Gloryville Murders

Reading Time: 64 minutes

The Third Murder

The blood spots, streaks and ponded excess covered Peter’s face. His eyes tore out of this crimson mask with a piercing stare that would frighten any living soul unlucky enough to see them.

There were none left to see. He’d finished, this particular session was over and it was time for the bloodbath, with more gruesome murders to follow.

Peter had started this frenzied attack like any other. He’d prepared. He’d been well rehearsed and quite comfortable in carrying out this blitzkrieg on innocent human flesh. This was his third meticulous and truly vicious mass murder.

Dismembering human flesh, removing internal organs and separating human parts so widely that their rightful place became blurred. Peter enjoyed this release of his inner feelings, the acts would suggest he possessed none, but deep down he felt pleasure in this rage and with each event sought even more.

Detective Harry Moon had woken from the best slightly drunk, chilled weather sleep he’d had in a long time. He loved it under the covers. The recent high temperatures and humidity made sleep very unpleasant in Gloryville. This coastal town bore the brunt of the tropics climate with monsoon like storms in the evening and brilliant sunshine strangling out the humidity.

The continual ringing wet dash from the car to home had resulted in Harry’s apartment stinking like wet grass and stale mould. No matter how he tried, in opening windows and doors he wasn’t home long enough for it to have any effect. He did leave one window open last week and that didn’t help. It stank, but this morning he didn’t care he was brimming with that warm beautiful sleep feeling. He’d even feel a little cuddly if he had someone to cuddle.

Harry’s cuddling partner Ruth wasn’t likely to be seeing him today. She could only cuddle when her schedule allowed. It didn’t this week as she was involved in a complicated intellectual copyright case. One mumbling arse had decided that his gangster rap image had been ruined while being stolen by another. The interesting aspect was that the persona of “Numb” was a complete fabrication. While the other guy, the one he was suing, was very real, frighteningly real.

His street name was “Dead”. He had a real name, but only the locked juvenile court files held that closely guarded detail. His real name eventually became known during the copyright case, it was revealed to be Arthur Rupert Greentree. After this pleasuring of himself in a manner that remained his secret, he left the scene. So far, he’d managed to avoid leaving any trace of his presence or his pleasure. He was well practiced in this vital component of his release. Peter left the tools and apron he used. He’d left these at each of the scenes. The Police had no DNA or provenance to help them track Peter or his discarded items. They could only hope to identify the victims, piece them together and trace their recent activity and recent contacts. This wouldn’t help either.

Harry was called as he showered and jumped on the phone as the message light flashed and beeped. It was the Captain, that sloth like fool. A Policeman yes, but while knowing how to negotiate the politics he couldn’t provide any protect and serve function. He was a formless blob of unfit, for physical activity or duty. Still he was in charge and had to be obeyed, albeit reluctantly. The station called him Rotund Boy behind his folded fat back.

The car started with a fart and a bang and Harry was off. This was the third mass hatchet job murder scene and he decide to wait till after to have his breakfast. The younger Police Officers that attended often relived theirs at these type of crime scenes. The DNA soup at the past two was already intense and these extra additions only made it more difficult. What they didn’t know was that Peter brought and spread a wide range of unconnected DNA just to make it all the more complex. He was well rehearsed and had watched a lot of quality TV in his time.

Harry walked up to the end of the lane way and realised this was indeed the same as the previous. Splattered body parts, liquids, internal organs that shouldn’t be seen, and gigantic ponds of blood on the ground, walls, fire escape and rubbish bins. The entire site was one sloppy abattoir. The only bright things to disturb this carnage were the white overalls of the Medical Examiner who’d set up his lights and the standard tent.

These routine acts would not help in this situation as the entire lane way was awash with things that should normally remain intact and internal. In being external and mixed they presented a monumental task of piecing together those that lay about in so many pieces.

Peter had arrived home, immersed himself in the prepared bath and dosed off slightly. His bath was a cocktail of soap, bleach and disinfectant. It was cold but that added to today’s activity. Some strange aspect of punishing himself and cleaning the debris at the same time.

