial killers, passion killers. Hundreds of qualifications to blur the human carnage. In a just world any evil would be paid with a shot in the head. Here everything is labeled and catalogued in an attempt at justice, giving the species a false veneer of righteousness.


    When the skins are removed and beauty is destroyed, what is left underneath? A monster. We all are. But we have not yet had enough bleach thrown in our faces to reveal ourselves as such.


    A face that in its monochrome carries more colors than anything else. A face that lacks the falseness of the modern world. He watches from the window, he will kill you, no matter how much you beg. Is there anything fairer and more equal than that?


    Nina pointed me to the location of the grave. I lied and told her I was just going to look. It''s 1 a.m, the mist is high and crickets are chirping in the distance. Daniel and me face the headstone, someone painted the word MURDERER over Jeff''s name.


    The afternoon drizzle softened the soil, making our work easier and leaving a pleasant scent of damp grass. We started digging, the shovels going deeper and deeper. Fifteen minutes later we stopped to return to the surface, and I looked down in disappointment at the dark, empty hole.


    Katie Robinson is now 25 years old. She works as a nurse at The Sacred Heart Hospital, the same place where Jeff was supposedly treated. I don''t know if this is a joke or a coincidence. I got her schedule and intercepted her on the way in. I told her my intentions about talking about Jeff the killer, she told me to get lost, but I changed her mind with about $20. We agreed to meet in the parking lot during her break.


    These seven years were great for her. The obesity went away, leaving her with a mermaid waist and eye-catching fleshy thighs. She also dyed her hair and tanned her skin in an attempt to forget her former self. She takes a seat on the hood of a car, crosses her legs and for a few seconds I caught a glimpse of her pink panties.


    "Aren''t you too young to be a journalist?" she asks and lights a cigarette. Her nails are painted pastel blue.


    "School news"


    "How strange. When I was in high school the paper only published the lunch schedule and pretentious poems that no one read. Never dead people. No serial killers either"


    "Well, I''m not a journalist, but that doesn''t matter. I just want to know your version of events, the original"


    Katie inhales the nicotine and spits out a puff of smoke. She tells me the same story from the newspapers. Without any difference, as if she had practiced each sentence over and over again.


    "Is it the truth...?" I narrow my eyes.


    Katie bursts out laughing.


    "It isn''t. The truth is much more simple and mundane, as always"


    "Did you lie?"


    "Yes and no. I started the game, then I played along, but eventually I got bored and moved on. The media never tired of it and kept releasing articles or documentaries about Jeff, until the story was no longer a novelty"


    Katie drops her sandals and stretches her toes.


    "You see, that night Dad and I fought. I was tense. My damn roommates stole my clothes while I was taking a shower and wrote Filthy Pig in lipstick on the mirror. I managed to get it back, but not without receiving a wave of taunts that made me want to slit my throat so badly. I wandered around town praying that an irate thief or rapist would do me the favor. I had no such luck. I got home very late. Dad was furious, never one for sympathy, not since my sister died. He yelled. I screamed. He slapped me. I exploded, reached for a knife and stuck it right in his arm"


    With the cigarette she makes the stabbing gesture.


    "I cried and threw up as soon as I realized what I''d done. Or did the vomit come first? Old Florek must have heard all the commotion and called the police. Dad''s an idiot, but he loves me. He didn''t want me to be sent to reform school or labeled violent. We were going to keep everything quiet, but then we heard the sirens"


    "The articles say that Mr. Florek saw a suspicious man entering your room"


    "Mr Florek was a decrepit old man. Do you know how old he was then? 72. Do you know how old he is now? Five years dead. Maybe he saw a cat, heard the screams, and mistook the whole thing for a robbery. He was also a fucking racist. His first statements were about A suspicious nigger coming into my room"


    She pauses for a smoke.


