The Cloak of Death

My name is Keith Summers. Some know me as Keith Summerfelt. Others as Kevin. But for the remainder of my tale I would like you know that I am, in fact, Keith Summers. I would like to begin what I have to say by remarking upon the nature of how my kind is viewed in the modern day. My kind being that of the killer or murderer.
I do not use, nor do I like, the term serial killer because it constitutes a serial of similar or connected murders. This means that if I had killed a bunch of people who all had eyepatches, or if I only killed blondes, or if I only killed people whom I’ve witnessed sneezing three times in a row. The people I kill are one-offs.
Sometimes in bunches. They are usually bad people. I cannot adapt the term sociopath or psychopath as I am not a social reject, I do not harm small animals, I genuinely care for most people and my thoughts on myself are balanced and lacking in egotistical-ness. The year is 2005. 2004 was better. I’m twenty-six now and loving where I am at.
When I was fifteen I killed my first person. He was this guy who used to stand around bus stops when I was little. Once or twice you heard about his hauling a kid off, but no one ever saw anything. I did though. No doubt. It was a small incident, and my town covered it up, but me and a friend got taken by him once.
I admit, it wasn’t very smart. But when we had gone along into his car I remember thinking that our parents might be mad that we were missing school and scold us later. I was so scared I might get in trouble. That was until we headed to where the man said he would take us for fun and games. When we got to his secret hideout I was locked in a room while my friend, Greg, was taken away.
When I saw the man again he had blood all over him and he was holding a knife. He asked me to come with him and I just remember feeling angry. I was angered by the sight of him. Smiling when I knew he did something wrong. Out of the corner of the door frame I could see my friends head, laying severed on the floor.
I tackled the man and he dropped the knife. I bet he wasn’t expecting a fight out of little old me. I got his knife and shoved it through his eye. I stayed him again in the throat and the side of the head, and the groin, and the chest and the stomach. I did this until he wasn’t moving anymore. I found my way out of his hideout, which was in some bunker in a forrest in Summit, New Jersey, where I lived at the time.
I told the adults and they told me they’d take care of everything. I was half scared and half curious about all the things that had conspired those following weeks. My mother and father said I did a good thing. Looking back, it probably wasn’t so good giving your kid positive reinforcement after committing manslaughter, but I sure did the whole neighborhood a service, as I’d come to overhear.
That was when I was ten. Since then I’ve killed lots of men like the one that came first. Women too. That’s only because women can be just as bad as men. Some people just don’t see it though. I don’t discriminate with my killings. My only exceptions are children and animals. I would like to be a father one day, so what kind of person would I be if I killed kids?
Children and animals, I think, are the two purest things on this earth. Other than purely innocent women and men who are in touch with their feminine side. I hold no prejudice towards color, sexual orientation, religion or sexual fetiches. As long as it isn’t mentally abusing someone, physically abusing someone or causing death, it’s okay.
I wouldn’t say I’m a vigilante, just cause I like killing bad guys. I kill people who bug me. People who are rude to me get offed at a lesser pace, but that only happens if they go out of their way to get to me. People who are mentally abusive I like to break slowly. There’s always that one guy who believes he’s untouchable, all cause he’s conditioned everyone around him to fear and respect him, despite the fact that he’s pure evil.
I hate guys like that. I usually kill them the first chance I get. Then there are those women who lead men on to get something out of them. Then they cheat on them and make the men go crazy. And if the man feels so inclined, he messes up his life trying to get back at the bitch. If he kills her he gets hauled off to the slammer, and all for what?
He’s no better, mentally, then he was fuming over what the woman did to him. So I take care of them first. Both to put my mind and the mind of the tortured man’s at peace. That way he never gets sent to prison for taking things that far and I escape modern justice like I always do. I call it modern justice because real justice ain’t alive anymore.
That true justice died when bounty killing was abolished. The way things used to be, killing intruders when they came on your property, beating to death people who raped someone you knew, setting fire to the homes of pedophiles, all of it was alive and booming at a place in time. Then somewhere, somehow, all those pedophiles, rapists and killers banded together and created laws to regulate and protect themselves.