Only Peter could comprehend the combination but that’s all that should he thought. The final act of draining and cleaning the bath also provided a calming sensation. The water and its contents flowed directly into a large container which was then heated until it evaporated. It did not go to the city’s sewage network in any way.

The dry materials that remained were bagged into four small bags and dumped at waste transfers stations in various parts of the city. The container was rinsed and re-boiled after the dry remains were removed. Peter was very careful. He would then retire to his bedroom and sleep, while his air conditioning unit kept out the oppressive heat and life sapping humidity.

Harry sat in his car and lit a smoke. The fact that Rotund Boy had banned smoking in the Police fleet didn’t really bother Harry. That lard arse wouldn’t even know where the cars were, let alone get into one. The smoke from his cigarette filled the car’s interior and started to leak out through the driver’s window. Harry stared at this flow and wondered how he and his support team may catch the thing responsible for these terrible acts. A list of how was this person(s):

• targeting these people?
• corralling them all together?•
• able to start in on one, without the others fighting back or running away?
• managing to do all this without being seen or heard?
• getting away without leaving a trace of their identity?

Harry finished his smoke and walked inside the Police station, the workplace he called the Madhouse. Peter woke, dressed and walked to work. He also worked in the Madhouse.

The Madhouse

Harry stumbled into the homicide rooms as he tripped over the cleaner’s trolley. He mumbled a juicy obscenity under his breath while readjusting his rather ageing frame. He was fit sure enough, but he was in his late fifties and his unbalanced recovery was sometimes slower than those young turks that ribbed him about his senior years.

Harry collapsed with a groan down into his fancy office chair. He’d requested the Rolls Royce version as he complained of a bad back so much that rotund boy gave in and gave him one. The chair was a faux leather job with mesh inserts, armrests and a wonderful range of adjustments that only now six months later had he mastered and set for his reclining pleasure. He like to kick back, think and watch.

A serious response was to be provided to anyone who sat in his chair and a slow lingering death was the threat for anyone brave or dumb enough to change the settings. There was a lot of thinking to do this morning.
The homicide rooms were an exact copy of the cliched TV drama / cop show workplaces. So much so that their chaos was the motivation for the very latest show, Gloryville Police. The rooms, the look, the smell, complete with the ramshackle mess that somehow allowed its occupants to close a great number of cases with remarkable success.

The TV show aimed to copy this exemplary work ethic and atmosphere and recreate it for the couch dwellers who rated these shows so highly. Gloryville Police was launched to the jaded public two weeks ago and had smashed all ratings records. Not really a reality show but certainly based on one.

Peter was terribly pleased about this close connection. He’d watch the producers, location managers and general hangers on who flocked to the Madhouse. He’d especially loved it when they selected the homicide rooms. There was one young lady that was really tasty. She’d be a side project for Peter. He planned a quickie and set the scene.

It would be a solo effort and it was quick. She fell into his arms with such cow eyes, the look was wonderful. The fact that she had lost her stomach added to Peter’s pleasure. Sally had answered an ad for a small yellow car for sale and met Peter at the inner city car park were it was parked. Amazingly it was parked right next to Peter’s van and sadly for Sally, in one of the darkest and loneliest areas.

Sally had leapt out of her car as she had spotted the well-groomed professional looking man beside the small yellow 2 door hatchback. She’d walked towards him while admiring the bargain this vehicle purchase offered. Silly man she’d thought, doesn’t he know how much these little beauties go for? That was the last thing she would actually think as Peter lunged out and slashed her throat in a swooping motion that nearly took her head clean off.

The second swoop was to open up her stomach. He particularly liked that outpouring. She fell back then almost immediately fell forward into Peter’s arms. He was soaked with blood, her entrails and sweat. He was peaking within this solo session.
Sally’s remains were carved up in his trademark fashion which looked frenzied to a casual observer but were in fact a detailed and specialised process to ensure maximum impact on those investigating the scene. Her body pieces strewn about the dank carpark. The eyes he liked to place in points that would indicate the victim was looking at the scene.

