The story of a confused killer! Yes, it's fiction! By Javier Berrellez
I wasn't born this way, and I certainly wasn't raised to become a monster, either. I've sat with myself for hours, actually days, and wondered why I allowed this incessant need to kill metastasize. I don't hate anyone in particular; it's not a race thing, hatred towards a gender, or bullies that left me thirsting for revenge. I have great parents - they did their best and are loving; my siblings are what anyone would expect: nice one day, assholes another, a best friend when you need them, and absent the rest of the time as they attend to their lives - a prototypical family.
I stare at my blood-stained hands, lick my parched lips, and ask myself the same recurring question: Will I ever stop? The answer is always - yes, of course; how and when I stop, though, will probably be at my undoing.
I stare at the couple tied to the large wooden beam in the center of my barn. It's not a large barn, but it's big enough where I can comfortably fit six large animals and still have enough space at the center to do my business - the killing kind.
For a time, I asked myself, what kind of killer am I? Am I a serial killer if I do this and get paid - although not enough yet to make it a career? Is an assassin considered a serial killer if he enjoys the hunt and the visceral and primitive rush of the kill? Ugh....God, does it matter? Deep down, it does matter! But it shouldn't. Ugh... I'm ruminating again. Some facts on killers. According to those, who apparently know everything about killing, and yet, have never seen the last breath leave a person's body and be close enough to feel the warm, stale air hit your face, these psychologists, criminologists, and law enforcement say, serial killers are those who commit three or more murders in three separate events with a cooling-off period in between. Also, something about the phycological and emotional thrill of the kill. Now, assassins are paid by someone else to commit a targeted murder. I argue that good assassins - those who refine their craft and make a point of differentiating themselves in a niche market, likely, feel that rush of the devil whispering at the base of their skull. The whisper that makes them smile when they walk away alive…while the other soul crosses the threshold.
Anyways, back to these two idiots - who are going to die. They're a couple. It's my first time killing a couple - together. Franco and Amelia, tied to the beam in my barn, will die. I know I'll get a thrill from the process - that's one check for serial murderer classification. But I have cameras in my barn. I stream my murders live, and I get a few hundred people every time from all around the globe. The tips are great! I generally walk away with three to four thousand dollars - a good catch. Not enough though to pay all the bills. This time though, it's different. I have two - I may get a handsome payday. Sure, hope those folks from the UAE join - they're the best tippers.
How I got these two here had to be divine intervention. I truly believe that there are forces that put opportunities in your face. This instance couldn't have been more in my face than anything. The moment it happened, I knew it was my opportunity. It was a sign that literally smacked me in the face.
I was on the METRO Gold Line, which I hate - too many drunks. But I don't hate it more than driving in evening traffic - Los Angeles traffic is unbearable. If there is a time when I need to wipe people off the earth, it would be during evening traffic. If I could drop a nuke on the freeway at six in the evening, I swear, the world would be a much better floating rock! People lose their minds the moment they sit on that shitty leather or synthetic seat, tie themselves in, and watch the world from behind a perceived protective barrier - the windshield. The honking, the middle fingers, the yelling inside their metal and glass bubbles – can’t understand any of it.
Anyways, I bumped into these people on the METRO. Honestly, I wasn't looking for someone to kill. The bug...you know...the killing one - was there, itching at me, but it wasn't eating a hole into my skin, yet. As customary in our new digital world, my face was buried in my phone. The train ride from Pasadena to Downtown LA is a short 30-minute ride. I was lost in a biography about Augusto Pinochet, Chile's dictator. A narcissist quote he espoused in an interview had me laughing: "I'm not a dictator. I just had a grumpy face".
In customary zombie mode, I nudged closer to the door as we neared downtown. As one does while in zombie mode, I accidently bumped into this woman - Amelia. I instantly apologized and kindly asked the woman for forgiveness. You know, the, I'm so sorry line that we all tend to overuse. Honestly, I thought her response would be, no biggie or not a problem. I hadn't pushed her or knocked her coffee or phone out of her hands. Her response, though, caught me completely off guard. The woman spit in my face, and then her husband, Franco, jumped to his feet and began pushing me against the train's door. When the train stopped and the doors opened, he pushed me again, and I landed on the floor. Franco threw his coffee at me and, to cap it all off, kicked me on the side of the head.
