Sunday 26 February 2012

THE KILLER WITHIN.

I let the body drop to the floor; the entertainment value the victim has to offer diminishes quickly once they stop fighting to escape me, and I contemplate how I should dispose of this one. I try not to leave them visible as I don’t see the point in drawing in unwanted attention to my business.

The thought of cause and effect being focused entirely on me, the families of the victims I take are of no concern, well, not unless they are together when I attack anyway. There was a moment last week when I took out the entire family, now that had been a good evening.

I prod the fresh carcass to check life has, as I planned, left it, but there’s no sign of life now. There’s nothing worse that almost letting one get away, that just causes trouble and I don’t like trouble. No, much easier to remove the head sometimes just to make certain.

I move on, silently, the night is still young and I have a couple of hours left let before I need to turn in, so I look for more entertainment and its not long before I see my next pleasure and I watch for a moment from the shadows at the end of the garden. I can see the man of the house sat in the conservatory, his brown facial hair neatly trimmed above his lip.

He doesn’t know I’m watching, and that makes it more fun. Its not just in the kill’s I get, but in the chase, the build up and I stretch a little, letting the tension of the previous chase move on before I watch some more.

The mans wife enters and sits down opposite, she looks nice, well dressed, her hair is lighter than his, but they look the same age so I can guess its man and wife. Their daughter is younger, though old enough to have a job. I’ve seen her getting into a car with her mother before; they look like a nice family, that’s why I chose them.

I move slowly from shadow to shadow, stopping at every sound to ensure I am not being watched. From experience I know I am not the only one out tonight and I don’t want to be sidetracked. This is important to me, and there would be nothing worse than having the moment broken by another.

So far so good, the man is reading a paper, the others are talking, and I can hear them now through the window and its exciting that I am that close and they still don’t know I’m here.

`Don’t try to talk, Gemma.` She says to her daughter. `Your voice won’t get any better if you keep on trying to use it. I know it’s hard but you need to rest it, doesn’t she Steve? `

`What?” The man looks up. “Oh, yes. Rest it, just like your mother says. It needs to be better for the pub quiz next week.” He ruffles his paper and returns to reading, still oblivious to how close I am and that pleases me.

After all these years I’m still able to be invisible to them when I need to be, but time waits for no man, and I have places to be, things to do, so I make my move.

`Mandy! ` The man shouted suddenly as he spotted my face against the glass of the door. “Mandy Love, Open the door, neighbours cats here again. `Turn the heating up a little for her, she looks cold. `

Thursday 16 February 2012

WHICH WAY ARE YOU?

It’s a funny thing what people end up talking about when they’re drunk. The conversation can range from who you would eat first if you became a zombie tonight, through to whether the conversation you are having is a comatose dream. Well, that’s what men talk about when drunk anyway, but I can’t say I know what women talk about.
Either way, the conversation this Saturday got me thinking, now, most times I don’t even remember the conversation, but this one was a bit of a corker. I’d just come back from the lav, and John for some reason asked if I’d done a one or a two. I didn’t think too much about the question itself, but the following conversation went something like this.

“So, was it a Gypsy Kiss or a Tom Tit?” John smirked as I re turned.
“A Tom.” I sat down and looked around to make sure no one else was listening in “Thanks for asking.” I liked John but sometimes he could be a Merchant Banker if you get my drift.
“So, which way did you wipe?”
“What?”
“Which way?” he repeated as though this resolved the question.
“There’s only one way, isn’t there?”

And that got me thinking, to do proper research that night I asked as many girls as I could find before doing practical testing back home. Now, do keep in mind the volume of beer I’d consumed already, so the equal volume of slaps or disgusted looks didn’t faze me, I even got numbers from two girls who I presume liked the route of my questions, but that’s not what I’m doing here. So after as much research as I could do, I found that there are four options available, which was a surprise to me.

Option number one is the Beday, one of those fountain things that fire water straight up you, and wash’s you clean, it’s not an option I ever imagine trying to be honest.
Option number two is the upper, the hand below and wipe upwards but this can cause spreading and sleeve fouling.
Option number three is the Downer, this appears to be the obvious way, pushing the waste away from you and into the toilet below, but strangely the second least used.
Option number four is the Pincher, these people are the smaller percentage of all, and they tend to hold, grip and pull. I won’t explain any more that that though.

