I procrastinated so I wrote something. BAD ME. STUDY GOD DAMN IT. It's different, I guess, to everything else that I've written soooo...don't know how well it'll go. Tell me what you think, cos I don't know what to think about it.

Eeeeeeenjoy!

1. ONE IS FOR FUN

--

Bring your eyes down closer. Line them with the lines on the glass. There. Where my fingers are distorted through amber liquid. There. Do you see me now?

--

Fun!

Oh, what joy and jubilance the club brings. Oh, what ecstasy and exuberance it pumps into your veins and drugs you high! You dance and you dance and you D.A.N.C.E until your body demands liquid reboot. You drink and you drink and you D.R.I.N.K until your mind forgets anything sensible and logical. But who’s to know what’s sensible and logical? All you know is that you’re dancing and you’re drinking. And that the guy leaning against the bar is giving you eyes.

He wants to sleep with you tonight.

--

The beat pounds into me like a biker fucking a whore in a cheap, vicious porno. Sweat and lights and liquid neon. It makes me want to dance. The guy near the bar is swirling his brandy slowly in his glass. He stares at me.

He wants me.

I want him.

Lights flash. I ask for a brandy. Take a sip. Swirl it in my glass. Slowly. Like he is.

Swirl, swirl, swirl.

Slosh, slosh, slosh.

I lick my lips and move lightly to the music. Cock my head at him and drain my glass. He tips his head back. Swallows the brandy. And I’ve got him.

“Come.”

He scorches the word into my ear and it’s delicious like thick syrup on heated flesh. Oh, so delicious. I’ve got him. He thinks he knows what’s going to happen tonight. But he knows wrong. I have him a surprise. And I don’t want to ruin it for him. I’m not cruel.

We exit the club as if we’re merely stepping out to piss in the alleyway outside. He puts his hand on my buttocks. I feel his lips on my neck. We exit the club, in public and flirtatious sham-secrecy.

“Mine or yours?” he asks. We get in his car.

“Yours,” I answer. Suck in my bottom lip to lick it.

Our gazes burn all over each others bodies as we feed off the raw lust and hunger. I fucking want you. In a wave of impulse, he grasps the back of my neck and pulls me to his face. Slams his jaws on mine and kisses me furiously. Harshly. Fervently.

Yes…want me.

He releases me and I fall back into the seat with bruised lips and panting breath. He starts up the engine and we ride down to his apartment. The air conditioning smells a little too fresh. The leather on the seat is a little too polished. A little too…clean.

But the man himself. Now, he radiates dirt. Paradox to his clean cut nails and meticulously styled hair. He hated it when I clung to his crisp shirt and wrinkled it. But he loves it because he hates it. Juxtaposition. Hot, hot, messy sex on cold, ironed sheets.

He lives in a modest apartment. Small, but has a nice view of the harbour.

Level eight. Apartment four. Even doubles and halves.

We enter this apartment. Doors slam. Locks lock. I survey my surroundings. His house is cold. Bathed in moonlight and darkness. I can sense Them. Lingering and moaning at the edges of my conscious. I want to meet Them. Say Hi.

Rough hands grab my hips and swing me around. His hard chest knocks the air out of mine as they thud together. Coarse lips slam onto me and they press my own lips painfully against my teeth. His tongue scrapes and thrusts and violates.

I can barely breathe from the angry intrusion but I angle my head and grind against him regardless. My hands start to undo his belt. His hands rip them away and instead pull my shirt over my head, breaking our mouth, tongue, lip connection for a split second before we’re back together.

“Fuck…” My voice comes out in a low hiss as his teeth nip the skin on my collarbone. A whisper in my ear tells me about Them. He liked Them in his room, They say. His room.

“Bed…” I whimper and he pushes me until my back hits a door. He throws it open. Hurls me onto the bed and kneels over me, his hands tearing off his shirt in furious haste.

My pants come off with a firm tug and I tilt my head back to sniff. Their scent is strong in here. So strong it makes my head dizzy and my eyes swim. I smell Them.

I smell Them.

“You’re a little whore, aren’t you?” he chuckles as he gazes at the bulge in my briefs.

“Fuck me,” I say.

“Slut,” he spits and takes himself out of his pants. Rock hard.

He rolls onto his back, grabs a fistful of my hair and forces my face into his crotch. I wince but listen to Them tell me to wait. Not yet.

His erect cock nearly slaps me as I take off his pants and ease off his briefs. I look at it. Look at him. His hand grips my hair once again.

“Suck it, bitch,” he snarls and I grasp it. He likes it dirty.

A groan escapes his lips as I lick my hand and stroke. The head tastes slightly salty and bitter in my mouth. I suck the head. Tongue the piss-slit. Feel the length scrape against my teeth as he pushes my head down. Hear the wet, squelching noises it makes with my mouth. He moans and calls me a cumslut as I choke and gag.

