My Confession

I am what I am and will continue to be what I am until one of the following three things happens: I am dead, I am caught, or I am tired of killing. I am not afraid of any of these options, though I confess death has more appeal than prison. So, on that day when the FBI or police come, I will not go quietly into that dark car.

I am at a loss for words when I ponder how or why great minds such as Dahmer’s and Gacy’s could have permitted themelves to be tucked away in a dank cell until someone led them down that aisle and gave them away, uniting them with Death. The idea is as outrageous as trying to tame an adult lion. I am a lion. I thought those men were, too. I have since found they were kittens, waiting to be domesticated.

I am not an animal that needs the big house until my wedding day. And I am not in need of litterbox training. I am what I was born to be.

I am always amused by the author or expert on the news that says, “Serial killers have a desire to be caught.” I assure you, I am no such creature. There are those who point to this confession and its method as evidence to the contrary, but I am sure they are wrong. I am, after all, the one who knows my reasons better than anyone else. I have no fear of confessing here, because I am quicker and smarter than those chasing me. They are lumbering baboons and I am the lion. For as long as I desire, I am the king of this jungle.

I am wild.

I am hunting.

I am unstoppable.

There are times when I will pull out the old newspaper article, set it on the back of the toilet, and use it in place of my Hustlers and Swanks. I’ve found I can only fantasize about the same woman caught in my grasp so many times before it becomes ineffective. Now, don’t get me wrong, the little demon never has any problems ascending. It’s just the fleeting nature of the magic. Ten, twenty, thirty-seven times strangling the same girl or removing the same inflated bag of bought breasts becomes less and less appealing with each passing. Incidentally, for those who don’t know, breast implants have serial numbers on them these days. So, if you want to make sure a big breasted bimbo isn’t identified, you’ve got to get the boobie bag out and do something with it.

But there we were at the party, the blue-eyed angel and this two-eyed man led around by the one-eyed demon. A little after 1:30 in the A.M., as the party rocked on and the partygoers wobbled or sat half-sleeping on the sofa, stairs, and floor, I kept my eye on Ashley. When I noticed her beginning to make her rounds again, saying goodnight to friends, I took my leave. I slipped away from the party, into the warm night and waited.

A few minutes later, the music flowed into the darkness–increasing in intensity–as the door opened and the temptress stepped out. She closed the door and started walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. That wouldn’t do. I rushed over to her, startling her when my hand clapped down on her delicate shoulder.

“Oh my God,” Ahsley said as she whirled around, clutching at her breast.

“Sorry.” I flashed the most disarming smile I could muster. It wasn’t easy, because I knew what was in store for her. At least, I had an idea.

“What’re you doing?” she asked.

I pulled out a cigarette and pressed it between my lips. As I lit it, I watched the far end jitter. It was amazing how a couple of inches magnified the unfelt nervousness in my lips. Blowing out that first puff of smoke, I said, “Was hoping you’d want to get a cup of coffee or something.”

The sea green light of the street lamp dripped into her blue eyes and reflected out of them as they ran down my body and up again. “Okay,” she said.

But we didn’t go for coffee. Instead, we hopped in my car and made our way down to a forested park near the river where we sat on a gazebo and chatted for a short while before our lips began a wrestling match. Her mouth was soft and warm. I’d love to say it was sweet, too, but the truth was the bitter taste of beer clung to her slippery tongue.

“You want to go back to my place?” she asked. “My roommate’s there, but she’s probably sleeping.”

No, that wouldn’t do. And we couldn’t go to my place. I didn’t know how much she would scream and I couldn’t chance the neighbors overhearing.

I took her small hand in mine, felt the warm smooth skin of her fingers as I wove mine between them.

“How ’bout a walk for now?” I asked.

Ashley’s angelic eyes narrowed down as if she were deep in thought for a moment. They scooted to the side, glimpsing a dark path that led into the blacker woods. “Okay.”

And that was it. A few minutes later, we were beneath the canopy of leaves and branches, sitting on a park bench and lip-wrestling again. This time, though, my hand slithered up between the red shirt and the soft skin of her torso. A jolt of electricity shot from my belly to my groin when my fingers first touched the silky fabric of her bra and felt her fleshy mound straining against the restricting undergarment. I had to set those breasts free. The moment my hand worked its way around to her back and–with a snapping motion–unclasped her bra, revealing the secret Victoria fought to keep, Ashley moaned in my mouth.