I thought I was knocked out, but I was just disoriented. A kind woman helped me up and asked if she should alert the cops. I asked her not too, especially after I had watched them laugh and walk away. I had been triggered. The devil whispered in my ear. "Kill them. Make them suffer". My brain was instantly in kill mode.
I jumped to my feet and watched the two walk out of Union Station. I followed and kept my distance. They were quick walkers. My head was still spinning from the kick. I had to lean on a fence or two as I tried keeping up with them and stop from keeling over. When they entered the Little Tokyo district, they stopped and checked the wait times at a few restaurants. This gave me time to recover and watch them from a distance.
Eventually, the two decided on a restaurant and entered Mr. Ramen, a hole-in-the-wall Ramen house. I knew the two would be there for at least an hour, so I walked down the street and got myself two steamed pork buns and a red bean stuffed donut. So good!
With a full belly, an aching headache from the kick, and the devil continually whispering in my ear, I walked back to the restaurant. I was right on time - they were faster eaters than I had imagined. I watched the two walk out. They stood at the entrance for a while as they each smoked a cigarette. I quickly took out my Sony Digital camera from my backpack and took about fifteen photos. I quickly uploaded the photos to my phone and pushed them to my site, with one question to my clients. Will these do? The responses were instantaneous. At least a hundred people responded, each depositing between ten dollars to a few hundred. I looked at the total deposit, and it was my biggest payday yet: twenty-three thousand dollars. I quickly responded to all my clients and accepted their payments. It was on. These two were going to die. That little voice in the back of my head again popped up and asked me, "So, am I a serial killer or an assassin?" Ugh...so annoying! Why can't I be both?
A few minutes later, I followed the two through downtown and to Union Station. We were back on the METRO, and I sat as far away as I could from them. I didn't want to lose them and have to return the money, but I also didn't want them to see me. Luckily, I had a jacket in my backpack with a large hood that I pulled over my head. When we got to Pasadena, I followed them as they exited the METRO at the Del Mar station stop.
The two walked hand-in-hand to a parking garage. It was around nine in the evening, and luckily for me, the street was nearly empty. A homeless man stared at me, watched me follow the two. As I walked by, I kneeled next to him and gave him ten dollars. I whispered to him, "I'm going to kill those two. Any special requests?"
The homeless man smiled and responded with an aching and rasping voice, "Take their toes! Take their toes! Take their toes!" I smiled at him and nodded. I handed him a red bean bun I couldn't finish and was wrapped in a napkin in my pocket. The man smiled as if I had just placed gold in his hands. I patted him on the shoulder as I stood up and watched dust fly off him as if I had been cleaning a rug. The man took the pastry and stuffed it through his grimy mustache and beard and chomped at it with rotted teeth and breath that could kill a skunk. He dropped the ten-dollar bill I gave him as he gorged the pastry; I watched it float away as the Santa Ana winds picked up. The winds had been blowing hard for the last few hours. It felt like the world was aligning for chaos - I smiled.
With darkness and the winds on my side, I got close to the couple. They each smoked a cigarette and were sitting on the hood of a car; I assumed it was theirs. It was a nice car too, a brand new 7 series BMW with blacked-out tinted windows. The car was black and polished, almost to the point of having a mirrored finish if it weren't for the winds blowing dust onto it. I kneeled behind a truck, peeled my backpack off, and extracted two taser guns. I took my camera out again and snapped a few more pictures. I quickly uploaded them to my phone and pushed them to my site. Tips rolled in again - I had an audience. That annoying question returned: Am I a serial killer or an assassin? I'm really enjoying this! Two points for serial killer, one point for assassin. Although this is the most I've ever been paid - almost fifty thousand dollars, maybe a point and a half.