But only the most powerful. But I ain’t that smart, see? I would never kill a politician or a movie star. Not unless I knew I could get away with it. I figured all this out pretty young. So that was when I told myself that I would be different from all the sheep. Don’t get me wrong. I respect the working man.
I think what they have to put up with, all this work-till-you’re-dead shit is real noble and all, but I could never do that. I prefer death, anarchy and absolution. Absolution. That’s my favorite word. It means what it is. Complete and total all-ness in the face of twisting un-possibility. Death is absolute.
Killing is absolute. There is no chance for evil people to come back when you kill them. Their evil only gets reincarnated. I do not think it is possible to kill all the bad people in the world, but I can sure as hell make a dent in my couple of decades on this earth. In fact, if I could live forever it wouldn’t even be for pleasure, but merely for the soul purpose of killing every evil person I’d come across.
I hate the smug folks. That’s not to say I enjoy killing those who don’t think they can be killed. Plenty of people who think they are safe deserve to be safe. But I often find that number increased on the side of bad people. I guess that cause the only people who seek true safety are the meek and those who got something to hide.
I, myself, death with a paradoxical problem. I am a prevailer of truth. Absolution in Truth, if you will. If today I found out that the world outside of America was a hologram made up by our government, or that we could breath in space but were scared into not believing it, just to keep us fearful and on earth, you bet I would tell the world.
If someone’s cheating on another person, despite their wishes, I’d tell them. I can’t hold knowledge to myself. It drives me insane to do so. I could never hold such vast secrets. The world must know all and everything there is to be known. Knowing is believing. Knowing is truth. Knowing is an absolution.
So it is in this nature that I hold the biggest secret of my life. I am the killer that is to be sought. I am the one so many people wish to find. That is, those who have figured out that I am one. In the past, when addressing the police in letters or playing games with detectives, I have referred to myself as the Cloak of Death.
I judge based on my own flawed perspectives and go on, never having been seen or documented in the act. Believe it or not, there are those who are driven mad by my elusiveness. It is to them that my soul cries. I want to tell them the truth, but it would never work out. Only once I ever offered up my identity to a detective.
I told him I could only do so if he agreed that I could kill him afterwards to protect my identity. He agreed, although looking back he might have just said yes, harboring the belief that he could get the jump on me once he found out my identity. He didn’t. I killed him. I felt so bad afterwards cause he was, some ways, my closest confidant.
Dear old Maxwell. Or was it Mark? All I know is his name started with an M. That was back in the old days where my killing was a bit looser. I’d kill someone if they cut me off at a traffic light. Since growing up I’ve learned to focus my energy in a way I can give back to the world. Mark! His name was definitely Mark.
I am a firm believer that if no one can find the body of a murdered individual, there was no murder. Well, you know what I mean. I used to have a base where I’d dispose of bodies. Several, actually, all souped up with the tools I’d need. I operated out of northern Jersey for about nine years. I’d kill people and take them to my various huts where I’d soak the bodies in acid, dispose of their belongings and take their cash.
No one ever told me killing was such a rewarding enterprise. To live the life I do you’ have to be ready to die at any moment. Believe me when I say that I live in constant fear. I don’t have a car of my own, no health insurance and at this time I’m posing as homeless. That’s a lie. I’m not posing.
I am homeless. But it is simply to keep my cover. See, for my first seventeen years of killing I worked local joe-jobs. Supermarkets, meat-packing factories, car washes, movie theaters and all that jazz. I didn’t stay at one place too long, cause if I did I ran the risk of getting to know people. And in my line of work when you get personal, you get dead.
People start to know your name, people recognize your face and you become a familiarity in the lives of those around you. that way when something goes down, you commit a murder or something like that, when the cops come around asking for your face most people will rat on you at a seconds notice.