    "Dad broke the window. I opened the door for the police. I behaved hysterically so as not to give statements and shrieked until they let me go with him to this hospital. Yes, right where we are now. Actually, the injury wasn''t that bad"


    Katie reveals that they agreed on one version of events and told the police that a guy we couldn''t see well because of the darkness tried to rob them. That kind of thing happens every day. The cops were not surprised and said they would do everything they could to catch the culprit.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    But what about Jeff? Go to sleep? How did you come up with the story? Where did the horror come from...? Katie pushes my chest with her foot. I didn''t realize I closed the distance. I apologized, and she resumed the story.


    "In those years I started smoking. I was too fat, loathed my body, and would rather kill myself with nicotine than relapse into the tears of self-pity. Since Dad didn''t know anything about the vice, and smoking is forbidden in the hospital, I came down here to let off steam. I had just finished my third cigarette when I noticed a little girl looking at me. Right over there"


    Katie points to a concrete pillar in the background.


    "She was so pale that I mistook her for a ghost, and out of fear I dropped the lighter. I bent down to pick it up and when I straightened up the little demon girl was now at your distance. I jumped, but up close she no longer looked like a ghost, and instead of running away I got angry. The girl was not frightened by my screams, she just stared at me"


    "What was her name?"


    "What do I know? She got on my nerves and I decided to leave. Then she grabbed my hand tightly, almost nailing my fingernails. The girl told me about his imaginary friend, a sort of prince with milk-white skin, an ever-attentive gaze, and a willingness to never stop smiling. Sound familiar? That''s him. The girl said she met him in this hospital and he has never stopped taking care of her since. She also warned me that he would visit me that night"


    "Sounds like a horror story"


    "And not a good one... A couple of nurses came and dragged her away, with her kicking and laughing. I found out later that the little girl was schizophrenic. Explains a lot, but not everything. Her warning came true and that night I dreamed about him. He looked nothing like a prince, his intent gaze was bloodshot and his wonderful smile looked like something a madman would carve with a knife. He whispered to me in a horrible voice: Go to sleep"


    The cigarette between Katie''s fingers was nearly consumed, and a shiny layer of sweat formed on her forehead. For an instant, she looked as terrified as Natalie did the night she died.


    "I woke up screaming... Dad came running in and hugged me to calm me down. For a while every time I closed my eyes I saw the face again, until it gradually blurred... During lunch I was calmer. A journalist approached me and handed me her card... I am sure the woman noticed my nerves, my anxiety about the nightmare. I told her the classic version, only this time I was really terrified.... Then I had an epiphany, or a hunch, call it what you will. Many victims profit from their tragedy, don''t they? It occurred to me that I could too, and I had something terrifying at hand to color the plot. I added the monster from my dream, first with some hesitation as I didn''t know if they would believe me, but the further I went the more attentive the journalist looked... I remember my hands were shaking... She also looked nervous. She asked me if my testimony was completely real. Then that demon in white appeared again in my mind, as if pushing me, and I burst into tears of fear"


    Katie claps her hands and exclaims:


    "Stop the presses! A monster is on the loose! Or a hideously deformed and hideous-looking deranged man, whatever. The news came out a few days later and attracted a lot of media attention, became popular and made me popular. It all gained further momentum when testimonies of the same apparition started appearing all over the county, people terrified by ghostly-faced stalkers. Most likely due to a case of mass hysteria. Real or true? It doesn''t matter, the story sells! I appeared on television to tell the facts over and over again. I made good money, I was materially happy. But I didn''t let myself get carried away... The role of the almost-victim is not something I wanted to play for the rest of my life, especially when the alleged identity of the culprit began to emerge. How was I to know that the imaginary friend of a deranged child, and the image of a nightmare, had a real person as the protagonist?"


    "Jeffrey Allen Woods"


    "Exactly! I did my homework, researched who he was. The poor kid got into a fight at a party, ended up bathed in alcohol and lye, and then burned alive"


    "So that part of the story is true"


    "Of course it is. They rushed him here, tried to save him. His injuries were so bad that no matter how much morphine they injected him with, he kept screaming and flailing around so much that he almost cut his tongue with his teeth. He finally gave up and died three days after his admission"


    "He died three days after...?" I felt a strange pressure in my stomach, like a dagger pressing against my gut. I ignored the sensation and kept digging. "And the Jeff''s body?"