I have no doubt you can figure out what happened over the next few minutes, so rather than sully her memory with the sordid details, allow me to skip ahead to the moment when she was standing there buck naked in the shadows, her ashy body  facing away from me as she bent over, resting her head and hands on the back of that park bench as the little demon drove into her, backed out, and pulled in again.

As Ashley groaned and gave high-pitched pleasured winces, my eyes scoured the darkness around us. I listened for sounds of anyone’s approaching. Seeing and hearing nothing but the animal noises we made, I repositioned her body, laying her out on the grainy wooden bench with her buttocks on the arm. Then, as the demon whipped into her garage again, my hands pressed down on her pelvis. I could feel the moving bulge just above her manicured patch of pubic hair as the one-eyed devil plunged in and out. My hands wandered upward, sliding over the mirroring xylophones of her ribs. Up. Over the baseball breasts. Over the erect rubbery nipples. Up. Over her clavicles.

I stopped and looked around.

“What?” she asked, nervousness filling her voice. Her head came up an inch or two from the seat and she looked around. I could tell I had spooked her.

“Nothing.” I pounded into her several times with lunatic fury, trying to get her mind back into the moment.

As soon as she closed her eyes and let out a quiet sigh, my hands went up a little further. My fingers wrapped around the back of her neck. My thumbs pressed down on her throat.

Ashley’s eyes shot open like two shades that had been pulled down and released.

I squeezed harder, still pushing and pulling my hips.

She looked like a goldfish slayed out on a counter as she gulped for air. Her hands rocketed toward my face. Her feet kicked. I leaned against her left leg, pinning it against the back of the bench so she couldn’t roll off. Then I pressed harder and harder.

My eyes scanned the blackness around us again. I kept thinking, when is this chick going to die?  I imagined other post-midnight lovers stumbling upon us and almost lost my nerve. But it was too late to turn back. There was no unringing this bell. Marks like those sure to remain if I let her up would be enough for her to have me convicted at least for rape if not attempted murder. Prison? Not an option. I pressed my thumbs down harder, clenched my hands tighter.

Then pop. I heard the strange noise and felt the little thump in my thumbs and fingertips.

Ashley’s eyes were wide and bright for an instant. But it was like watching a flashlight turn off in slow motion. I swear I saw the brilliance of those bulbs fade from them until they were as dim as the eyes of a fish on ice in the grocery store display case. Her bladder let loose. I felt the hot stream shoot out against my balls and trickle down my legs. I paused. Listened. Glanced around. Then I finished with a crescendo.

I could get used to this, I thought. And so I have.

Thank God I had the forethought to clip the article concerning Ashley’s “disappearance.” I exact a great deal of pleasure revisiting this article form time to time. 

In the beginning was the word and the word was kill and the target of the word was made flesh in the form of Ashley. She was in the world, but I knew little of her. It was months between that chance meeting on the old porch when the word manifested itself to me and the next time I saw her. By then, I had had the opportunity to gird myself for the mission. By then, I had masturbated so many times with the image of her dying body behind my closed eyes that I could not back down from the challenge.

I was at a keg party with everyone around me drunk and stoned. Me, I nursed my booze, hoping to see my fallen angel in search of some ephemeral pleasure. A sloppy drunk makes a sloppy killer. A sloppy killer makes headlines–especially after that conviction. So, much as I wanted to funnel down beers with everyone else or hit the pipe a couple of times to steel my nerves, I knew I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to pull off the perfect crime.

I spun around when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hey.” It was Ashley, her voice filled with a lilt of surprise.

I tried to play it cool. I knew there were eyes-o-plenty in that place and I didn’t want too many people seeing us together. “Hi.” That was it. That was all I said.

Ashley chattered away about something for a couple of minutes, but I have no idea what she said. I couldn’t hear her above the squeals and screams in my head. The powerful image of my fantasies came back to me, blocking everything, stirring the demon in my boxers.

“Let me get you another,” I said, taking the red plastic cup from her hand. “Be right back.”

I wanted her to be drunk enough to lower her guard, but not so drunk she wouldn’t enjoy what I had in store for her. Already, her eyes were like two pieces of Fenton glass with a touch of sheen to them, but they needed more. She needed more alcohol. And I needed to keep my distance from her. Even most drunk people know one and one is two.