Each eye was on the opposite side looking in. He placed the somewhat intact ears on the alternate corners of the location. This placement was the source of much giggling while he did so. His small van had blood splatter trails down the side but he sprayed them with bleach before driving calmly out into the warm evening. The small gardening air pump spray was perfect for this task. It was time for a bath.

Harry adjusted himself as he sat and thought. He relaxed with a large moccochino and a chocolate croissant. He’d have to give this regular chocolate intake away and decided to do so after this morning’s serving. Just then he saw rotund boy heading his way.

“Harry what the fuck are you doing sitting back there feeding your face?” He went on … “Haven’t you got three murder scenes to work on, you lazy bastard?”

“Well yes, I do Sir” the Captain’s real name was Warren, but no-one called him that. Sir to his face and in written communication but rotund boy in all other situations. I have an appointment with the medical examiner in twenty minutes.

“I’m just getting ready for that gruesome meeting with some sugar.”

“Alright then – hurry the fuck up there Harry and get some leads.” … “This weirdo is making fools of us.”

Why was it that every police captain real or invented for films and television was firstly dumb and secondly void of any original lines? The same old dumb arsed shit came out at various points along the investigation or within the heavily edited plot dynamics. They normally yelled, looked like a red boiled lolly and more often than not said – “close the door on your way out”.

This exchange was pretty standard for rotund boy and Harry smiled and agreed wholeheartedly as Warren swaggered away back to his secure, quiet memento laden office. The curtains were drawn all the time and people only got a look in when they were really being yelled at. Not the standard open office bravado, but the “this is serious Bill” type ravings.

His secretary who sat outside this fortress of oblivion watched the merry dance all day long. Peter had been a citizen contractor for the Gloryville Police for fifteen years and enjoyed his current posting very much indeed. A fact he now realised, “nearly” as much slaughtering and carving up innocent people. Peter also enjoyed listening to Warren’s phone calls and reading his private emails. He was fascinated by one outlining the incident at Hillsdale Hamburgers.

All the phones in the room seemed to go off at the same time. Each phone with a different ringtone. Harry had “Groove Armada’s Superstylin” while the medical examiner Paul had ABBA’s Waterloo. Harry didn’t know if that meant anything other than his rather odd choice of music. The assistant’s phone also went off. It was one of those voice scripts and this one screamed “Stop – it’s the Police” Very good, thought Harry.

They all raced to the scene in their respective vehicles, lights and sirens blazing. Harry enjoyed a celebratory cigarette on the way. He might regret the chocolate gorging this morning. He couldn’t be the one throwing up at the scene. There would be a junior fun stopper to do that for him.

Ruth is ready

Ruth meanwhile had turned up to court in her favourite professional yet screw me to the wall outfit and was ready for action. Not Harry action but proper legal action. She’d prepared for the case and was as ready as she could be. She was ready for her date with Dead.

Dead sat strong in the waiting room. He pushed an incredibly ominous presence, perfectly suited to the task of scaring those innocents who were sharing the rather bland and cramped space. Court waiting rooms normally had a single aged pensioner on duty to admonish unruly citizens and disrespectful children. Today the Court had assigned 12 fully armed and much younger guards, each one seriously beefy, bald and worthy of a cliched major action motion picture role.

They looked like Ukrainian missionaries standing their ground and ever ready to kill the lone battle-scarred hero. The waiting room looked like it was battle scared. The yellowing walls and ceiling offset by badly stained carpet kind of war. It was very unpleasant, even more so today.

Dead smiled on the inside as his street cred wouldn’t allow any public display of weakness. Smiling was weak, scowling was the front required. Dead had plenty of front, he was 6 1/2 feet tall, tattoos all over and up the wazoo. He wore a satin jump suit and enough solid gold chains around his neck to trigger a “huge boobs” back problem.