It ain’t cause they don’t like you. Most of the time it’s out of worry for your well-being. What most people probably don’t realize is that their ignorant on-looking and silence may be what you truly desire. That is why I do not have fiends, or at least, anyone who might point me out to cops and know who I truly am.
In this life I would like to be nothing more than a shadow. A blur in the corners of the eye of everyone, just reminding them that justice exists and evil people do get their comeuppance. When I finally pass from this world I would like for everyone to know who I am, and I would like those who believe in my work to pass my teachings on so that others may live as freely as I do.
That would be a dream come true. Now, on to my method of killing. In this field I am a fan of the saying that anything goes. All except for three things. The few things I will not do is fuck around with people’s eyeballs, fingernails or genitals. Maybe when I was young that was all free-game, but not anymore.
If someone was going to kill me, those are the three things I wouldn’t want them touching. So I try to extend the curtsy to all those I take out of this world. If I had to choose the worst way do die, I’d have to say by drowning. That is why, for as long as I kill people, I will never drown a victim. Or rip out their intestines with a carving knife.
You know, come to think of it… there are many things I wouldn’t do to a person when killing them. Sure, I slit throats, stab, shoot, bludgeon and punch people to death, but it’s all those close-contact kills that make it worth wild for me. I don’t use my huts anymore. Not since two got discovered. Before the police found the places where I disposed of my victim’s bodies I went through about a hundred and forty or so people.
I abandoned my body-dissolving hideouts and took to the road. Now I’m killing people the Manson way. All willy-nilly. I give myself an order, or a goal or a mission and carrying out like clockwork. Now I leave the bodies where I kill them. It’s always alone. I never break into houses. As of this year I’ve killed three-hundred and twenty-five people.
Killed my last one two days ago. Can’t say I owe a lot of credit to all the greatest killers of our time. Manson’s idea of having underlings to kill for him was cool, but they were all awful people. I’ve only heard stories of what Manson’s like. I’m not sure, if we ever met, if I’d idolize or kill the man. As for one of my earliest somewhat anti-inspirations: Donald Gaskins, was this guy who killed folks on coastal highways.
He started in 1969, but was eventually caught. Now someone like him, inconveniencing the lives of innocents, I’d definitely kill. However, he killed an inmate on death row. And that is the kind of thing I like to hear. In fact, if I’m ever sent away to prison I’d make that my duty. To kill every killer I can get to.
Maybe after a while I could cut a deal with the prison owners and bump down the jail’s population down. Then maybe they’d transfer me around to other prisons so I could kill more people. I’d make more room for the thieves and drug-users of the world while killings rapists and murderers in a safe, confined space.
Yeah, and maybe eagles’ll fly out of my ass. The prisons would never go for it. Not like this is some damn movie. Moving on, another killer I drew on to study the mistakes of, and avoid my own capture, was that of Ted Bundy, the necrophiliac. Need I even dive into how this man sickens me? Who fucks the dead?
Was Bundy a duck in disguise? HA! See, I can still keep a sense of humor about these things. Aside from this major flaw, Bundy kept heads as trophies which is, in my opinion, beyond stupid and quite self-liberating in a pathetic sort of way. Now, the most recent killer I’ve heard of was from little New Jersey, like me.
Charles Cullen. Bastard poisoned the elderly. See now, that I can’t condone. I understand if some old fart is bitterly having an episode and whacking you with his cane, so you kick his legs out from under him, but what Cullen did was sick. In an old folks home no less. Those who pose as saviors, but harm those they are pretending to aid make me sick.
More falsehoods. And anyone of you who know me by now know I hate falsehoods. I’d much prefer everyone show their full colors, which is probably why I’d kill Cullen if I ever came across him. Unfortunately for me he was caught. So stinks for me. I find, as I go on in quest to rid this world of evil, that I like killing killers the best.
It almost feels as if I’m killing the bloodlust inside myself, in a way. Is that poetic? I think it might be. Still, even after all the ways I kill and my preference to killing, nobody short of hitmen or warlords can really hold a candle to the amounts of bodies I’ve stacked. There are those who can’t believe my kill count.
