Dead Wrong

Written By: A. F. Parker (Styx)

As I stepped outside, I immediately took note of the fog. Thick and chilling, but smelling fresh and clean. I liked it; I always did. The crisp, fresh scent was a welcomed break from the reeking pollution of daylight. The night always smelt cleaner than the day. It’s as if the trees all took a dead breath at dusk, sighing out great waves of oxygen. One of the many reasons I enjoyed it more. I had dawned a black felt hat with a small brim and black earflaps that I tied under my chin. I may have looked a bit Amish but had no intention of getting an earache from the temperature changes. I also wore a pair of dark gray pajama bottoms, two pairs of fuzzy thick socks and black combat boots. As I began on my walk I realized that in my t-shirt, gray jacket, and black trench coat over both, coupled with a pair of gloves, I had over dressed. It was not cold enough to warrant all that clothing and I was a bit on the warm side. I ignored it best as I could as I took a right and rounded a corner.

The reason for my outing at midnight and in fog that seemed to thicken the longer I was out in it was but for a small orange and cream Pomeranian I owned. The light of my life and as clever as a fox, he was by far the cutest thing I’d ever laid my eye on. Admittedly, only the second smartest dog I have ever had the extreme good fortune of knowing. I figured I had best walk him as much as possible before it snowed. Being November, I doubted that I had much longer to wait. Taking my pooch for walks at midnight in the ice and snow with the possibility of slipping and killing myself wasn’t really my cup of tea.

The night felt lonely, the queer orange glow from the streetlights permeating the atmosphere. Many porch lights had been left on, giving ample light to see by had I not been cupped in misty hands. It was as a dream. Surreal and silent except for the occasional bark of a dog; sometimes near, sometimes not.

My dog trotted on ahead of me eagerly, wandering into front yards, sniffing all the while. Twice, on the way back down the street. I paused to let his delicate nose tell whom had urinated before him. He seemed interested, very interested actually, in a particular spot before leaving his own message. I wondered what he had learned and what had been so fascinating. However, I was not to know and certainly had no desire to try, so we moved on once he was again ready.

Lights a mere fifty yards off were but dismembered specters in the mist. They floated in the night, unattached to any earthly house or pole, glowing, as did a spirit from beyond. Lights a hundred yards off were non-existent. Slowly they would join this plain of reality and yet slower still would make it known they were nothing more otherworldly than a lamppost or driveway light.

Still, I felt as if I had stepped into one of my dreams without realizing it. Everything there; yet not, shrouded in a mist not entirely caused by a low hanging cloud. My breath smoked in white clouds from my nostrils as I observed my surroundings with great interest. I crossed streets cautiously with my canine companion kept close to my heel.

I made my usual round on the usual rout, returning home when I heard them: the echoing footsteps of another. So faint, barely audible. I walked to the corner and stopped, listening intently. My left; we walked in that direction.

Every few feet we paused; I, to listen, him, to wait for me. I tracked the noise to its source, though in the fog I could not make out what it was or how old. Short, about my height, but I was average I suppose. I secured my pooch’s lead to a chain link fence and gave him two commands before leaving him alone. My heart ached to be without him, but he was just across the street. I could see his form still, which was of some comfort to me. As I neared the loner I found it to be a young man, maybe late teens, and a bit taller than myself, actually. I was disappointed. He wore pants so baggy I wondered how they stayed on at all, being nearly around his knees like that. Mr. Gangsta-Rap did not appear friendly, a popular asshole at school I bet. Made me glad I graduated years ago. He, however, paused to glare at me when I called out to him and jogged up to his side.

“Hey”, I said. He didn’t respond so I continued, slithering like a snake on its belly closer to him as I spoke, “I’ve lost my dog, have you seen him?” He made some crude remark about canines in general and I, undaunted, responded, “Well, my number is 555-7521, if you see him, give me a call please.” Again with the whitie-wanna-be-black-gangster talk and he turned, his hands into his pockets.