    "Horrible. I saw the pictures, they match the description of the girl''s imaginary friend pretty well. I still don''t understand how she ended up like that, it would have been more humane if she was toast. You know, Pompei style. I bet the brat saw her face somehow and was traumatized"


    "Are you 100% sure he passed away...? Where was he buried?"


    "The death papers are in order. I heard a rumor that the family cremated him, but it''s hard to confirm because the Woods moved to who knows where after the incident"


    "That explains the absence of the body" I said without thinking.


    Katie nods. She gets out of the car, puts on her sandals, drops the cigarette and steps on it.


    "Why didn''t you inform the police?" I asked. "Don''t you think the world needs to know the truth? For Jeff''s spirit to rest in peace after so many years" Respect rest, a grave robber tells you, what a fucking joke.


    "The one who should worry about that is his killer. Earning a reputation as a lying bitch won''t revive him or help anyone but the press. Vampires fell short compared to those people, they suck the life out of you"


    "I could tell them everything, maybe it''s my chance to be popular"


    "You won''t" Katie says confidently. "I heard about the robberies in the cemetery, how did you find out there''s no body under the tombstone...? I imagine you''re the looter, or you know the looter, and you don''t want to attract attention. Even if you were a saint, it would be of little use to say that it was all my invention... Jeff the killer existed, he killed people, and he was killed by our local police"


    "You''ve got it all figured out" I smiled.


    "I''m smart. When you''re not pretty you have to be or the world will tear you to pieces. I''m pretty now, but I didn''t stop thinking hard once"


    "If Jeffrey was innocent, how do you explain the murders? Or the testimonies of people who found him?"


    "Maybe a crazy person liked the story and wanted to replicate it. Maybe it inspired him. Many become desensitized and look for a silly excuse to take their miseries out on the world, as if everything wasn''t screwed up enough already"


    "But the police claimed that Jeffrey Allen Woods was to blame for the whole thing...."


    "Jeff was innocent, few people know this. Jeff was guilty, many people know this. Maybe both are true"


    "It doesn''t make sense"


    "It''s not my job to give it to you either"


    "An friend showed me a video of Jeff''s room... She told me Jeff was discharged and killed his family"


    "Hospital room?" Katie arched an eyebrow.


    I nodded.


    "Fake" she assures me. "Recording patients is illegal. Your friend tricked on you. Or maybe I tricked you. How can you be sure? Sometimes you have to put the pieces together and form with them the truth that seems truest to you, or the one that makes you the least uncomfortable. Pieces are always missing, or none are missing.... But we have them upside down and we don''t even realize it"


    "You''re quite a chatterbox, you know that?"


    The nurse gives a half-smile.


    "Are you 18 years old, honey?" she asks. I said no. "Too bad... You''re cute. And I have to work now. Goodbye"


    Katie turns around to leave. I felt the impulse to hurry up and say:


    "What if I killed someone because of that story?" I keep my hand in my anorak pocket, clenching the knife between my fingers, ready to jump for her jugular.


    She startles, looks over her shoulder straight into my eyes trying to figure out if I''m joking. She understands I''m not and her expression turns sour.


    "Since when do stories kill? Be a man and accept your responsibilities. If you graduated as an assassin it was by your own choice, no ghost or tulpa forced you" Katie says and squeezes the bridge of her nose, as if suffering from a sudden headache, then sighs. "I do believe that this world is full of mystical energies and elements beyond our comprehension. But I am not so immature and naive to blame them for the evil in people. As Dad used to say: If the devil is knocking on your door to buy your soul, you''ve probably been wanting a deal with him for a long time. Want some hypocritical advice? Turn yourself in to the cops"


    "I can''t do that..."


