Are You Happy With Me? (Extremely PG 18)

“The campus down the lane was empty in the dead midnight air. The frosty late November atmosphere stole people from the streets. Watching from the shelter of a building’s entrance doorway, a middle aged street-sleeper caught sight of a young couple. Boy and girl, they walked hand in hand; the girl leaning her head on the boy’s shoulder from time to time, the boy swaying and placing one of his hands around her waist as she squeezed his hand for the heat. It was a presumably sweet pre-Christmas sight. Huddled up in her dismembered sheets, the street-sleeper kept an eye on them as the two walked peacefully up the road. They were going to pass her, though, she knew that it would have been futile to even speak or extend a hand to request for some spare change. The couple was too ardent with their displays of affection towards each other to even notice her, anyway. They were very much, obliviously, in love with each other although one could easily tell that they were, even from a distance. Their jackets were thick and colourful in a sort of nylon-cloth mesh that was a tad more reflective than cotton. Yellow and pink, the colours added to the lovely sight. They were young, though, all too young for the taste of the street-sleeper. Such hypocrisy, however, should not be expressed, seeing as how she, herself, had gotten pregnant, been disowned by her family, was left at the altar, and to top it all off, an abortion. Shedding a naive tear from the nostalgia, she quickly swiped the moist drop of memories away with the sleeve of her thick wool sweater. Her sweater was already moist although memory did not serve her well. Casting it into the barren back of her mind, she sealed the case as a simple act of neglect related to a blotch of snow that she had let melt on her arm. She never knew how false it was, since the closest thermometer was inside the building and it read a -2 degrees Celsius. She continued to eye the couple.

“Fading in and out of the light brought about by the lampposts on every intersection of a few blocks, the two slowly ascended up the hill to where the building was situated, across the street from them. The street-sleeper watched as the two began to play around; pushing each other into the snow and walls of the buildings on each block, sometimes even pushing each other towards the empty, snow-covered street. Old Aaron, one of the older “Traineers” says the blizzard was coming soon, and he was usually right about these things. He’d see it on the television from outside the train as he travelled around. It was a Friday and he would probably be sleeping with the boys from up town. It was his only night within every week where he had the chance to dwell among the normal people who had jobs. Not too bad for a “Traineer”, she thought to herself. She saw the couple move closer and something bothered her. It interrupted her peaceful line of thought to drop in a bombshell of an epiphany.

“It was Friday, and the reason why Old Aaron, or any “Traineer”, or street-sleeper for that matter, moved away from the area. It was the Lurkers. They were not your average men during these late hours of every Friday night. They were not the nice and helpful people they were during the day, no. They seemed to lose all sanity during these nights, like hounds destined to howl at a full moon. The thing is, that was not all they did. Rape, harassment, and torture, they’d accomplished and mastered it all. From near genocides to simple beatings with a wooden stick, it was their trademark never to leave anyone unharmed. All their victims had to have a physically visible scar in order for them to lighten up their infliction of pain. What was worse is that they did all of this for the sake of entertainment. It was within the affliction where they found either solace or god-only-knows-what they felt that made them do it every week. With an inside man at the local police station assigned to the route every Friday, they were undisturbed in their conquest of sadism. She prayed for the couple, knowing that this was no territory for them, she wanted to speak up and warn them, but how could she when she herself had frozen to her seat. Her prayers were not answered, and as could be expected on any other day, there was a Lurker, walking down the street, towards them. He stared at the two, oblivious to the street-sleeper’s witness. Taking a left turn into an alleyway, the couple had no idea what was in store for them. Well, neither did the street-sleeper, but she had a fairly good idea about it. Almost too good an idea to forget so easily. She said another prayer, hoping that it wasn’t one of the Hierarchy Lurkers, but alas, human malevolence still found its way past the grasp of which ever god she prayed to in particular. Mixing a bow with half the sign of a cross and nodding to her left front and right, she tried her best but to no avail. The Lurker turned and glued his back to the darker wall of the alley, closer to the two, and just in the street-sleeper’s line of sight. Then the Lurker pulled out a revolver, designed with an ivory grip, and a pure silver receiver, it gleamed. She had front row seats to yet another spectacular performance by the one and only Mr. Hanz. The only Hierarchy Lurker to carry a revolver. Although she didn’t really know what the revolver was or how to classify it, she knew the shape, colour, and gleaming glint all too well.

“As the couple passed the dark side, the boy from the couple turned to face the darkness, as if he knew that Mr. Hanz was going to be there, waiting to pounce. It seemed as if the boy was prepared to fight for his woman. Tough luck kiddo, she thought as the single shot echoed across the walls of the alleyway, splattering his blood, bone, meat, and brain all over the walls, the sidewalk, the snow, and the girl. She turned away for a bit, but it was not as bad as the first time she saw that happen to a person who was unfortunate enough to have been ensnared to this road on a Lurker’s Friday night festivities. Shocked beyond words, the girl stood there, her arms up in utter awe as she peered through the gaping hole passing through the head of what was once the head of her boyfriend. Mr. Hanz smiled at her, but shoved the revolver into his pants. The girl wanted to scream and run away as her boyfriend’s body fell lifeless on the red snow. It looked close to that of an ice cream cone, except of course, there were the splattered body parts that mimicked toppings in a disturbing manner. The girl watched motionless as Mr. Hanz wiped the blood from his fingertips onto the shirt that lay beneath his trench coat. After a split second, he pulled out a switchblade and with a motion quicker than the first; he sliced her neck lightly, but with enough depth to cause her to choke on her own blood. He kept smiling at her with an oddly peaceful face, calm and soothing, knowing what he was about to do was going to be for his benefit. He might as well have kept her from screaming and choking in her own blood. It was better to have her question the reality rather than for her to think of anything else. Reality after all, was just perceived by many, and if one wishes to bend it, who are others to stop them?