After filling her cup with beer from the keg, I wondered if I could score some quick X or roofies. I saw several people I knew might have some, but decided against asking. A tox screen would reveal the drugs in her system–if they found her body–and that might lead back to me. No. I needed to play smart. I handed Ashley her unspiked beer and excused myself with some bullshit about hitting the head. Then I made myself scarce for a while.

As I mingled with the large crowd, doing everything to make it appear as a night like any other, I kept my eye on the blond angel as she made her rounds, blessing the congregation. She had beautiful lips, full in the center, but with steep tapers at the ends that brought the corners of her mouth to sharp points. When she smiled, she showed most of her pearly whites and a little of her pink upper gum. The red spaghetti strap shirt she wore hugged her baseball-sized breasts, curved under them and snapped to her flat midriff. It was almost as if the shirt were a size too small for her, but just long enough to come to the top of her blue shorts. Sometimes, when she moved or twisted, the hem of that shirt came up, exposing a tiny portion of her tan belly.

Just thinking about it now has sparked a flame within my loins. I will finish this story later. At the moment, The little demon is up and I must go put him down.

Some men chase greatness, others have it thrust upon them. It’s the same with a career choice. Some people grow up wanting to be doctors. Others end up teachers because they cannot make a living doing anything else. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against teachers, but let’s face it. Why the hell would anyone want to deal with a bunch of snotty-nosed toddlers and teens all day for peanuts. I remember my high school english teacher. She fancied herself a great writer. If she was so frigging great, she’d have been selling novels instead of pushing back papers covered in red ink. She really was a worthless bitch. My only regret is that the job chose me too late and a bad ticker claimed her life before I could. I’d have had fun carving that bitch up the way she used to carve up my homework. A little red here, a lot of red there. Take this out. Let’s put this in here. How do you like your paragraphs now, Mrs. H? Yes, that’s what she liked to be called. I used to sit in class thinking about it. Some days H was for horrible. Other days it was just plain ho. Every day, she was humongous, humorless, and hateful. It’s no wonder Death caught her early.

Anyway, back to the topic. Mother and father used to like to strip me down and take photos of me when I was going through puberty. That’s the kind of shit you want to hear, right? Sorry. It was nothing like that. I grew up in a middle-class family with both parents. On Sundays and Wednesdays we went to church as a family, sang hymns–are you washed? Yes, I am washed in the blood of the Lamb–we went to lunch and dinner with other families from church, my sister and I did VBS, we had pleasant family vacations and a dog named Yoyo. It was a normal life. I didn’t pull the flies from the wings. I didn’t crush puppies under my feet. I didn’t have sex until I was seventeen. Mother and father never used the rod, but they didn’t spare it. The simple fact was they never needed it where I was concerned. I listened. I did what I was told. My sister was another story. She was a naughty girl from the get go. A couple of years older than me, she used to make me play things like two minutes in the closet with her friends. I didn’t mind. I got to see real live tits when I was ten. Got my first blowjob when I was twelve. Mothers watch your daughters. Just because the little tarts go to church doesn’t mean they’re innocent.

One day, everything changed. I saw Ashley up on that old porch. She was a friend of a friend at college. She was sitting there looking . . . ravishable. I had met her once before and she remembered my name.

   “OPK, right?” she said. (Of course she used the name the parents gave me). Something about the way she said it made me realize I could have her.
   “Yep,” said I. Then I fumbled for her name.
   “Ashley.”
   Ah, Ashley, an angel asking for a little injection of demon. Yeah, I’d inject her.

In that instant, I saw myself pounding away, ramming my little devil into her heavenly opening, and then–wham!–my ghoulish hands encompassed her neck. My thumbs injected themselves into her throat, pushing harder, deeper, as I thrust in and out. I imagined her bright blue eyes glistening with water as they buldged and became bloodshot. And while that moment of dream gripped my mind, I felt the stirring in my boxers. I felt the head of my pecker brushing against the cotton cloth as it arched it’s way upward.

As I took up residence on the railing beside her, I realized that day, that Death had chosen me as an instrument. My life was no longer my own. I had to follow the instructions given to me.

