Ordure in the court

Murder, He Wrote

Preface

As I sit in my room, a few days after the start of the California covid-19 shelter in place/ lockdown (?) order, stuck inside, I’ve decided to write a mystery novel.  There’s nothing new under the sun, but it will be novel, nonetheless.  Mr. E is my muse.  Suspense?  Whodunnit?  Maybe, who will he kill next, or, will he get caught?  Who is the reader rooting for?  We love justice, and killing off annoying people, and is this a cult I want to join? Is the evil delicious?  Does it linger for days afterward?  Do I see the world differently?  Is it fun to read, well-written?  Did I learn anything?  Am I impressed?  Do I want to read other works by this author?  Is the author a totally whack, sick and twisted, motherfucker from hell?  Does everything work out for the best?  Is it erudite, with lots of references, and a challenging vocabulary?  Is it intelligent?

Plot, character, setting, denoument, conclusion?  Poetic and literary, imaginative, creative, evocative, inspiring, clever, clear, and precise.  Deft, not daft.  Exciting, engaging, absorbing, a place and time and situation to get lost in.  Channeling something real from society.  Brilliant, genius, enlightening, food for thought.  A new perspective.  Let us begin.  

intro

Have you ever wanted to get away with murder?  We all have.  Even the blessed mother Mary.  

Of this, I am sure.

Chapter 1, Squirming like a Toad

   The night was quiet, almost all asleep, in the fog, as the gentleman made his way from lamppost to lamppost on the cobblestone streets, through the alleys of London.   Drip, drip, from the easements.  It reminded him of the blood, dripping from his buck knife, the last time he came out.  Ahh, that was living.  Quickens the soul, it does.  More of the same would hit the spot.  He had established that he was stable, with his doctors.  He was no disestab-lishmentarianist.  Stabbing westward, or whatever direction he was walking, who cares at this point.  Maybe he’d find some horses, and do some stabbing in a stable.  Ha, pointless words.  Beasts have no use for them, why should he?  On the prowl for a gal pal, maybe some meat.  Meet me at the lamppost, he thought.  All thoughts are prayer, right?  The almighty can hear my thoughts.   None go unanswered.  Nuns.  The oughts of thought.  What should I think?  My monkey mind is a mess.   Lord, give me clarity.   Jesus, give me a victim.  God, give me grace.  The gr ace, that’s the spirit!  Someone to punch through to the other side.  A nice neck to slice.  Some spurting liquid to lap, would be lovely.  Someone evil, to dispatch to oblivion.  Or a saint, to happily embrace his destiny of eternal bliss in heaven.   Kill them all, let God sort them out!  Tonight is delightfully lonely, miserable, dark, wet, and cold.  A perfect time.   Then again, time doesn’t exist.  It is always now.  If not now, when?  Just do it.   Yes, Nike, I think I shall, I think I shall.  Spear it with my dual-use umbrella.  Stab it with those steely knives.  Like lambs to the slaughter.  Now is no time to be homeless, in a place like this.  I will find you, here I come!  Fined for cumming, you fuckwads, you dicks, you assholes,  you pussies, you cunts, all you fuckers and pricks and cocksuckers.   Maybe a needle would make a good weapon, next time.   A poison dart.  Or an injection of bleach.  So many choices!  And opportunities!  After the excitement, I might need things to be a little dull.   When I feel the need I again, I can select and pursue.   Collect them all!  Ha ha ha ha.  Once you pop, you just can’t stop!  Drop a cop!  I run this town.  I am the king.  I am chief Selectah.  Boss.  Now I rule you too!  Come to Papa.  Come meet your fate, your destiny, your kismet.  Give up hope, all is lost!  Maybe the next lamppost.  Maybe the neck.  Hear! Hear!  Is that a snore?  Maybe I’ll break and enter, the sleepers should have a new dream!  Their whole life before their eyes, eh?  A hole, yes - that’s life, it is.  A good puncturing.   Fuck you, punk.  Dish served cold, get control.   A shiver of sharks.  Haha.  People suck.  Time for a jolly good sucking chest wound.  Ah, this is the life!  Live it to the hilt!  Shass, push it.  A new birth, a new death.  Gotta keep the world in balance.  Murder them all.   A good infection.  A good shot, bull’s eye.  Toxic pinprick.  Slash, spray, spatter, cessation.  Bury it deep in his chest.  A knockout punch, maybe an uppercut to the jaw.  Brains exploding out of their thick skulls, all over the sidewalk.  All over.  Ha.  Or make them hate themselves.  Yes, suicide is my master stroke, bend them to my will.  They ARE detestable, hating, hated scum.  Up from the ghetto with the help of my stiletto!  A sharp kick to the shin.  Break a leg!  No pain, no gain.  Well, painless works just as well.  There are quickies in the long game.  Master, I am yours, use me as you wish, I am an instrument of your will.  This chessboard needs a good cleaning.  Let’s nuke the whole goddamn thing, shall we?  Fuck ‘em.  Fuck ‘em all.  Welcome to hell.  Wait, I’m a gentleman.  They can go gently, too.   The hard way or the easy way, up to you.  A good virus could rack up kills like a videogame, like a good bomb, like a world war, like a satisfying movie, like a volcano, or an asteroid, or a tsunami, like time itself!   No one gets out of life, alive.  Life itself is the perfect murderer.  Death, I am yours.   Put me on the path, Santa Muerte.

