Genital Grinder (4 page)

“Is a pig’s ass pork?” Greg replied.

“Be right back.” Von scaled the basement steps, growing accustomed to the feel of Claire’s ass bound around him. He extracted some sandwich meat from the fridge with the appropriate condiments, as well as some French bread. Halfway through completing his task, he figured he should wash his hands.

As he dried them off, a siren went off in his head—he’d left Greg alone with the body. He crept down the stairs far enough to where he could get a quick look-see at how Greg had chosen to occupy himself. Von silently cursed his carelessness as he watched.

Greg had further slit open Claire’s belly with a box cutter and yanked out her bladder. He now held it over his head as he ran it through with the knife, each gouge showering him with another yellow stream in a postmortem golden shower.

Von steamed. Bad enough the son of a bitch had crammed that toilet brush up his ass God knew how many times—no, he’d had to damage that most blessed of gifts, something that would
never
simply fall into Von’s lap again as long as he lived. He could practically feel part of his soul die forever in that moment. If the universe had been sizing them up to make this whole ultra convenient hit-and-run recovery thing a regular gig, Greg had singlehandedly proven them both unworthy forever. You make the most of damaged goods; you don’t corrupt them.

Von went back to the kitchen and undid his jeans. He opened Greg’s sandwich and slid his meat between the bread and fixings. He was uncircumcised, and an appreciable amount of pud butter was still congealing in his foreskin. Von solved the problem by wiping it clean on the bread, then patted it shut.

Greg tried to act like nothing had happened while Von was away, the bladder held behind his back as if his mysterious outbreak of liquid jaundice wasn’t a pulsing neon sign. Von passed him the sandwich, thinking,
Can’t have a submarine without semen now, can we?
That a bodily excretion inside of an edible Trojan horse might be like water off a duck’s back to his friend—the guy who had just moments ago cornholed his dead cousin and slashed open her bladder like it would yield scented bath oils—never occurred to him.

He heard a sound like a washcloth being dropped in the bathtub. It was Claire’s bladder hitting the back wall as Greg tried to ditch the evidence. A bovine look of innocence plastered on his face, Greg took a heroic bite out of his contaminated sandwich, sinewy strands of meat pulling taut and snapping as he tore away, a token
Mmmmmmm!
as his compliment to the chef. If Von hadn’t been looking for the wince of disgust on his pal’s face, he might have missed it. Greg never missed a beat, nodding as he chewed, eyes slightly watery.

This, along with another joy-buzz, restored Von’s good mood.

He was hard again.

JOURNAL ENTRY, JANUARY 21

Where does something like this begin? You wake up every day and ask yourself how it became what it is and you always come back to fantasy. This kind of fantasizing, though . . . it doesn’t suddenly happen. It isn’t like those dreams in the womb, images from a life you haven’t even begun. Or at least it doesn’t seem that way.

So you ask yourself—why the fantasies?

You immediately think of the magazines. They were in a box in the attic, guarded by the torso of a mannequin. The attic light bulb burned out sometime after Christmas and had not been replaced by summer. You were bored enough to look around anyway. No school and all your friends were on vacation, so you got adventurous. It was early afternoon and the sun was as bright as a camera flash through the only window.

It indicated the box.

That’s what you thought years later. You were meant to find the box and the heavens conspired to make sure you did. You opened it and then sat down in the surrounding pool of light, as though the pull of gravity was greatly concentrated in that one special area.

Ironically a good deal of the magazines you found were issues of
Life,
although many of the images on the cover were devoted to the antithesis of its namesake.

Death triumphant.

The War to End All Wars.

You didn’t really care about this, though. School was in a few weeks, you’d hear plenty of it then. The other magazines you found, though . . . you weren’t going to hear Ms. Garza talk about them in a classroom. Not ever.

Time had not been especially kind to them. The pages were yellowed and slight water damage left waves on some of the covers. They looked like comic books at first, which might have been interesting anyway, but then you saw they were something else. They bore the title
SHOCKING DETECTIVE.
The covers were illustrated, united by a theme similar to
the
Life
coverage of the War to End All Wars.

The theme was women.

Women in various stages of undress.

Women in peril.

They all looked like Hollywood starlets who lived in the same apartment building. They could have been sisters, these redheads, brunettes, and blondes. They were all beautiful, they were all voluptuous, they were all terrified—their mouths set in a silent scream that seemed to resound far beyond the barriers of the page.