    "Then don''t get caught. Go before I memorize your face and you have to add me to your list of victims. Is it very long...?"


    I shook my head. Katie leaves without adding more.


    I leaned my back against the wall, slid down and sat on the floor. I waited for police sirens for fifteen minutes, but no one came to read me my rights. Blood drips from the ceiling, seeping down from several rooms above and forming a puddle in front of my feet.


    A pair of white hands sprout from the scarlet stain, close around my calves. The touch is so icy it burns, and drags me into the puddle, where I sank like quicksand. When the blood was on my nose, I caught a glimpse of a smiling girl half hidden behind the concrete pillar.


    Nina, motherfucker.

 10

    We rented a car for tonight. Daniel is the driver and I am the co-driver. To the left the forest opens up, and to the right an elevation of earth crowned by bushes. With the flashlight I illuminated the rocky wall and made figures with the shadow of my free hand: A dog; A goose; A dog again. Iggy Pop''s The Passenger plays on the radio. Daniel''sgloved fingers fiddle the steering wheel to the beat of the song, tonight he''s wearing a tank top, Exactly, there''s a full moon, and the web of scars on his arms glistens in all its glory.


    "Do you want to give him special treatment or will it be done quick and clean?"


    "That''s the fourth time you''ve asked me" I replied.


    "I feel like a little kid with a new present. You understand my excitement?"


    I understood.


    A bump in the road makes us bounce, at the same time we hear a loud bang in the trunk. I turned off the flashlight, put it between my legs, looked at Daniel and asked him:


    "Do you regret anything we did?"


    "Drinking? Drugs? Sex? Killing?" He looks at me out of the corner of his eye.


    "Hm... Eating"


    "Well, it gave me indigestion. Let''s not do that so often, or let''s try someone alive and see if they taste better. I''m glad. Sorry? Never. Why the curiosity?"


    "We hurt people"


    "So what''s wrong? Do you mind?"


    "No. As simple as that"


    "Then everything''s fine. Come here"


    Daniel puts an arm around me and pulls me close. I rest my head on his shoulder. His scars feel rough against my cheek, but I''m more comforted by the sensation than bothered. His skin, the warmth, the heartbeat... It reminds me that we are alive. I bring my mouth closer, touch his neck with my lips. He laughs, tells me I tickle him. I smile, but the smile disappears when out of the corner of my eye I notice the shadow of a car in the right mirror. As I blink, the spectral vehicle vanishes like an illusion.


    For several days now the veil of my reality has been torn away. I decided to let those mirages pass, and paid no more attention to the phantom pursuer, nor to the sight of Jeff in the rearview mirror, occupying the middle of the back seats. Despite my indifference, Jeff kept watching me, his black pupils enlarging and dwarfing as if the water in his eyes were boiling.


    "I''m going crazy" I mutter.


    Daniel listens and lets out a laugh.


    "We''re despicable, Joshua. But crazy? Of course we''re not. We''re the sanest people on the planet. The quest for death brought us together that day on the rooftop, and today the death became our answer to make sense of this life that has no meaning. Shall I tell you that if I had been a lunatic...? Ignore the call"


    Park in a dirt lot flanked by a thorny bush shaped like a C. We open the trunk. Nina, gagged at mouth, feet and hands, watches us back with furious eyes. A trickle of blood trickles down her forehead from the bounce earlier. Daniel and I share glances.


    "Remember, it will be done quickly" I said.


    "Okay, I understand, Mr. Killjoy"


    I took the shovels, put the wooden plank under my arm, and used the flashlight to lead the walk. Daniel carries Nina on his shoulders, following as close as he can. I cut my way through the bushes with the shovels, the occasional thorn leaving its souvenir tip in my skin. Nina''s grumbling sounds contrasted with my companion''s laughter, excited about a new tribute for our sacrificial temple. We walk until we get a safe distance from the road.