Like a wolf upon the back of the decayed part of caribou society I pounced. The wire was around his throat in an instant, cutting off his air supply as well as any cry for help before it could leave his lips. The short conversation was all I had required to get as close as I needed to my prey. He clawed at the wire furiously but I knew he would not be able to get any sort of grip on it. He bucked and thrashed like a rodeo bronco, nearly throwing me off repeatedly. He was incredibly strong, but I stuck like a burr, yanking back savagely, twisting my weapon around my gloved hands, and pulling with all my fury and strength. Blood sprayed from a torn carotid artery in his throat as the wire bit into his neck, deeper and deeper. His pain and panic must have been excruciating. Good. Any growth upon the back of Mother Earth that disliked dogs as much as he needed to be taken out in a violent way.

He clawed at my coat sleeves, tried to reach back and get at my face, but I saw his intentions and pulled my head away. Sliding the thin metal cord from side to side I sawed through flesh, hearing the labored gurgle that told me I had severed his trachea and he had begun to breathe in his own blood. The adrenaline hit me like a locomotive, slamming into me full force, liquid fire surging through my veins; I gave one more savage yank on the cord, nearly ripping his head from his shoulders. His body went still and I stood with his warm corpse pressed against the length of my body. I trembled with the effort to control myself. Emotion roared through me in white water rapid fashion, eroding away my reason. Pleasure and satisfaction twisted inside my mind like a hurricane, all meshed together into one hot storm. Better than sex by a long shot.

I released one end of the line and let my victim’s carcass slump to the ground. My eyes slid shut as I sucked in a long breath of the chilled, heavy night air. It returned my senses to me, refreshing my mind and I shivered. Opening my eyes I glanced around. No cars in sight. Good. That would give me a bit of time. My mind snapped into sharp focus, cogs turning and working to formulate plans that could be executed quickly. I grabbed the dead man roughly by the arms and lugged his limp frame over a concrete ledge into a nearby front yard. I worked fast, going to the gate and testing the latch. Unlocked. Fantastic. Tonight was my night. I loved fog. Lifting the latch and pushing open the gate I returned to my victim’s side and dragged his heavy body into the secluded backyard. I did not venture far, for I did not want to trip any motion detector and set off the back porch lights. The side of the house gave me just enough room to maneuver myself carefully in the darkness without coming in range of any sensors. I was also lucky they owned no dogs. But I might not have picked that location if I’d been flanked by furiously barking hounds. I knew the family behind them owned at least two dogs, and a cat named Tiger. They were silent as well, inside the house no doubt. I had no fear of anyone seeing me from the street for the chain-link fence had privacy strips the length of it. I lay my man out across the frosted lawn and quickly disposed of his clothes, pulling off his loose pants and boxers, then pulling his shirt off over his head. I set them aside for later. I then rolled him over, onto his back and kicked his legs apart. Such a degrading position, it sent a thrill through my veins. I noticed a grin split my face in the night, no doubt making me look ridiculously deranged. No matter. I shuddered, but had little time to admire my work if I wanted to escape the crime scene in time. I thought quickly about anything else I should take. His shoes? No. They mattered none. I wanted his fingers, but I hadn’t the sheers with me. I was a fool to forget them. I rubbed my fingers together in thought. Had I the time and energy to tear off each digit? Did I care that much? I scuttled over to his side and picked up his right hand, examining his fingernails closely in the darkness. Had he scratched me at all? No. Just my clothes. I’d be able to use this coat one more time, then I’d have to dispose of it and buy myself a new one. I didn’t think I had left a piece of myself behind, so I picked up his clothes and slunk from the backyard, quietly closing the gate behind me. I checked my boots for blood and, finding none, dashed across the street and retrieved my canine, who was exuberant at my return. I praised him quietly and kissed his soft, rounded skull. I pulled off my leather gloves with my teeth, tasting the salty copper taste of blood. We’d both need showers. I stroked his head and scratched his sides. I always loved the feel of his tiny face in my hands, so delicate, in need of my protection.

Grabbing his leash and removing it from the fence we hustled back to our domicile diagonal from the murder scene. Too close to home for comfort, but it was an opportunity killing. I needed to have better control of myself and think these things through better.

As I stepped inside my front door I smiled down at my canine companion.
Who ever said all serial killers started out with animals?

Text, concepts, story line, and ideas, © copyright A. F. Parker (Styx) 2004. Nothing contained in this work may be reproduce in part of whole for any reason.