All of his fingers were completely hidden by a range of rings, knuckle duster and statement jewellery that impacted on his ability to perform normal toileting functions. He had to remove each of these, one by one just so he could wipe his own arse. At home he had someone to do this for him, but not here in the waiting room. He was crapping solo and even when he went for a quick pre-court wee, he had to dismantle the digital sideshow.

The silver satin jump suit had a hidden zipper and velcro tabs which made it look like it was one big sack of precious metal. When he sat on the vinyl chairs in the waiting room, the suit farted and squelched like a moose on heat. The innocents were too frightened to laugh, but one actually combined a snigger with a cough and thought he’d got away with it. It turned out he hadn’t.

Dead texted Muni, his closest and most trusted associate, who grabbed the sniggering coughing twat on his way out of the court. He was shot in the face and dumped on the footpath outside the Gloryville Police station. “No more laughing or coughing for him” … thought Muni as he drove back to the inner-city warehouse, he called home.

Harry’s home was a spacious one-bedroom apartment with a luxury hotel feel. He loved minimal impact on his carefully structured domicile. He had planned the features to a tee. Tweaking the colours, tone, textures and lighting to suit his taste. Ruth liked some aspects of this clean living but sought to soften some parts of it.

Ruth didn’t have much success, it remained clinical, which was a description she regretted providing. It remained as Harry wanted it. The apartment had a vast balcony with a huge lounge in combination with an eight-piece table and chair setting. It was the spot for much frivolity, food, sex and relaxing visiting friends.

Of course, it wasn’t all of those things all of the time, but sometimes it was and that’s what helped to make it such a comfortable spot. The apartment’s colours were grey, white, very light green and a dark grey feature wall running the length of the space. This long wall was the art space, broken into zones with lights highlighting the art pieces.

The kitchen had a soft orange glass splash-back and the floor throughout the apartment was a highly polished concrete. Floor lights swept out from the skirting boards. This apartment was Harry’s pride and joy. Ruth liked being there but would like to have the chance to change the atmosphere. Dead was also looking to change the atmosphere. He’d have better luck.

Peter sat at his desk and restrained a giggle into his hand as rotund boy fell off his swivel chair. This happened when the rider was shocked and tried to react with grace. He had no grace and fell flat on his face. This particular shock was reacting to the arrival of the Mayor’s 2ic. Glenn Brown was a pig of a man and swaggered his ugly power in the face of anyone who came in contact with him. No one volunteered any real personal nude bits rubbing contact, he was a very lonely, powerful pig.

A man that Gloryville’s escort companies had banned for being too violent, politically threatening and incredibly scary. He’d bashed one young rent boy into such a state that he died three days later. He died alone on a long-haul bus heading back to his distant country home. His injuries were deep and unseen, the few on his face were obvious. Rent boys were often smashed in normal transactions.

It was the severe internal injuries that Glenn enjoyed inflicting the most.

“Good Morning Warren” scowled Glenn, in such a tone that set rotund boy into his gravity collapsing display. “What the fuck is happening with these murders?”

“We have DCI Harry Coombs running the case” … “You know, he’s the guy who helped with the Mayor’s contribution situation.” … “He’s all over it”

“Fuck Warren, don’t say that out loud.” … “Of course, I remember the guy.” … “What’s he got, any leads, something I can tell the Mayor or the media.” … “Do you have any idea of what’s going on?”

All this pushing of tainted air was exactly the same as the overused Police Captain rants, cliched nonsense that somehow managed to rattle professional Police, despite the fact that it was horseshit. At the end of the day the Mayor’s office could blubber all it liked, but it’s well-worn bluster could not really hasten the case or action a response. It just made those pushing the taint feel better, or even more important.

“It’s a very difficult Glenn.” … “There’s no DNA, no trace and as yet no linkage between the victims.” … “This fucking maniac is somehow grabbing these people, carving them up and getting away like a ghost.”

“Well what are you going to do? – sit on your fat arse and dream of retirement, or catch the nut job?”