    The creatures of nature are absent that night, perhaps spooked by the corpse pit atmosphere that our fourth companion drags along. Jeff lets out a barrage of unintelligible mutterings that, when I raise my ear, I manage to turn into a coherent phrase that repeats itself.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Healthy mind eats apple. Healthy mind eats apple. Healthy mind eats apple...


    "Do you hear that?" I asked.


    "It''s a silent night. Nina, do you hear something? Oh, right, you can''t talk. Silly me. And silly of you for lying to us, you fucking bitch"


    Daniel lays Nina down on a fallen log. She doesn''t have her smile anymore, it left her the moment she came out of the dream and found us in her room. I''m sure she thought we were the work of her unbalanced mind, and in record time we made her understand that, unlike her prince, we are a danger of flesh and blood.


    I pushed the dead leaves of the trees aside and with both hands I nailed the wooden plank into the ground. On the front face of the plank are written the words Here rests Jeff, in permanent marker. We took the shovels and dug so that we had a hole about three feet deep, maybe a little more.


    "We''re getting attention from the newspapers" Daniel says without stopping working.


    "Did we say goodbye to Wisconsin?"


    "Not yet. First let''s get a good truck, some money and settle the matter of your mother. Without her it''ll be harder to track us down"


    "Where are we going?"


    "New Mexico. If things get complicated, we''ll cross the border and drive far south. In the third world killing is easier. Also the food is excellent"


    "You seem very interested in food these days"


    "My chef skills have finally blossomed, Joshua"


    I am fascinated by the purr with which he pronounces my name.


    New territories, new victims. The bloody footprints mark the land and continue until they are lost on the horizon. The moon tonight celebrates the music that flows from the piano played by the bony hands of the corrupt, but in this concert the worldly and ignorant only hear the wind blowing. Their song begins to make sense only if you pay attention.


    The ghost chuckles behind my back. Is that you, Jeff? No... Jeffrey Allen Woods is not Jeff. I bet Jeffrey was a good, loving and, despite his mistakes, innocent boy. But his death degenerated into crime and sin. A less human entity emerged, sympathetic to suffering.


    Or perhaps it is an evil that existed before Jeffrey, as old as the divinities, an unholy power that merely usurped the boy''s face. He who waters and harvests horror is a blinding white reaper.


    Is there evil in the human heart? Sure. What does it take to squeeze it out until that blackish, putrid substance flows between the cracks of the battered? Just a story. Or a random impulse caught. A bad day. Hatred. Abandonment. Infidelity. Illness. The desire to commit suicide. Any trifle serves as an excuse.


    Face violent death, let it bathe you and seduce you with the perfumes that pour from sweaty and living bodies during torture. A chorus more beautiful than any gem or utopian landscape.


    Murder. Homicide. Annihilation. Massacre. Extermination. It is necessary to see how many words exist to refer to cause the end of life. Didn''t I already tell you? Our language is enchanted by the act of killing.


    How much life shines when death approaches. Murder is our vow of love. So do it... It''s always just a step away. A line as fine and fragile as a corpse''s hair. The homicidal candle lights lonely on the dark side of every heart, illuminating the demons within. A tiny, pale flame that trembles with every beat. And so we live, covered in alcohol and bleach, waiting for the tiny flame to give way to combustion.


    In the end we find the truth, Daniel, dear friend. The answer that is yours and mine.


    Healthy mind eats apple. Healthy mind eats apple. Healthy mind eats apple...


    I shook the shovel and hit him in the back of the head with the thin end. Daniel fell face first into the damp earth, into the hole. I jumped to him, and without waiting for him to turn around, I delivered another blow to his skull. He flails in convulsions until, grabbing the shovel with both hands, I plunge the point into his head.


    Blood gushes from the ground and fills the hole rapidly until it covers the body. Howling faces float in the growing crimson lake, hurl curses at the sky and reach out their hands to pull me into hell. I crawl out of the hole and lay my back on the fallen log, panting.