To the registrar of this domain, I am Hairy Wang. To LEOs, Law Enforcement Officers, I am Mystery. Today, I will pick a common name. After all, I am a common man. I am no different from the pipe fitters and electricians going to work each morning. My job is death. It’s always good when you can do something you love for a living.

One good thing about my job is the name game. Oh, deep down, I always know who I am, but it’s fun to recreate myself. To pick out new identities and names. Perhaps I will grow some facial hair and take the name Michael Beard for a week or two, at least until I finish the current gig. Then maybe I will shave the beard, leave that caterpillar on my upper lip and become Joseph Stash. Joe Smooth to my friends back home. Joe Lover for a week or two. Then Joe Nightmare or Joe Killa. Amusing little things like these are perks of the job. Like health and dental or a 401k.

It takes a certain type of mind, a brilliance if I say so myself, to play the name game. Russell Crowe and Johnny Depp may be someone else for a few months as they shoot a film, but when they go home each night, they’re still Rusty, still John. And once the filming is over, they are back to themselves until the next project. That’s acting–entertainment–but there is nothing brilliant about it. They have scripts to tell them who they are and what they think and feel. But an occupation such as mine, where the name game is survival, requires so much more brain power and acting ability than those Hollywood whoremongers. I reinvent myself, my history, my childhood home, schools, ex-lovers, everything every few weeks or months. Try to remember all those details and not get tripped up. The first time I noticed I was slacking was when I was with Ann #2. We had taken a ride down to the beach and I said it reminded me of the sand dunes near where I grew up in Michigan.
   “I thought you grew up in Oklahoma,” Ann #2 said.
   Quick recovery. “I did. My grandparents lived Sawyer, Michigan, near the Warren Dunes. I spent a couple of summers there.”
   For a bright girl, Ann #2 was easily duped. But I learned my lesson–ABC–Always Be Cognizant.

The first girl I killed was incredible, but she wasn’t the best. I was too nervous to enjoy it as much as I should have. I was still nervous for the second and third, but not as much. There’s just something about the first time you kill someone that makes it surreal. I would bet dimes to dollars whether you’re a cop, a soldier on the battlefield, or just an ordinary person such as myself, that the first time you took a life–whether you did it with your bare hands or a rifle from 200 yards–you felt nervous just beforehand and more alive than ever after.

You never forget the first time, either. I’ve talked to old codgers who were in Vietnam and WW2. I’ve known a couple of cops in my short life. They all agree with me. They all remember that first Kraut, that first slant, that first gangbanger that refused to go to the pen. The years didn’t erase it from memory. I’m happy to say the years I’ve spent in this current occupation hasn’t dulled that first memory for me, either.

Ashley. God, she was a beautiful girl. Dumb as a brick on life support, mind you, but a doll nonetheless. I sometimes wish I took a little time to know her better. I’ve since learned some of the most joyful kills are those who think they know you. It’s hilarious the way their eyes get all big and saucerlike when they realize you ain’t the man they thought you were. There’s a look I adore. Maybe one day, I will snap a photo or two of it and post it. You wouldn’t believe how much white you can see in that instant.

Perhaps before I go further, I should point out a couple of things.

You’re probably wondering why oldporch.com. It’s simple. The first time I saw Ashley, she was sitting on an old porch. She had her little bottom on the rail, her heels drawn up against that tight ass, and her back against the post at the corner. The sunlight and wind played on her blond hair, giving it a golden sheen. It was divine. She looked like a full-fledged angel. Minus the wings of course. So, it’s a bit of nostalgia that brings me to this domain. Each time I log in and see the name, I think of her. My heart races, my loins grumble, and I feel hunger pangs.

For those who are interested, like Mr. FBI Guy and the technogeeks out there, a who-is search will reveal that old porch is registered to one Hairy Wang in China. If you’re in the neighborhood, look me up. Don’t worry, the poeple at the building should speak english. At least I hope they do. It’s the address for the American Consul in China. I wonder if when you call a bank in China it says, “Chang chimi chong press 8 for english. Press 7 for spanish. Ching tang wang.”

I’m by no means a technogeek. I am fairly good at covering my tracks, though. And in this business, that’s what counts. Who gives a good fuck if I don’t know the difference between Microsoft and AMD? I know what it’s like to stick a knife between a couple of ribs while my cod’s in a chick. And isn’t that what matters?