Peter sat at his desk listening to this exchange, it wasn’t hard to do, everyone in the homicide room couldn’t help but hear. Even a scanked out drug mule who was being logged into booking had gained a new perspective into the inner workings of a Police station.

Ralph sat back in his drug crazed homeless stenched fog and enjoyed the show. Rotund boy said his goodbyes and then decided to attack his subordinates by yelling at them. Ralph even copped a spray as he sat there smirking. Rotund boy stormed back into his office and rang Harry.

Harry had finished doing what he could do for Sally here in the car park. He’d have to find the culprit. He’d met Sally as they scouted for the TV show and she was lovely. If he hadn’t a relationship with Ruth, he’d be looking to form one with Sally. Sally knew it too; she’d said as much. The phone went as he sucked on his newly lit cigarette. “Damn it’s rotund boy.”

“Harry, I’ve just had Glenn Coombs in my office screaming the place down looking for results.” … “Please get me something to tell him, he’s blue in the face waiting for a result.” … “Have you any leads from this one today?”

Harry explained the situation to rotund boy and hit the final red button on his phone, just as Groove Armada swung into action.

“Good Afternoon, this is Harry” … he announced. Yes, OK, how long ago? … Any witnesses? He hit the red button again and wondered who the fuck would kill a junior fun stopper and dump him outside the Madhouse in broad daylight? No one saw anything, forty-eight officers in and out, cars, parking people, cleaners or even the dumb arsed public. Not one person saw it.

The CCTV missed it was well, it was sweeping its area but had just swept past onto its furthest reach. It did not, nor could it return to the spot quick enough. It caught the body sitting there bleeding and dying while recording the arrival of help. All too late.

Ruth walked into the waiting room to introduce herself to Dead and two of the witnesses called for this case. Dead seemed very polite she thought, and the witnesses had somehow disappeared. The hard-boiled guards had not seen them, and a public announcement failed to produce them. They had seen Dead, they’d left, and they would not return.

Not for any money, they wanted to continue their living. Dead was living his.

Numb was dumb

He was speechless and stupid. He was waiting in a private VIP waiting room at the courthouse. It was reserved for those that were normally as guilty as hell, but had the money to be found innocent, regardless of being so or not. Much money had been spent on this copyright infringement case and his legal team, including Ruth, had spent an inordinate amount of time in preparation. All in time to now find that the witnesses they’d gathered and trained for weeks had suddenly disappeared.

Muni had set loose a tight crew which was tasked with rounding them all up. There were three of them in total. Each of them was trying to sneak out the back of their respective shelters. They were really set on disappearing for good. One hadn’t the fortitude to go to court at all.

He hid in his basement laundry until he thought the case was well underway. Little did Rick Myrtle know that it hadn’t and that he would be underway himself. Set in concrete in the new downtown multi story apartment/office complex, which was well underway.

Rick was a professional witness. Someone who could be called upon to confirm almost anything – for a price. The fee for this drastic performance was spectacular, 82 thousand dollars. This coincidentally was the street number of “Highlife Towers”. Rick would be an integral part of this exciting new development, but not by occupying the apartment he’d bought off the plan. He’d be playing a more supportive role. He was dumped and drowned in the foundations of the swimming pool.

Margaret was scooped up as she hid in her garden while waiting a clear dash. She was waiting for the large black SUV limousine to move away from her back gate. She’d been very reluctant to go to court but believed the assurances given by Ruth. Although they were offered with the best intentions, reality had impacted on her hard. Margaret was single, in her late forties and worked at Molly’s Irish Bar. She’d been working there for about three years and therefore a witness to Dead’s activities.

Dead fancied Guinness and often paraded about the bar being all gangster, drunk and claiming to be Numb. Margaret’s sworn testimony would be to offer examples of when Dead was claiming to be Numb.