They all had male visitors.

Men with masks and black gloves.

Men with knives.

You were initially disappointed when you opened these issues of
Shocking Crimes
and discovered they weren’t illustrated after all; only the covers were artistically rendered. You were still interested enough to read them, though, even if there was going to be plenty of
that
in school, too.

Who could have resisted the allure of the articles, though? Such titles! “Madman Mutilated the Missouri Mother!” “Sadist Slaughtered Six Southern Belles!” “Fiend Filleted Aunt Frieda!”

The promise didn’t stop there. Even a cursory glance of the articles revealed several highlighted captions throughout which presented the horror in bigger letters and bolder print.

For instance:

“Her husband of fifteen years couldn’t even recognize her. Several blows to her face and an aborted attempt to burn her remains resulted in damage too extensive for identification. ‘You’d never believe that twisted mass of burnt decay was ever a human being,’ said coroner Brad Zeller.”

But not to be outdone by:

“The murder weapon was obviously an axe. There were deep grooves consistent with overhead swings of said instrument in sixteen wounds on her body. There were also footprint indentations on her rib cage, as though the killer stood on her to help him withdraw the axe so that he could swing it again . . . and again . . . and again.”

They were always crimes of passion, if not necessarily in the traditional sense. This wasn’t about retribution because of a cheating wife. This was something deeper. You understood that then, even if you could never have verbalized it. This was about a sacred drama, scenes from a ritual unfolding in unremarkable corners of Everywhere.

Where does something like this begin?

It began with
Shocking Crimes
and a simple connection.

You then became I, and I have killed six women.
He knew little about the Slave Murders and it would have stayed that way were it not for the special report on
Channel Two News.
Maybe he wouldn’t have even watched it had Jana been there, but of course she was not.

“Residents of Bartok vividly recall the terror of twenty-five years ago when the murderer who called himself the Slave Killer stalked these very streets.” The platinum blonde reporter, Geisha Hammond, gestured dramatically behind her to reveal the horror of Bartok pedestrians and middle class cars. “It was here in this peaceful community that the notorious serial killer took the lives of a confirmed four victims. Some experts believe the number could be as high as eighteen.”

Cut to:

A so-called expert: Dr. Julius Vincent. “Why would he stop at four? This guy
liked
what he was doing. Nothing short of incarceration or illness would stop him.”

Geisha Hammond returned. “Was the Slave Killer imprisoned for an unrelated crime or possibly committed to a mental institution? These questions cannot be answered definitively now, but one thing
is
for sure: After twenty-five years, some believe the Slave Killer has picked up where he left off.”

That got his attention.

They played familiar news footage from the year before. Forensic experts and detectives got in each other’s way as they scoured an open field. Like the point of a painting from which all lines emanate, a crumpled form lay behind them under a white sheet which fluttered in the autumn wind.

“The body of Deborah Willis was discovered on October 15th,” Geisha narrated. “No one could know that it was only the beginning of a reign of terror.” News footage from an almost identical crime scene intervened. “When Leslie Kinderman turned up under similar circumstances on November 17th, however, it began to seem chillingly familiar to long-time residents of Bartok.”

The crisp picture of Leslie Kinderman’s discovery became a more washed out, shaky clip from twenty-five years ago. More cops converging on an outdoor crime scene, with thicker hairstyles and cheaper looking suits. Disco Inferno after the body clean-up.

“The death of Anita Banks was a far more puzzling crime then, seemingly without any kind of motive. The perpetrator was thought to be a drifter, but the murder of Helen Mitchell a mere month later complicated this theory. The victims had little in common, except that they both caught the eye of a dangerous killer.”

JOURNAL ENTRY, FEBRUARY 1

They were all whores. There’s no story if the papers come right out and say it, because no one cares if some slut winds up dead in a ditch somewhere. So they try to portray them as responsible citizens. They paid their taxes, they provided for their children, they filled up soup bowls so a bunch of worthless bums wouldn’t starve to death, etc.

If only everyone could see them the way I do, though. If they could hear the things I do when I notice them. Thoughts loud enough to be voices.

“That gleam in her eye—naked sexual lust. Something for you to see, but never experience. That’s her game. Maybe you should follow her and teach her your game.”