I stowed my camera and phone away and watched the two stomp on the butt of their cigarettes. With darkness and the shadows on my side, I walked between the cars in the parking lot with the two tasers in hand. The man was the first in the car. The woman crouched her way in, and as she did, I tazed her in the face. Her body instantly seized. I kneeled next to the seizing woman and watched as the man turned in fear and locked eyes on me. I lifted my taser and got him in the face as well. With the butt of the taser, I whipped them both until they were unconscious. Then I heard that raspy, elated voice again. "Take their toes! Take their toes! Take their toes!" I turned and saw the homeless man standing behind me with crumbs all over his beard. I nodded and asked him for help. The man didn't nudge; he just stood there and smiled through his vile beard. I opened my backpack and hastily extracted two plastic zip ties. I carefully hog-tied the couple and threw them in the spacious BMW trunk. I turned again and watched the man continue mumbling toes over-and-over again.
I looked around and saw that the parking lot was still empty, except for the homeless man and the whipping winds blowing debris everywhere. The wind was getting ferocious. The car was nice: comfortable leather seats, a spacious cabin, and a cockpit that made me feel like I was on a spaceship. I turned the engine and felt the purr of an engine that meant business. In less than a minute, I was out of the parking lot and headed up to Alta Dena where I had my barn next to the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains.
The wind was blowing as I pulled the couple out of the trunk. I could see the two were still unconscious, but barely. Their minds wrestled and drifted between this world and the next. I used a wheel barrel to haul them into my barn. I used a pulley that helps me move equipment in and out of the barn. Getting them both tied to the beam wasn't hard. Within minutes, I turned on all the camera equipment and saw the audience had grown. The tips continued rolling in, almost seventy-five thousand dollars. My phone bleated an alarm: a fire warning; typical when the winds pick up, so I just stowed my phone back into my pocket.
I broke smelling salts under each person's nostrils and watched them wake. I removed the tape from their mouths and felt their screams. Each yell drove a tingly feeling up and down my spine. I was aroused. Then that stupid question materialized: Serial killer or assassin? Easy! There was no question this time. Serial Killer!
I pulled the shoes off the couple and felt their screams over my head. I needed to honor the homeless man's request. I looked up at the couple and said, "I did apologize when I bumped into you. You didn't have to spit on my face." I looked at the woman and saw crocodile tears flowing. She yelled, but nothing made sense. I turned to the man and saw him fighting his restraints. "And you. You kicked me in the head." I jammed my finger into the man's temple. "That's where you hit me. It hurt. My turn to make you scream." The man continued to fight to no avail. I got back onto my knees and felt my phone buzzing erratically. The audience had grown. Tips were rolling in. The amount of money was astronomical, in the hundreds of thousands. What I didn't see on my phone was the emergency alert. A fire was raging all across Altadena.
The wind was blowing hard. I could feel air pouring through the aging barn walls. With every pinch and snap of the bolt cutters, toes popped off of the couple's feet. I carefully placed each toe in a tin and stuffed them into the cargo pocket of my pants. The couple withered and yelled, but the noise from the wind was deafening. It was as if the devil himself was the conductor of a soundtrack to the ensuing melee.
The lights to the barn went out, and I heard the generator kick in; the lights turned back on. I looked up at the cameras and saw that my StarLink connection was still active. I looked at the laptop and saw the audience was cheering; more tips kept rolling in. I could smell smoke, but I turned to the couple. I stood close enough to feel their warm breaths as they yelled at the top of their lungs. For some reason, my mind blocked out all of their yells. A glowing red light appeared behind me. I smiled. The devil was here to watch me work. The room went dark and grew warmer, then hot. He must be standing right behind me. I could smell sulfur, smoke, and devastation. Again, I was aroused. The couple yelled. They were cowering at the sight of the devil at my side.
It was over before I knew it.
Two days later, after the fires had consumed almost all of Altadena, destroyed thousands of homes, and left nothing but smoldering ruins, a short, bearded homeless man searched a burned-down barn. He knew exactly where to go. A single beam stood tall. Two charred bodies stood tall with the beam. Underneath it, the killer. The homeless man searched his pockets and found what he wanted. "Toes," he said aloud. He repeated it and walked through ash and brimstone with a smile and crumbs still on his beard. Behind him, a dark shadow followed: the devil.
The End
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