He wasn’t and that was why that stupid Hollywood pretend gangster was taking him to court. The claim being that the persona Numb had purchased was covered by intellectual copyright and Dead couldn’t claim to be him, use the life history details or benefit from them. Complicated case, fucking stupid actually, but with the enormous amount of money behind it, the case had every chance of succeeding. Legally that is, but not in the real world or harsh violent swill of the streets.

Margaret was thrown into the boot of a large SUV and driven to the seaside. They bound her head, arms and legs together hog style, wrapped her in a chain mail netting and then weighed her down even more with a dozen concrete blocks. She flew off the back of the fishing boat like a flapping turtle and then with a loud sucking swoosh she was gone. Sinking fast and for the last few seconds of her life swallowing enough seawater to fill her lungs, she was dead. She sat rotting whilst feeding sea creatures for many years. Never found.

The remaining witness had a stroke of luck. Amy had managed to escape through her hidden backyard gate into the shopping centre behind her house. The tight crew saw her and only missed her by a second or two. She’d managed to leap into a shuttle bus that had only just closed the doors behind her. Off it rumbled to the next stop with the crew in hot pursuit.

Their gigantic SUV cut a path through the traffic and screamed “get out of my way” by sheer force and bulk. Black, as all good law enforcement or gangster vehicles should be, it’s tinted windows giving no clues as to who hid, or what was going on, inside. The crew also used this mammoth beast to shoot porn and found they could park anywhere. No-one would know what mischief was going on inside.

The once a “star” was a reluctant naked one of course. She managed to unlock the back door and nearly escape into the crowded peak hour mayhem. Muni had grabbed her in time and sucked her back into the sweaty gathering occurring within. They would remember the child locks in future. They also killed the star and her manly lovers when they’d finished, as they did with all their performers. No such thing as a series in their world. Shit loads of money, no witnesses and strict obedience to Dead was their purpose.

Amy stared out of the bus and saw the huge black thing following. It was cutting through traffic, swerving and racing along behind. She wondered how she might make the next escape. Jumping from the moving bus would be very difficult, for a start the doors were closed, and the windows offered no openings. Fate for those that believed in such things was on her side. The bus “t boned” an extra serious cavalcade from the G20 summit.

The security assigned to such a snake of serious power and influence leapt into action. Their truck mounted weapon was revealed, the undercover agents weren’t undercover any longer and proceeded to lock down the scene. All a flourish of men and women with automatic weapons and radios with controlled chaos.

The support vehicles running a few meters behind the last vehicle were untouched. Almost immediately the passengers who were smashed into their seat belts and airbags were released and then like lightening, relocated into these safe support vehicles. Some could not be released but groaned and yelled as the medics attended to their needs. One had died.

The tight crew watched this extraordinary event unfold and realised that the bus passengers (that could walk) were also being ushered into to this haven of security. They’d not be able to get Amy, for now at least.

Of course, Numb was oblivious to these events. His hair needed attending to and his stylist picked and preened his hair to such a dramatic affect that it made the nightly news. He was moved by the warm response when he left the courthouse.

“Defying all good taste and psychics” was the best headline announcing Numb’s day.

The fact that three witnesses from this titivating case were missing and that the convoy of “the world’s trough nibblers” were nearly wiped out – wasn’t. No, that wasn’t news.

Numb’s coiffed hair was the most important thing on everyone’s mind. It certainly hurt Numb’s as the gel and hardware had dried and tightened that much that it gave him a mother of a headache.

Amy was in a huge Hummer with other bus passengers heading to who knows where? She’d not seen the SUV monster after the crash. The three-armed guards in the Hummer would not let her know where they were heading. Anywhere would be good she thought as she collapsed back into the seat.

Dead was not pleased at all and let the tight crew know in no uncertain terms. He shot one of them in the leg before going down to Molly’s Irish Bar for a pint of Guinness or more.

Harry was deep in concentration. He’d parked his Police car in the darkest skankiest lane way the city could offer. He was smoking, thinking and smoking. The cigarettes helped him to focus. He had some of his best ideas while smoking, the other while having a relaxing pee. This filthy private lane-way offered an opportunity for both.