    Nina is nowhere to be seen.


    Above the forest rises a flat-faced, whitish giant. His figure hides the moon and overtakes the mountains. He bends down, transforming his eyes and his smile into my sky. From his corneas he expels a reddish light that bathes nature, giving it the beauty of the walls of the heart.


    I throw my head back and let out a lot of laughter, laugh until tears come to my eyes and my throat spews fire. Jeff laughs with me. It deafens me.


    The earth trembles. Souls deflect their curses at him, at it. They whirl turned into spheres of light, burn with hatred the black shafts that fall to the sides like inky waterfalls. But these grow back and Jeff''s laughter reaches such a pitch that my consciousness threatens to shut down.


    "Hey, smart guy!"


    A firm, human voice brings me back to reality. I rub my eyes, calm my breathing, and stand up with the help of the shovel. I looked at the remnants of gray matter on the tip and deduced that it''s all real. Finally I took a look at the source of the voice.


    Nina is behind the man. He, who gave me a vague impression of having seen him before (Maybe on TV), points a gun at me. The moon resumes its rule. The lake of blood evaporates like a dream, and in its place is left a hole occupied by the corpse of the person I loved most.


    To you my confidants, witnesses and to some extent accomplices of my sins: I admit complete satisfaction.


    I close my eyes, tighten my grip on the shovel, and run toward the man. The gun roars.


    Time to sleep forever.

 11

    The cop and the killer face each other from the ends of the table, the former wearing his law suit, the latter forced into the blue jumpsuit of the local jail. Edmund Hopkins'' right hand lingers over a closed album, and his left draws a glass of unsweetened coffee to his lips. Joshua''s fingers drum on the metal surface, following a rhythm only he can understand.


    "You know, I always keep a photo of the victims of all my cases. obsessive? Maybe, but an old friend of mine named Murr taught me that obsession brings you determination" The captain puts down the mug and opens the album. With each flip of the page he shows dozens of faces gone. "Crimes solved, crimes unsolved, either way they are lives lost forever. And that, smart guy, is a real tragedy"


    "We''re being watched..." Josh says with his face cocked toward the bedroom mirror.


    "Does it matter?"


    Josh shrugs and slowly turns his face away. Edmund pulls out the photograph of a violet-eyed young woman smiling into the camera on a sunny day by the Mississippi.


    "Natalie Parker. Kidnapped, tortured, and finally murdered. Believe me, the prosecution will try to make the jury imagine every gruesome second of the victim''s long agony. Intercutting with phrases like: It could have been anyone''s child. Add to that the drugs, the abduction equipment including gags and ropes, and how can I forget the snacks? The human flesh in the fridge of your little friend Daniel Moreno, which will be a detail that will give color to the case. Of course, the jury will be happy to discover that this piece of garbage is already stiff. Although I wonder... Why did you kill him? Did you want to get rid of an annoying accomplice, perhaps...?"


    Josh''s eyes widen like saucers, he screams and bangs the table repeatedly. Edmund doesn''t even flinch.


    "I didn''t kill him for that!"


    "But that''s what the prosecutor will tell the jury. We won''t allow you to get a lighter sentence by arguing mental problems or self-defense, Joshua. You are an adult in the eyes of the law and in my eyes. If I didn''t take it for granted that you would have a needle in your arm, I would have put a bullet between your eyebrows that night"


    Edmund leaves Natalie''s photograph on the table.


    "What''s the matter? Did you just...? You haven''t even asked for a lawyer. You expect your mother to walk through that door and save you? You see, Mrs. Darling just nodded and went back to work as soon as I told her the news, like... Like she didn''t care what we did with you. I''m sure she already suspected your little macabre games, a mother has good instincts. Perhaps the only question on her mind was when her son became a monster"


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Edmund returns the photograph to the album, closes it, then finishes drinking his coffee. Josh slouches forward and sinks his face into his hands, grunts. Edmund stares at the boy, it occurs to him that if he were unaware of his crimes, he could pass as any low-life juvenile vandal.