Chapter 2, Whoa-oh, here she comes.  He’s a man-eater.

     Death-eaters, as JK called us.  Carnivores.  Meat and fish and poultry, even insects.  Yogurt cultures, down the hatch.  The hated hatch.  I eat cannibals.  Eat the rich.  Bone appa-teat!  A good meal, a good appetite, a good death.  A rare steak.  A bloody good time.  Some tomato juice, red wine, fruit punch, or a strawberry smoothie.   Substitutes, for the real deal.  Red red wine, make me feel so fine, just one thing makes me forget, stay close to me, the blues.    Democrat blueberries!  I’ll eat republicans, democrats, men, women, young, old, virtuous, depraved, happy, sad, the full banquet, all the flavors, all the blood, guts, meat, bones, gristle, tendons, muscle, organs, biochemicals…everything but the shit.  Pick the carcass clean.  Leave some for the flies.  Maybe even some milk.  There are so many ways to prepare meat!   And side dishes, garnishings, flavors to cleanse the palate.   I’ll keep experimenting until I find the most delicious and satisfying combinations.  Some pigs are more intelligent than some people.  So it’s only fair, really.  We’re all worm food, eventually.  Think of me as a worm.  The fisher of men has need of me.  So bite me.  Ha!

      Awake! From your reverie.  I hear the sound of footfalls, getting nearer.  Assess the situation.  Slip into the shadow, await.  A woman of the night!  With a man on her arm.  I could dispatch them both, within 20 seconds.  They are absorbed with each other, no fear, entirely unwitting.  I am not unwilling.  My shoes are silent.   I slip behind them, and stick the silencer to his skull, a quick pock! And he is no more.   She turns, and -before she can scream- I place 3 shots into her face and a few more to her chest, dropping her like a sack of wet potatoes.  Well done!  I say to myself.  We’re all alone, in this world, after all.  Some gurgling, some pooling, always the same.  I use my machete, and hack some muscle for the meal when I return home.  A few hairs, used cigarettes, I leave for the police.   Too easy, really.  Goodnite.  It really was, too.  

Chapter 3, The Dogs of War

    I am not unaware of the methods of the law.  Law and order, justices of the peace, cops and robbers, pigs and the po-po, the fuzz, the crowbar hotel, I have experienced all of it, and am aware and wary.  This is war.   Chess is war.  I shall not be taken alive.  Better red than dead.  I have fake fingerprint gloves, silent shoes, a silencer of course for my weapon, tools of the trade to choose from, backup plans, plans B and C and D, like military contingency planning.   Planned routes of escape.  Constant strategizing, honing, engagement, preparation, and followup.  Red herrings.  A razor in my boot.  A knife on my batman utility belt.  A shoulder holster.  A taser.  Some throwing stars.  Proper attire, black and sturdy and not leaving a stitch of fibre evidence.  Varying my M.O.  Keeping it fresh.  I don’t do it to meet a need.  I serve.  My worthiest opponent, of course, is the bloodhound.  They can smell me, the victims, my meat, and maybe even my fear.   The police are methodical.  So I must outwit.  That’s my little secret.  How to ward off the dogs, the hell hounds, the servants of the law.  I know who the police distrust, who they fear, and I frame them with scents that make sense.  I also leave poisons that can kill dogs.   Finally, I leave scents that make dogs go crazy, in heat.  Better them than me, in the fires of hell.  Bark up the wrong tree, my fryin’ friends.  Let the chase begin!  Sometimes I murder cops, if I think they’re getting too close.  DMSO on a toilet seat is always good.   You know the old joke, The cops have nothing to go on!  But back to the dogs.  I have dogs of my own.  I can leave their piss, strategically.  Dogs have their own world, in those skulls of theirs.  Ha.

Chapter 4, Close Call.  

Drat! Gadzooks! Dammit! 