However there are things they don’t take into consideration. Everyone’s alone at some point. It is then when I strike. Quite flawlessly, I might add. Despite what some recent magazines have said about killers, I do not collect trophies or leave a mark at my sites. I hate newspapers. I hate the news, as a matter of fact.
Just facts on tragedy. There’s no point for any of it. I don’t watch much television and I tend to only listen to what people I encounter say. I get one-sided opinions and through them I take a stance on things outside the view of the person who told me whatever it is I’m contemplating. This obsession with always needing to be updated on which celebrity said something unkind has shrunken our ability to pick and choose what we should really be worried about.
All news is bias and it’s just best to trust your own gut. Then again, I suppose that pointless if you’re bias. I guess keeping myself from watching television also keeps me from following the public’s perspective on my killings. Whether they think I’m one person or multiple people. I feel like seeing the way my killings are perceived and shaped to be seen by the public will just ruin my feelings on it all and might make me want to stop.
Like the message I’m trying to send will get torn apart and re-shaped into some propaganda to convince people to feed the already dying machine that is their localized government. I don’t want people to go on by, unfeeling and not expressing their desires. People need to love, to kill, to experience everything they can, within reason.
People need to enter a forbidden zone of sorts. One that is morally empowering, but considered sinister by controlling by the masses. It’s not that I have any serious problem with this world. I just think we live in a society built on the principle that we are forced to keep our inner-most desires down and unquenched.
Or, at most, hidden behind closed doors. I think Aleister Crowley said it best! Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. I like that. I like that a lot. I take many of my worldly beliefs from Aleister Crowley, aside from a belief in celestial Egyptian demons and the desire to eat shit. I, personally, don’t eat human feces, but in the guise of absolute freedom from the human form, how could you see it as wrong?
The homeless think their better off than the rich, janitors think they’re better than the homeless, construction workers think they’re better than janitors, the bankers think they’re better than the construction workers and the rich think they’re better than everyone. It’s all just so… abstract. Surreal and grounded at once, somehow.
In a way I can’t say I blame a lot of killers for being who they are. It’s all hot-wired into your brain before you’re born. All those things that make you racist, willful, homosexual, hate slimy things, all of it is predetermined. Oh! You’ll never guess where I was the other day. A few days ago I happened to stop into a pizzeria.
Now, I normally don’t eat pizza but I got some money together and I figured I’d go have like a stromboli or something, since I hadn’t had one in a year or so. That’s only cause I been trying real hard to watch my weight and eating healthy is quite hard in the world we live in today. All our food is on the fly and I rarely have time to think and monitor what I’m eating, so I feel like every time I look down I’m shoveling garbage into my mouth.
But anyways… I was in a pizzeria and there was a tv on, over the counter and the television was talking about my recent exploits in Morristown. You'll never believe the detail they went into, explaining my kills. They stated: His first victim, he cut out all of the man's intestines, diced them into four pieces and tied one to each one, which he used to hang the man from his apartment ceiling lamp, resembling a puppet.
All of the man's teeth were removed, and placed in the formation of a smiley face beneath his dangling body. His second victim, he placed the man's severed genitals into his mouth, sewed it shut, then stuffed his severed head up into the man's torso, which was then, also, sewed shut. His thumbs had been severed and shoved into his eye sockets.
His third victim, the man's brain and stomach were removed, swapped and stabbed repeatedly. Thirteen knives were sticking out of his chest when he was found, and his limbs had been severed and swapped as well. Legs where his arms should be, arms where his legs should be. His ears were swapped and sewn as well.
And with this trilogy of terror, the maniacal killing spree of America's most elusive murderer has only spiraled further and further out of control. I just couldn't believe it. They never talked about that kinda stuff in the middle of the day. The local news always saved the real hard-hitting shit for when everyone was home from school and work and seated around the television.
It kind of made me sit back and realize that maybe I was really making an impression on the world. The papers were writing about me again. It isn't like I don't enjoy the exposure, but when I start to get noticed, that's usually around the time I have to pick up everything and relocate. To avoid capture, of course.