    "I suppose the phrase could have been anyone''s son applies to you, too. But don''t get me wrong, that won''t save you. There''s too much evil to take pity on another misguided soul"


    The captain picks up the album and tucks it under his arm.


    "I''ve seen warehouses of girls mutilated and turned into sex dolls. Do you know what snuff films are? They''re in demand every day, and with the rise of the internet... Oh, boy. The world is a terrible place, and so are its owners" Gets up from the seat and shakes his head. "We do what we can with what we have. I can only smile and act as if the filth hiding behind me is out of the ordinary"


    The man''s lips curl upward, not in a forced way, this unusual time it comes naturally to him.


    "But I''ll tell you something... Sometimes I can really smile. Because when I see babies reheated in ovens or women sodomized with baseball bats, I get an intense spasm of disgust and hatred that I know millions of people share. Evil, to many, does not seduce us... Evil, to many, makes us nauseous. I can only pray to any entity unoccupied enough to hear me, that the good outnumber the villains and, heaven willing, outnumber the indifferent"


    The captain turns to walk away and leave Josh alone with his demons, but a loud thud causes him to turn around with his guard up.


    Josh whips his head repeatedly on the table, until his forehead cracks open, metal dents, and a trail of blood soaks his face. Edmund trills an order, policemen enter the room and subdue the prisoner, preventing him from hurting himself further.


    "Healthy mind eat apple! Healthy mind eat apple! Healthy mind eat apple! Healthy mind eat apple!" The boy shouts with laughter and tears as he is dragged out. In the mirror behind Edmund''s back, Jeff follows Joshua with his eyes.


    ...


    Joshua ended up in a maximum security asylum. Jesus learned of the sentence two months later, after choosing to inquire into the fate of his network friend. Jesus was half-surprised by the crimes, which served to confirm that all those acts that Joshua told him about with a passion typical of the most intense fantasies, were in fact true red chronicles. Jesus thought of erasing the texts to avoid any trouble, but in the end he opted to keep the testimonies, believing that they could no longer do any harm. Besides, Jesus liked his friend''s prose.


    Eventually Jesus also discovered that the mythological delirium known as Jeff the killer was not invented by Joshua, but was a communal outgrowth of the horror of the internet. Years passed, and when the urban legend of Jeff was left in the dust, Jesus decided to visit the monster, relying on Joshua''s macabre testimonies, which mixed with fiction of his own hand, he turned into the short story: Tell me Jeff.


    Jesus published Tell me Jeff repeatedly in different media. In some cases obeying an impulse of stubbornness, since several times it happened to him that his mixture between fiction and reality ended up erased (mainly due to the lack of subtlety that made it easy to find the real names and locations). But on most occasions Jesus opted to rediscover Joshua''s manifesto due to a fearful pang in his heart, which appeared every so often, when he began to notice a fleeting white spot out of the corner of his eye. An optical effect that only stopped bothering him when he would spread the story again.


    Sometimes Jesus could even swear that the white spot was smiling at him.


    The end.

 Authors note

    Thanks to those who made it here for reading to the end. I''ll post the first chapter of my next story next weekend, then as with Tell me Jeff I''ll leave a week off until Saturday/Sunday above, to rest and think calmly about my ideas, then the usual posting cycle will start again.


    V will be the last galaxy I will present. I will take some time to create trilogies of established universes. That is, write one more Divine War story, two more Trials Saga stories, two more Dark Universe stories, and two more V stories.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Of course, unless I know I die or something happens to me before I finish, lol. But those are the plans.


    ***


    Update: Due to site preferences, I will not be able to post the V story on Royalroad. As a workaround you can follow the story on Webnovel or on my Patreon.


    Since I don''t want my Royalroad account to be inactive during the publication of V, I will be looking to write a short/medium story to intersperse with.


    I will clarify this dynamic in more detail on my Patreon. Thank you all in advance for understanding.