    Foiled again!  The pigs are at my door!  Where did I go wrong?  Well, I ate the evidence, already.  Quite tasty, truth told.  They’ve got nothing.  And neither do I.  I don’t even have explosives to blow the house up, if they enter, for them (and me), to end in a draw.  There is no evidence of guilt or wrongdoing, of any kind.  I am a model citizen.  In fact, I will help them find the killer.  Death, which one of us are you?  I will keep my eyes open, and my ears attuned.  There will be no allowance for monsters in THIS town.   We are a community, and we will stand strong, together.  We are one, united against hate.  My gun and gloves and belt and bullets and knife and wife are all elsewhere, incriminating unnamed, unspecified, but certain others.   Of course I don’t smoke.  I don’t even own a lighter.   I am always glad to help London’s finest.  Heroes, is what you are.   God bless.  May the force be with you!  Oh, you’ve already got that covered, lol.  Cheers, good luck, or, as my mother used to say, good skill!

Chapter 5, Organized or Disorganized

    That’s a matter of opinion.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  Cleanliness is next to godliness.  Patience is a virtue.  Patients is, too.   But one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.  One man’s filing system is another’s disorganized pile.  God knows where everything is.   There’s a place for everything, and everything in its place.  Enough platitudes, and trite cliches.  Do I know the entirety of forensic procedure?  Do I take too bold of risks?  Am I in danger of being raped in prison, or locked up, forever, in an insane asylum?  Those are the topics I pray on, before I prey.  God helps those who help themselves.  Hell, P.  P is ack!  I will save myself, by any means necessary, using every last chess piece or advantage available to me.  The Gods willing, I will be able to serve Death for a good many years to come.  Am I a villain?  A monster?  A creep?  A devil?  I don’t care what you think.  To myself, I am a king, a prince, a god, and a servant of man.  And life is truly delicious.  Piece out.

Chapter 6, Enjoy your Burger

   It’s my own special recipe.  I’ll give it to you if you ask nicely.  I don’t have a beef with you.  You know the in-n-out burger chain?  People take off the B and R, so it says in and out urge.  Sexy!  That’s some subliminal advertising, right there!  But who eats sex?  Hot dogs and donuts, I guess.  Go figure.  1s and zeros.  Oh, and coke.  Damned close to cock, if you ask me, in cans of bloody engorged red.  Coke sucks, if you ask me.  Delicious, but it’s unhealthy as fuck.  So to speak, if you catch my meaning.  Anyway, I’m serving steaks tomorrow, if you’re interested.  Don’t come if you’re a vampire:  we know y’all don’t like stakes in the heart.  Eat your heart out, they say.  Pump up the jam.  Pump it up.  That’s where the party’s at.  Make my day!  Lt. Callahan.  I love Clint Eastwood movies.  Dirty Harry Potter.  Get your booty on the floor tonight, sweetheart.  Your ass is grass.  Pushin up daisies.  Life is good! I’m thirsty, are you?  Have some sangria.  Make my night.  Good knight!  Good mourning.  G’day to you, as well.  Jesus Christ.  Tally ho!  Nature, red in tooth and claw.  Humanimals.   Animals preying on animals.  The way God intended.  If God didn’t want us to eat animals, then why are they made of meat?  Bloody hell, man, get a hold of yourself.  The next girl I see in Juicy sweats, I swear I’m going to drink her.   Beverage, beaver rage!  Thirst for the worst, lol.  I need a drink.  It appears I’m disorganized.  Appearances can be deceiving.  Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.   Cheez boigr!  Chinese chi’s on that?  

Chapter 7, Eat Shit and Die

   Fecal matter is disgusting.  There’s a fetish some people have, though…. Ew.  But you are what you eat, less what you excrete.   Poor Crete.  Those cretins.  Anyway, poop is not the pope.  Close, though.  Papal people poop.   Poople are shitty people.  Pipal is a kind of tree.  The Bo tree.   Bo knows.  What kind of tree did the buddha sit under?  Well, whatever.  Jesus had a thing with fig trees.  Jesse has his own tree.  Caprophagy off a G.  Nasty.  Dung and crap and shit and excrement and pooh and waste and caca and turd, and sullage and egesta.  Dogs like to smell it.  Anyway, shit gets weird, sometimes.   Another way of saying go to hell is eat shit and die.  You can do this in prison, actually, two birds, one stone.  Guano!  Shit is just stuff.  Buy some shit, sell some shit, do some shit, and that’s the shit!  Everybody dies, and I’m not shitting you.   Stop eating that crap!  That’s some shit, no?   Ordure in the food court.