“Like it don’t you, you little cocksucker?” he gasps, watching me bob. The hand in my hair strokes my scalp.

I hold the base of his length and suck furiously on the head. My other hand fondles with his balls. He bucks and groans and I know he’s close. Come, baby. Show me your face when you lose control.

He erupts down my throat and I choke. His semen dribbles from my lips. When he pulls me up for a kiss, he tastes himself in my mouth and bites my tongue. He tugs off my briefs and holds my hard on. Rubs his thumb against the head.

“Dirty boy…” he says against my lips.

“I’ll ride you,” I say and grin cheekily, “Fuck me until I can’t walk straight.”

Dirty talk really gets him off.

He moans his appreciation and tells me about some playthings in his closet. Chains and whips and hand-cuffs, he says.

I smell the air and I can tell it is time. I take out a pair of hand cuffs and strap his hands to the bedpost above his head. His eyes widen in confusion when I stuff a silky gag into his mouth and tie it tightly together. A kiss on the neck for encouragement and he relaxes.

I find rope in his closet too. I tie his feet down. In his en-suite, I find a box of white latex gloves. Pull on a pair. In his kitchen, I borrow a kitchen knife and cling-wrap plastic.

On the bedside table this all goes. Spreading out a sheet of cling-wrap plastic over the table-top, I give him a toothy smile.

Sweat pearls on his brow as he watches me with hesitant eyes. A muffled sound of question.

“It’s okay,” I say, “I just need to get a few things ready.”

He twitches as I jab the kitchen knife into the wood. It sits vertically in the centre of the plastic covered table top. Splits it perfectly in half.

I lean in to whisper into his ear. “Did you kill the last boy like this?”

His eyes flash with shock, rage, guilt then fear. I inhale deeply and smell Them on his skin. Their sweat. Their semen. Their blood.

I get off the bed and stand beside him. Run my fingers on his pectoral.

“Was he strapped down?” I ask, making my index and middle fingers walk over up and down his tense, shaking body, “Or did you let him ride you before you tied him?”

I close my eyes and sniff the air again. “Can you smell Them?” I ask quietly, “Can you smell Their fear? Their hatred?” My hand walks over to stroke his cock. “Does it make you hard? Did it make you come when you watched Them writhe on your bed, helpless as you crushed Their pathetic little bodies?”

Nostrils flare as he tries to remain calm.

I chuckle and pull open his bedside drawer with an air of casual curiosity. I take out a switchblade. Flick it open. It shines in the dull light. I test its edge on his thigh.

“Nice blade,” I say and hold it up to inspect the blood.

He jerks against his bonds and makes furious, muffled screams. Grow some balls, man. The cut was shallow.

“You crazy faggot! I’ll kill you!” he snarls. Oh, his gag came free. Silly thing. Look, there’s duct tape in this drawer too. Handy.

“Shhhh…” I hush and stem his foul outbursts with the handy duct tape.

Chains rattle as his thrashes. His eyes are wild.

“Funny you have a switchblade,” I say, “They’re illegal in this country, are they not? But they’re clever. Lightweight…” I nick the middle of his chest, “Sharp…Less suspicious than a surgical scalpel.”

I feel around the drawer and find a compartment hidden on the underside of the table top. A very thin compartment. You can barely tell where it starts. DIY MDF. I slide out small sheets. Monsters like him always keep trophies. I don’t really see the need to if they’re going to be so obvious. But I take a movie DVD after each of my own…exploits anyways. At home, I have seven movies. I guess you can call them my trophies. Stolen DVD’s. Stolen likes and dislikes. Tonight will be my eighth. I love how it’s an even number.

I hold the square photos in front of his eyes. They cloud in horror.

Polaroids of Them. Befores and Afters. How quaint.

He screams and his eyes roll wildly in their sockets. The intensity and power make me shiver. I can sense Them gathering around us. Whispering. Crying. Moaning.

Billy Gearing.

“Billy Gearing,” I say and single out a Polaroid, “Name ring a bell? He was the only one out of Them that told you his full name. I wonder why he did it. Maybe it was out of habit.” I cock my head and smile coldly down at him. “Where is he now?” I ask, “In the river? Under the geraniums in the bushland? You know, he was a friend of mine. Sweet kid. He wanted to become a surgeon.”

I place the Polaroids back into their secret house. Close the drawer. Continue playing with the switchblade. Flick the blade in and out. His eyes follow my every movement warily.

“He never got the chance to be one did he? Not after you decided to snuff out his dream and play surgery yourself.”

I lay the blade against his stomach. “Did you cut him here?”

Slide it up to rest on his torso. “Or did you cut him here first?”

Arm. “Here?”

Heart. “Here?”

Abdomen, crotch, thigh. Here, here, here.

Slowly split the skin on his collarbone. “Hmmmm…I think…you cut him first…” I slice his cheek open and the blood spills, “…here!”