Some people can do a few options I guess, maybe an up first followed by a downer. Or a Pinch followed by an up, but almost all admitted to looking afterwards.
So, it turned out to be an odd evening, on waking I realised there are the four options and felt the urge to share my research. There is just one thing to follow though, due to the nature of my prior drinking experiment I discovered there is an overriding fifth option and I just wish I’d thought of it before I started, but beer can do that to you.

Use toilet paper, or like me, you’ll be spending the rest of the day washing the bathroom, your sheets and cleaning your keyboard.

Wednesday 8 February 2012

THE FIX

“John, you gotta help me. Bob said I should talk to you.” Mike sat down and placed a pint in front of him. There was a pleading look behind his eyes.

“Why, what’s up with you?” John sipped at the fresh beer; he was not one to pass up a free pint. “It’s not that rash again is it? I told you to…”

“No. No.” Mike shook his head as he realised the route the conversation could go. “No, it’s not me this time. It’s Janice, I think she’s addicted. Mike said Beverly was a few years ago and you helped her off it.” John watched patiently as Bob drunk from his pint, eventually placing the pint pot on the table and licked his lips with satisfaction.

“Bob,” John nodded. “Is correct, Beverly did have some issues about a year ago, and maybe I can help. When did it start?”

“I think about three months ago.”

“Think or know? There’s a huge difference.”

“Okay, three months ago, I’d been working lots of hours, working away and all. I didn’t think anything of it when I got back, she just seemed, well, you know, frisky to see me.”

“That’s how it starts, a little at a time, boredom usually kicks it off. They start thinking they can give it up, that it’s easy. That’s how it got Beverly. Just a little here and there, before I knew it she was blowing almost all our money on it.” John looked at his pint and Bob quickly stood up and got him another.

“Thanks.” He smiled as he took the new pint in his hands. “Like I was saying, a little at a time, that’s how it starts, it’s usually boredom, it gives them that lack of attention they crave. Someone suggests something new, invites them round to their house and the next thing you know your months rent is gone. You got any idea who got her into it?”

“I have a few, her bloody sister for a start. I heard rumours she was a heavy user though after seeing her husband I wasn’t surprised. But I never thought it would happen to me.”

“You never see it coming.” John shook his head. “Then, once its here, you wonder how you ever missed it.”

“So what can I do about it? Is it too late? Is there a group I can get her into? I have to get her back, the kids need her, damn it, I need her.” Panic seemed to take over, and John reached across the table and grabbed his shoulders.

“Get it together man, people are watching.” John looked round the pub. “Don’t be daft, of course there are groups, they’re filled with people like you, trying to help. It’s not only women you know, men can be affected too. Do you remember Simon?”

“No way! Simon, the body builder?”

“Yes, seems he’d being doing if for months before anyone had any idea. He was getting his stuff from all over the place. That’s why he moved away, once people realised what he was doing, they never looked at him the same way. He lives in Scunthorpe now I think, still does it.”

“So, what can I do?”

“Best bet is to disconnect the internet, if she can’t get on EBay, you should be safe.”

Monday 6 February 2012

TIME

After costing him many years of his life on research and almost all of his fortune, Darren had finally realised that immortality itself was not possible. The basic fact when you boiled it down was that the body wore away as time passed, so therefore, the best you could hope for after 300 years was to be a blob of muscle, mucus and membranes that once upon a time was labelled as your body. Each test, each theoretical model he ran ended up with the same, jelly like state.

He felt a little let down to have spent so much of his life trying to find the answer that actually switching off and having what others would have called a normal life was impossible to him, and, even though he’d tried, the scientist in him always came back to the basics again.

If only he could slow down time, he reasoned, then a hundred years could be stretched to maybe a thousand or more, therefore the body would survive longer. It wasn’t quite immortality, but it was close, and after so many years, he was happy with close.