So many years. So many faces, come and gone. Jane, Dan, Ronnie, Sam, Henry, Dick, Matty, Frank, Sandra, Joe, Eric, Bart, Leo... and those are just the few I have rotting at the bottom of the Hudson River. God knows how many more I've killed. I try to keep a grip on things. And out of respect for the deceased I do try to remember each and every one of them.
What I do is not a service. I do not do it to help anyone or to push ulterior motives. I kill simply because it is fun and, given the right circumstances, can be pushed to unfathomable lengths. The key to existing as a killer of my magnitude lies in the ability to be unseen by all. To go unnoticed, under the radar of people you interact with every day.
That's what I had told old Detective Connor a few months back. Right before that poison I slipped him took effect. Believe me, I had no ill will toward the detective. But alas, he attempted to apprehend me. Which, of course, is something I can't tolerate. Things like that you don't duck around with.
Playing on the fantasy of being apprehended is exactly what gets you apprehended. Throughout this career of mine I have met others like me. Each with their own motives. A few that have even tried to take my head. Apart from the psychopaths, I find most of them to be pleasant-enough people. More men than women, though.
Once I had walked into the middle of a wide-open cemetery. I had brought my nineteen-eleven with my silencer. I was at a low point after this break up. This was many years back. I walked up and down the isles and when I came across a single person looming over a grave, well, I shot them. Took out six people that day.
And no one had noticed. Not a gunshot was heard, and anyone nearby just assumed the lifeless bodies were over-dramatic folk groveling in the grass. I would say It was almost poetic, but I'm not very good at making metaphors for stuff like that. Best not to assume a position on something I know nothing about and be proven wrong.
Now if there’s one thing that gets my stomach turning, it’s when someone kills a poor homeless guy. like they don’t already have it bad enough. To me that’s just rude. I used to know this guy, Derek Starch. He loved killing hobos and vegetables. Sick fuck. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Even had a few drinks with him. It didn’t take long before I paralyzed and hung the fucker from his trailer. Sure he looked up to me, but how was I supposed to associate myself with someone of that… caliber? He had already killed twelve people by the time I had met him. He worked at an old folks home.
Clever bastard. I doubt the law would’ve caught up to him until he had about ten more bodies under his belt. So, I cut his career short. We’re all better off for it too. Now, on the subject of my childhood. If I had to guess, I’d say I started killing at age eleven. Grown ups, surprisingly. Never fellow children or animals.
At least to me, that’s sick. The elderly or crippled I will also spare. It’s this sort of mutual feeling of hardship which allows me to differentiate between those deserving of death and those that have just fallen on hard times. In a perfect world what I am doing is a grand service. That’s how it would appear.
But, I do not care. maybe once or twice I’ll slip and help the greater good. Kill a mugger, shoot a rapist, gut a pedophile. But at no point do these acts take away from the fact that I kill who I want, when I want. And in which ever way I want, as well. I stay off of social media. That shit rots your mind.
I can’t imagine spending my precious hours typing away on a phone or keyboard, bitching and moaning to a world that doesn’t care. What we do out here, pinned up against flesh and blood. This killing. This is real. More real than any point of view held on some bullshit social media account. Or maybe I just don’t understand what makes it all so fascinating.
I do like to believe I am living out of the shroud of corruption and corporate mind-numbing tactics. but, what if my condition is a negative effect of me rejecting that brainwashing? Now that’s heavy. never the less, I go about my daily activities with glee. In these parts I am a sales man. These parts being Colorado.
Before here I was a mechanic in Iowa and an underground medical doctor in Arizona. I’d say that in Iowa I killed roughly twenty-four people. Give or take. A gang member here or there. An ex-coworker. The usual batch. But when I hit Arizona, oh boy. It was a Neo-Nazi open season. That was the best two years of my life.