He thrashes about and screams into the tape again. His eyes plead mercy and fear into mine and I feel myself getting hard with delight.

I carve a deep red heart into his torso and shudder happily as he begins to tear helplessly. I wrench the kitchen knife from the table. They gather around us and I can hear Their appreciation. Their jollity. Their revenge.

“Do you hear them?” I whisper into his ear, “They’re applauding us.”

He shakes his head furiously. Sweat flies. Tears fly. Blood flies.

The blade rests on his belly, just under his diaphragm.

“They’re applauding.”

I split him neatly in half.

--

Work is the usual humdrum of telephones, coffee breaks, people yelling and of course, Beer o’clock. Nothing gets done if Beer o’clock fails to occur on a weekly basis.

“Dude, did you read about that body they found up at Parra River?”

Timothy Atkins. International Tax Consultant. Fellow colleague. Twenty-four years old. Virgin. Smells like Rexona for Men and the sharp tang of Pure Blonde Lager. He’s basically Google on legs. Knows everything useless about anything useless.

We work together at Deloitte Touche Tomatsu. Tax department. Last place anyone would think a demon like me would reside.

Timmy takes a swig of his Pure Blonde. “Apparently like, the body was cut in half so all his innards and stuff was eaten away by the fish and whatever.”

“Aww sick!” I cry in artificial revolution. Inside, my wildcat purrs in pleasure. “Not when I’m drinking, man. Not when I’m drinking.”

“Serious! Apparently like, his face was so carved up it took forensics three whole weeks to figure out who he was. I heard he was apparently like, some homophobic gay basher. Like, apparently, he went into gay bars and pretending to be gay or some shit. They linked him to all those queer killings last month…Guess karma really came ‘round aye?”

Notice how Timmy uses ‘apparently like’ a lot? Yes, it annoys me too.

“Jesus. Did they find out who killed him?” I ask. They obviously haven’t, or else, instead of standing here having Beer o’clock with Timmy, I’d be pissing into a jar next to my cell bunk.

“Nah. Bugger was in the river for too long. Couldn’t half tell where his skin ended and clay started.”

I make an understandable noise. Lift the bottle to my lips. Take two gulps of beer. Exhale my appreciation. Take four gulps of beer.

“You’re doing it again,” Timmy says and looks at me over his bottle.

“Doing what?”

“You’re drinking in even numbers.”

I shrug. “I can drink however way I want. Quit analysing my drinking habits and quit counting my swallows. Sometimes I wonder if you’re the one with OCD.”

Timmy snorts and leans against the company’s kitchen bench. “Hey, I don’t snap new pencils in half and sharpen the halves until they’re exactly four centimetres, okay?”

“It takes one to know one.”

“Fuck off, Sam,” Timmy snorts again and watches the television in the kitchen because he’s pissed off at me for out-witting him. Even though our period of conversation wasn’t entirely witty at all.

I watch the television with him. News. The newsreader is presenting the washed up river body case. They don’t make a big deal about the body. But it’s all right. I can feel Their satisfaction.

They like it when I prey on the ones that prey on us.

--

At night, when I lie in bed, I amuse myself by remembering the smell of his skin. Their scent on him.

I like remembering that night at the club. Where he gave me those eyes filled with lust and need and hunger. Hunger to maim and pound and destroy.

In the past, he had been giving eyes to other boys. In the past, he had taken those boys home with him. Just like he did with me. He took those boys home for the night. Loved those boys, oh, so much. Loved those boys indeed. The boys just thought he was a hot fuck.

But, I was different to those boys.

Those boys didn’t Know.

I Knew.

I Knew because I had been watching. It’s not called stalking. It’s just called Knowing. And Knowing never hurt anyone. Unless I wanted it to hurt.

I smell death on people. Scent is my knowledge.

And I Knew that Markus Debouche, twenty nine years old, had taken five boys home over the course of two months. None of these boys ever made it out of his apartment the quite way he went in.

What remains of Them are headlines in the Morning Herald. Almost on the front page, but not quite. Headlines. Headlines including the words: Death, Brutal, Gay, Killing, Bashing, Queer, Attack, Homosexual. All alternatively displayed in bold.

The fifth boy didn’t get a headline. Instead he received internal bleeding from the foreign objects forced into his anus. Plus two metal plates in his head, four screws in his hip, fifty-seven stitches and a body of never fading scars. Never fading reminders.

But the fifth boy was lucky. All he lost was a few fingers, a few teeth and possibly a few touches of sanity.

All the boys before him lost their lives.

I was the sixth boy.

I didn’t lose anything.

I just wanted some Fun.

I've never written a story about a murderer before. Do you even get what's going on? Sometimes, I think the way I write is really abstract and vague and unclear. Like, lazy-person's writing. Oh well...it was...interesting lol.

SHOULD I BOTHER CONTINUING?

REVIEW PLEASE! THANK YA! :D