That being said, he’d started to study the passage of time, not only how certain people seemed to get more done in a day than others, how those certain people felt the day lasted longer than the normal 24 hours, but also those that the day blinked passed after what felt like five.

His theory was that time must be a certain size, and some people would absorb time faster than others and he’d taken blood from those who claimed time went faster for them, and those whose life dragged on. From the blood he’d found a chemical, a single chemical bond that those whose days passed more slowly possessed that the others did not, a simple anti-time mixture.

The chemical had not been easy to replicate though, but the last of his inheritance and the sale of his estate had finally brought him to this point, this point in time when he would be able to slow time around him. If all went well, he’d be a step close to immortality, the very elixir from the fountain of youth itself.

The Perspex container he’d designed would allow him to work in the gas, thus giving him more hours in the day and therefore more days in the year. Jubilantly he stepped inside and closed and sealed the door behind him, and with a final smile of satisfaction he sat down with a copy of War and Peace and took a note of the time on the clock outside the container.

If everything went well, he would be able to read the total book in the next few hours, or minutes even. Pressing the button on his console, he flooded the chamber with the chemical and relaxed back as he breathed it in.

As the toxic gas filled his lungs he realised his error, but by then it was too late to stop it taking effect. The irony was that he’d aimed to become immortal, that the gas would keep him alive longer, but, as he started to spasm and his mouth to froth, the next minute actually did last him the rest of his life, so it wasn’t a total failure.

Sunday 5 February 2012

HUMAN MUMIFICATION - The idiots guide to the Human Mummification process.

Mummification was first recorded in Egypt, and the oldest recorded mummy was dated at around 3,300 BC, this mummy was called Ginger, due to her red hair which was still visible when she was found.

The basic process relies upon the removal of the internal organs first, as these are obviously the first things to de-compose. Once the body is cleaned, originally using palm oil, but lime oil can be used just as well, then the organs are removed and either disposed of, or placed in jars to be buried with the body.

The body was then covered in `Natron` to dry it out, but common salt works here. Asda sell 1KG bags for just over a pound a bag, usually four or five will be enough, especially if you place the corpse in the bath first and left for a month. The organs can be added back at this point, or blended and flushed down the toilet.

At this stage, the body is usually dried and can be stuffed with anything to hand. I found that bundles of newspaper make the body look lumpy, but the inner of a cushion leaves a more life like result. I found that using a fine, clear thread worked better for stitching, but be careful with the needle, a simple prick on the finger can leave a tell tail stain on the body.

Once re-sealed, the body can be dressed or wrapped in bandages, and as long as the organs have been removed correctly, including the brain, then there is little chance of it coming back to life, or smelling like rotten cabbage, something I wish I had read about before I started.

My neighbours complained you see, and it wasn’t long before the police arrived and arrested me. How was I to know that the brain would turn to mush, still, my Mum would have been proud of the stitching, though it was a shame to ruin the blender.

If you require any further information, please do not hesitate to contact me at the below address, I should be here for some time


Ian Hawley
Cell 13, Block B.
Strangeways.

THE EXPEDITION

George spat the blood from his mouth before he rubbed the side of his face. The punch had been fast and totally unexpected and he tried to figure out why Paul had hit him. He could see him a short distance away, kicking over the supply boxes, spilling their silver packages onto the sand.

They were many miles away from civilisation, on an expedition deep in the desert, a quest to find the lost city of `Kulimara` and the treasures it held. Paul had been planning this for seven years now; poring over every map and document he could find in order to calculate its exact location.

George had been responsible for finances and supplies, something at the time he’d felt was a little beyond his experience but he’d done his best. He’d organised the tents they had at base camp to be shipped over and set up, he’d organised the lift from the airport with all their supplies, and he’d manage to save some of their precious little money on the supplies, by buying them over here.

He stood and started to walk over to his friend. “Paul!” he called. “What the hell was that for?”

“What?” Paul stopped kicking the supplies and looked at him, “You’ve ruined everything, George, everything.” He picked up a food packet and angrily threw it at him.