I must of cut up twenty of those poor bastards. I left them all in pieces across the desert. Even left some of them in Nevada. Sometimes I’d mail their heads to their little daytime meeting groups. It was funny watching them scatter, going to war with biker gangs that they thought had committed the killings.
It escalated quickly. After a while there weren’t many of em’ to kill anymore. All that massacring got me tuckered out. So I left a good while after the nazis’ and the bikers’ numbers began to dwindle. I’ll say it again. I didn’t do it for the greater good. I did it cause I felt like it. I did kill an innocent mailman.
No. Two actually. Yeah. But they were on an off-day. Just to get my jollies up. Okay, so one of them was sleeping which this guys wife. So what? I did them all a favor. I guess sometimes I’m just drawn to the pitiable. I can’t help it. I run on fun. Fun and instinct. I am pleased to say that my age has brought with it a solemn lessening to my violence toward those I do kill.
As the papers say, I was quite the Jackson Pollock in my youth. Every few years I change up my tactics and my style of slay. This has put me in the running of a position with not many “in-the-loop” killers get. See, there are those killers who go about their deeds completely ignorant to the fact that if you look hard enough, there is a whole anti-nation of folks just like me.
An unspoken society of a murderous population that keeps the world in balance, when we can help it. Now, among this ‘under-nation’ there is a singular goal that most murderers in my shoes wish to achieve some day. This is gaining the statues of a mass murderer. To reach the point where you have literally wiped out a whole state’s populous in your lifetime.
There’s online communities dedicated to it, forums, sites, the whole nine yards. Not only that, but with the birth of the new age murderers are recording their kills and uploading it to the web for all to be astonished by. It’s quite amazing. With so many sick people in the world, it’s a wonder this society of the secretly psychotic ever started up in the first place.
So this one night I was walking home from the corner-shop back in Idaho. I notice this guy in a hood starts coming up behind me. Now, I’d say I had a pretty good idea of what he was planning to do. Mainly since whenever I would try and shank a nightcrawler, I’d watch my footing and use my location to help trap and kill a target.
If I never killed someone in the matter that he was planning on doing me in, I could have been dissolving in a barrel after that. Luckily, as he came up behind me, I maneuvered his hand away and shoved my head into his throat, crushing it in. Well he choked out and made a fuss before finally killing over.
Looking down I noticed his knife and a camera, recording his kill. And that was the first time I had ever seen something like that. Traveling for some time, I usually got thrown out of the loop on things like the advancements of computers and phones. Which I frequently pondered about using in my murders.
I didn’t really bother to hid his body. Obviously, it was in self-defense. So when the cops came snooping around my trailer early that morning, I was happy to comply. Good thing my kill was caught on a store-front’s camera too. There was no denying I merely protected myself. That was one of the many things I’ve always loved about the south.
The laid back nature, above all else. I never expected for my little venture with that night-stalker to go anywhere, but when I was tracked down by some of his “buddies” you could imagine I was quite taken with what I’m gonna tell you next. The kid I killed, Alex, I believe his name was, was the leader of a band of hooded serial killers.
They operated as one unit. They would provide alibis for one another when one of them was suspected of their kills. And when one of them fell or was injured, the next in line would take his/her place. It had appeared that Alex remained uncaught for four years since the teens had started up their little project.
And I was the one who killed their founder. At first I believed they wanted to kill me. For obvious reasons. But that’s not how things panned out. No, they adored the little bloody number I did on Alex and offered me the chance to guide them. To take up the mantle of their group, The Duskers and serve as their functioning sociopathic grandmaster!
Oh, we all had some great times. There were six of them in total. We were unstoppable. We must have killed ten poor souls a month. Mostly bus-people heading in and out of the city. Commuters. Believe me, we were doing them a favor. Nine months I stayed with them. Training them in my personalized art of the kill.
And when it came time for me to move on, they were hesitant. Even threatening to kill me if I left. They really didn’t want me to go. So I compromised. I killed each of them in their homes while they slept. Not one of my best moments, but how else was I supposed to get out of that jam? They trusted me enough, and I needed to take to the road again.