“She was a pretty little thing, the street-sleeper thought as she watched, her body stiffening and fingers itching to dive right into that moist region smack-dab between her legs. It was like this, usually. She would hate watching it at first but slowly come to love it as soon as the Lurker cut the throat or knocked the victim out. She knew it was abnormal, resisting the urge to finger herself with all the power she had. She held her hands on her lap, taking in the cold for the sake of what seemed morally correct.

“Mr. Hanz was a skilled Lurker, a professional by heart. He dragged the boy’s body into the alleyway and picked the girl up, as she struggled to crawl away. She struggled, spilling blood on the coat and on his gloves. This would have been unproductive with regards to his hidden persona, but he was a professional, and he was always prepared with everything he needed; from the surgical gloves that lay above his leather gloves, to the disposable jogging pants, to the garbage bag with which he would place just one of his victims. The boy didn’t need much cleaning up to do. The alley dumpster was fine, and a little light shovelling with the portable spade he had was not that hard either. It was the girl that was going to be the problem, but of course, he had to do his thing first while she was fresh and alive. Pulling out an ice-pick, he stabbed her sides, right above the hip, rendering her nearly motionless, and then he began to undress her. Taking her top off as he twisted the ice-pick around inside her body, mixing her insides like some sort of sticky, gooey, soup. After undressing her, he merely unzipped his pants, revealing his erect penis. Taking his revolver out once more, he prodded the barrel into her vigorously, and pulled the trigger, heating up her crevice and shattering her ovaries. Perfect, now there’s no pregnancy risk. He never liked risks. He then proceeded to fuck her violently. All she could do was stare into his soothing face as he smiled. She could feel everything, the pained physical pleasure, the emotional chaos that tore through her brain like a chainsaw, everything. She felt everything. He climaxed in time for her last few breaths. Pulling out his penis from her cum-ridden vagina, he wiped it on her breasts as he began to cut them off with his switchblade. It was primitive, crude, but it was the only way he could reach orgasm. He finished with her, and began to cut her up, so that she would fit into the garbage bag. Tearing a hole into his jogging pants, he stabbed his leg with the ice-pick, marking his 14th & 15th victims with a stab each. It was a patterned set, with excellent handiwork with regards to the spacing of the wounds. Almost ruler perfect, if not for the human skin being so flexible. Using the spade every now and then to break a few of her bones, he took roughly 10 minutes of work. He was courteous not to make too much noise as the police cruiser passed by. There was no change in heart pace whatsoever, it was systemic, and he smiled while he worked. He was a professional.

“Limping out of the alleyway minutes later, the street-sleeper couldn’t help but finger herself. It felt good, and she knew it was sick, but how could she deny her calling? It was her nature after all to be like this, an outcast, a devil, a freak, a monster. She’d become what they called her, and she still did not fit into society. It made her wonder what Mr. Hanz’s secret was, being able to own a business empire that earned over 10 million dollars a day, as well as keep his dirty little secret as a Lurker, and maintain a healthy and productive family. It was just amazing to her. As she paused for a bit, Mr. Hanz finally noticed her, and instead of pulling out the revolver and shooting the only eye witness to his malice, he gave her a quick wave, calling out:

“Evening, Pam!”

She waved back with her free hand, and realized what she’d just done. She’d just been as evil as Mr. Hanz. She’d just laid there, as a witness to such deplorable acts, such acts that she herself abhorred with all her being. Such acts against her faith, whatever it was she believed in. She wept hard, into the snowfall that surrounded her, and she then again, realized why her sleeve was so wet. She had done the exact same thing she did mere hours ago, so long ago that she couldn’t recall it anymore, too long. With another ounce of nostalgia, she sat, watched, and wept all over again. It was just another Friday night and the couple, now dead, had just made a presumably sweet pre-Christmas sight.”

“You’re probably wondering why I tell you this story.” I said to the little boy who stood before me in the playground. He was no older than 7, and I doubt that his mind could handle the concepts of such devilish proportions, but either way, I needed to tell someone about it, and to who better than he who does not know more than one third of the vocabulary I just used. I bade the kid off to go back to his friends. He did, like any normal child would, but he turned to face me, and I could see in his hazel eyes that he somehow, somewhere in his brain, understood the whole damn story. I know you do, and I know you’ll find me odd for knowing such a tale, but you see, I can tell anyone this story, because nobody who knows this will ever make it out of this city alive. The kid was found dead in a dumpster later that week. The thing is, nobody found out who the killer was. No fingerprints, no hairs, no nothing, or at least that’s what the police say, but you never know who nudges their shoulders these days. I mean, owning a 10 million dollar empire, heck I could do that, but I know I don’t, because I am a professional. I please people with my smile and soothing looks, and people are happy with me. They should, or they won’t be happy at all, or breathing at all for that matter. Anyway, the question is, are you happy with me?

(c) Anachronic Works 2011

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