Again, he strained with the same thoughts … “How the fuck can this bloke or blokes get away with this macabre slaughtering over and over.”

“Was it a bloke? Was it a few, was it a woman?”

The clues led nowhere, and the scene revealed nothing other than the perverse carnage and brutal gore. A noise startled Harry  just a heartbeat before the impact smacked down like the end of the world landing on his car. The complete nong who was sort of living a life, in one of the glamour free units that spewed their being into that lane, had decided to dispose of his beer, sweat and vomit stained lounge chair. This rocket scientist on a really bad day, decided that throwing it out the window would be a good idea. To make it worse, he didn’t even look.

He’d opened the barely seen through window and simply rolled it out. Out of the restricted opening and then as does happen, gravity took over. The level of gravity enjoyed that day ensured this lumbering piece of decaying and smelly furniture hurtled straight down to arrive at a less than settled rest on Harry’s roof.

Whack – bounce, rock and settle

Harry literally shat himself, his pants were that badly stained the paramedic had agreed to give him a spare pair, a choice of trousers they’d had on hand for similar situations. Not that lounge chairs flew out of windows and totalled cars that often, but many times a patient had an unintended bowel release. It was better for all in the ambulance that such a outcome be left behind and not transported to the hospital.

The old shit stained pants did not look out of place in the crappy lane way, in fact a homeless person was very pleased when she found them. Gathering her ensemble was an acquired taste, less than fashionable but warm as toast.

Dead had no such back up. His excessive Guinness driven excitement had forced his blacker than black fart spray. He didn’t realise such a tremendous fart would flow with a liquid follow through. Dead was stranded in the men’s room, rings loose in his hands, not on them and litres of brown stains dribbling down his legs and filing his shoes with amazing pace. He could only jump into a cubicle shut the door and call someone to come and help him. Help him quick.

“Bring some fucking pants, and fucking hurry up” … The poor crew member didn’t really understand but had to do what was asked of him, despite his confusion. When Dicky arrived at the club, he managed to drop the freshly laundered pants right in the middle of the bar area as he walked to the gents. Big mistake, discretion and subtlety was an intended message of Dead’s demands.

Dropping his very clean and expensive change of pants in the middle of the bar for all to see was not very good for Dicky’s career advancement. Dead walked out of the gents scowling and pretending that everything was fine but was surprised and terribly annoyed at the looks and obvious sniggers from the patrons.

They’d realised immediately what must have happened, well at least the change of pants for certain. The fact that Dicky was following up behind and carrying a plastic bag a bit too far from his face was the other clue. The smell took some time to permeate the normal bar stink and even though it took it’s time, it hit home big time. It was putrid, flowing and squelching in that tightly sealed plastic bag. Dead pretended to be oblivious to this hilarity – but he knew they knew.

“They’d die to regret it” … thought Dead. Dicky’s life in Dead’s world was very short lived. He made it to the car he’d taken from the crew’s carpool and was shot on the spot before he could even get into the luxurious car. Oddly enough the shot went straight through the shit bag and splattered the contents all over him. Any chance of hiding the recent need for a wardrobe change was completely shot.

As was poor Dicky, dead on the ground with shit and plastic bag stands making the statement for all to smell and see. Dead was very lucky that the explosion of shit and plastic didn’t blast all over the car, he jumped in and tore off. Shit free.

Harry was fine, after a check of his heart and for some reason his testicles, he showered and then he was off. He did return the pants (after their cleansing) and added a six pack of imported beer for the paramedic crew in appreciation. He was off back to work at the Madhouse.

Peter was busy

He was arranging a marvelous part four.

“It’ll be a special event and nothing like the others” … thought Peter.

He rambled on as if promoting his handiwork to an interested audience. “Maybe the key killer parts will be different, but the impact will be just as wonderful.”

Ruth was still looking for her missing witnesses. Her phone screamed at her.