I won’t ever forget them though. No matter how hard I try. Some time after that I had found myself being tracked by individuals whom I believed to be private investigators. It soon turned out that this group of mercenaries were tailing me. Admiring me. Out of the pan and into the fire, I suppose. Turns out this group had been recording my every kill and identity change for the past six years.
Collecting more than enough evidence to put me away for good. They asked me to join their little brigade for a few years or so. I would be paid to do what I was doing now. Killing, only this time, without the fear of capture. This group knew officials which kept them out of the public-eye. They weren’t part of that sociopathic-society I had mentioned earlier.
These men were old soldiers that blurred the line between vigilante and cold-blooded murderer. I went along for the ride. And in two years I killed myself an estimated one-hundred and fifty four city folk. Most of them with guns and bombs. The group liked to make it seem like we were terrorists. They said it fueled the citizen’s hatred and gave rise to their loyalty to their country.
We could kill off all the people we wanted, blame it on foreigners, collect the earnings and at the same time have everyone believing that each mass killing made them stronger as a civilization. Yeah, right. As if they could ever pass the racism, greed and class indifference they’d always felt since birth.
Change was a miracle. And my time with the ex-dogs of the military showed me that no such thing exists in this world. Not that I cared. It’s 8:17 by the time I hop onto the elevator with Eric. He doesn’t know me at all, but I’ve been observing him for quite some time. Eric is a meek man with a large belly, not much hair and a habit of biting his nails until they bleed.
He’s a heavy-set paranoid blob with good reason to be weary cause’ tonight is night I take his life. It didn’t take much effort to decide whether or not I was going to kill him. He works a couple blocks from me, doesn’t have any family and contributes nothing to society, so the way I see it he’s as good as dead anyways.
Still, a part of me is going to miss watching him walk down the street in that monkey suit of his, tightening his bowler on that bald head of his. Stalking victims almost fills me with a sort of unspoken connection by the time it comes to finishing them off. Almost like we could have been friends if we’d both been dealt different hands in life.
But this is the trail I skip along. With knives hidden on almost every inch of my body, it is my duty to rid the world of undesirables. The world calls my actions senseless murder yet if I worked for the CIA I’d be paid heavily to shove knives through men’s throats, or other fun acts. Such a twisted structure of morals we’ve set up here.
And such a twisted face Eric now has. I waited until the doors closed to pull out my beautiful stiletto and cut his throat in a mere instant. He was so surprised and spent a few seconds fumbling around the elevator, realizing it was a long way to the top and by then he’d surely bleed out. Now I’m not the sadistic type so I waited until he finally bled out completely before carving his face.
Even I admit it’s a rather ghastly sight. looking back at the act it seems almost childish. Makes me feel a little ashamed, realizing my excitement overtook my actions and threw me overboard. No doubt one day I will pass over to a point of complete lunacy. That is how I will fall. By my own hand I will put myself up against unbeatable odds and all my services to this world will have been for nothing.
If I plan to make the world a better place I have to live to be around for a long long time. And that means killing a whole lot of people which is completely within my grasp. What with the tens of bunches of detectives, fire fighters, businessmen, clerks, homeless people, even a bitchy soccer mom every now and again.
The world is better without all the people that don’t play their roles correctly. I’ll find them all one day. Every single last one, and on the day I die the world will look to the skies, declare my name and remember me as the one who moved society forward, the one who controlled the population and the one who allowed the children of tomorrow to live in a world free of clogs and interferences.
Until that day I’m a humble janitor at the Cresto Vallu’ French Cuisine Restaurant and an associate of the GONN Co. Computer Repair, both located in the heart of Manhattan. My jobs aren’t too fulfilling, unlike my off time. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t dwell on them too much. The focus of all my attention is on the people who's lives I take.
I think it’s the music that gets me through it all, when I’m alone at night and going through the chaos that is my mind. I usually listen to Creedence Clearwater and the Eagles. No, wait… I hate the Eagles. Kevin likes the Eagles. Not me.