“Why have I ruined everything?” George picked up the packet as he walked closer. “I got us here didn’t I?” He waved the packet of dehydrated potatoes as he spoke. “I organised the hotel we stayed in, the Tents and the transport just as you asked me to.”

Paul dropped to his knees and screamed at the sky before squeezing his head in his hands in despair. “Okay, George.” Paul didn’t look at him as he spoke. “The Hotel was good, the transport was good and the tents are good, I’ll give you that.”

“What’s wrong with the supplies?” George walked over to the boxes and opened the first one, taking one out. “I don’t get you; we’ve got dehydrated supplies, enough to last us three months out here.” Paul stormed over, ripping the packet from his hand before tearing the top of it open and tipping the contents out.

“What the hell is this?” he asked.

“That’s Dehydrated Peaches.” George stood watching him as he took another packet and did likewise.

“And this?”

“That’s Dehydrated Cabbage.”

“How the hell are we supposed to eat these?” Paul stood almost nose to nose with him now.

“Don’t be stupid.” George tried to smile. “You can’t eat these as they are.” He opened a box stacked behind him. “You add one of these.”

“And what, is that?” Saliva started to appear as Paul spoke, and George wasn’t sure if it was a trick question.

“It’s a packet of Dehydrated water, the guy I got it from said it would save us loads of weight.”

“And that is why I did this.” Paul said as he punched him again.

Thursday 2 February 2012

The Trophy

Joshua trudged up the garden path to his house and cursed his luck. In his rush to leave this morning he’d missed the morning weather report and left his umbrella at home. By the time he’d got off the bus, he’d realised his mistake as storm clouds started to mass on the horizon, and his work colleague laughed at him when they realised he only had his suit for protection.

After a long and hard day in the office, he’d rushed to the bus stop, arriving just in time to see it vanishing in the distance as the rain started. The drops didn’t come one at a time though, that would have been too easy. What the storm decided to do was let all the rain go at the same time and drop everything in a single wall of water onto his head.

After twenty minutes of waiting for a bus that should come every five minutes, Joshua had decided to walk the ten minutes home, so now, he was soaked to the skin and his fingers looked wrinkly, like an old mans as they pushed open the gate to his garden, and he squelched up the garden path to his front door.

The parcel stood proudly on his mat, somehow having avoided the rain, and water dripped onto the brown paper wrapping from his nose as he bent down to pick it up and he angrily wiped them away.

Slipping his key into the lock he trudged inside, dropping the parcel onto the kitchen table before he sloshed upstairs to change into something dryer, and warmer. His toes looked pruned as he peeled his socks off, kicking them into the corner near his laundry basket. His head ached from the cold so much that he’d forgotten about the parcel completely until he returned to the kitchen an hour later to make his tea and he felt rather stupid for forgetting.

A quick investigation revealed no indication of what might be inside and it had been over a month now since he’d purchased anything from Ebay, and it certainly wasn’t his birthday. He grabbed a knife from the draw and carefully sliced the parcel tape before opened the lid. The parcel contained a large amount of packing material, and it took him a moment to actual find the item inside. It was a large trophy with the word `Suspense` written on it.

“What are you for?” He asked himself, a habit that due to living alone he had quickly cultivated. “Why have you been sent to me I wonder?” For twenty minutes Joshua sat looking at it, turning it over and over in his hands as he tried to fathom the reason behind such a strange gift.

With no further clue to be found from the item itself, he directed his attention back to the box. A further rummage revealed nothing else, so he carefully removed the packing material in the hope of it giving him a clue as to who the sender was, or the reason, said item had been dispatched to him in the first place.

Right down at the bottom of the box was a small card and as he pulled it free he tutted to himself as he realised he must have opened the box upside down, the note simply read, `To Joshua, my Son.`

Joshua scratched his head. It was certainly an odd gift for his father to send, and he sat there for some time pondering over the reason, after twenty minutes he reaslised there was obviously a simple way to find out why, he’d just call his Father and ask.

So, with that thought in mind he picked up the phone and pressed the numbers to call his father, smiling to himself as the phone beeped a pleasant tune as he dialled, before he waited for it to be answered. After twenty rings the answer machine picked up.

“Hi, I’m not in right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”