“Yes – Oh Hi, OK, and how many are out looking?” Ruth had Rotund Boy’s assistant on the phone and as usual he was giving some very clear and illegal advice to Ruth. Peter liked helping Ruth. It didn’t hurt his situation, but it sure helped Ruth and Peter liked that, liked it indeed. Ruth would feature in part four if his plan came together. He often dreamed of Ruth, but he didn’t know that Harry lived the horizontal folk dancing life with Ruth. He would have factored that stumble in his event planning had he known.

Remarkably the dumb arse who chucked the lounge chair out the window was re-arrested as he finally left the Madhouse and Harry took great delight in ensuring he would not see the streets or his shit hole apartment for about three months.

“Outstanding warrants were just outstanding.” … thought Harry.

Molly Jones sat her desk and strained her eyes. She was the lead lab technician trying to sort out the samples collected and separated as well as possible, from Peter’s joy. She struggled to differentiate substances let alone establish from what. She was looking for a DNA outcome. Molly had worked at the local health authority’s laboratory for seven years and three before that in London.

The worst part about this separation was where to begin, as soon as you did you were producing an incredibly shrinking portion. It got to the stage that the portions were too small to adequately test.

“Amazing work” … she mumbled to no one in particular. “Where did this evil doer get the knowledge to create such a blind mess that’s leading us nowhere?” Molly turned over to her small wireless sound box and TV and turned up Pink Floyd’s Pulse live DVD to a body changing level, she was on her own after all. “Fuck that’s great” … again to no one. “The best live show I’ve ever seen.” 1994 Earls Court London and she was there. Ecstasy in audio, light and delight. She didn’t make it onto the video, but she didn’t care. She was watched on the CCTV though.

Malcolm was her assistant who laughed when she put her music on. He was only twenty-two, incredibly naive and didn’t know any of, or appreciate her music. Silly boy didn’t realise that she had a wide eclectic taste but only brought in the not too offensive, not too loud material into the lab.

She’d party each long work break with a range of funk, soul, punk and some very heavy rock “n” roll. She also loved going to shows and often stood out as being the oldest in the room. Good looking cougar they used to say before trying it on with her. Margaret got it on often.

Molly was 52, red hair that screamed I’m not the same as everybody else and had a figure an aerobics instructor would be proud to own or at least create. She ate well, looked after her drugs and alcohol intake and exercised a great deal. She wore subtle sensible work clothes to work under her lab coat, but outside the confines of the sterile environment she rocked minis, leggings, boots and tops that created a top of their own.

She was a healthy good-looking professional woman who in being confident about her sexuality, raced the race as often as she needed. She always came first.

Poor young Malcolm had some hots seriously big time for the lovely Molly. He’d never fulfill his lustful ambitions but dreamed wet and dry about doing so. He was a pimply scrunt of a young man, stumbling about in his ill-fitting clothes that his mother bought for him. He still lived at home with her and his grandmother. A party house not, well fed, poorly clothed and sheltered from modern life – yes. It could have been worse, but Malcolm couldn’t comprehend how. He pleasured himself that much he’d negotiated a special arrangement.

He’d look after his bed clothes himself. The ultra-embarrassing conversation he’d two years ago had with his mother and grandmother couldn’t be repeated. Today he was watching the CCTV monitor while supposedly working, but of course he was wanking himself silly.

The results were not appearing, the testing was wasting samples and time and the frustration levels within the lab and the Madhouse were heightened to a new distant level.

Why the blazes can’t the lab give us anything? said the Police; or Why can’t they provide us any clean, single samples or even a lead as to which ones may be the culprit and which are the smorgasbord of victims? said the lab technicians.

Peter didn’t have any questions or answers, he provided so much organic, non-organic, mineral and vegetable material it completely overwhelmed the entire process. That overabundance turned out to be a clue in itself.

Peter was finished for the day at the Madhouse and prepared himself for the trip home. He parked his car in the same spot and arrived and left at the same time every workday. He took the same route in morning and the same yet a different way back home each night. He was very much a creature of habit. His public persona was a fastidious gentleman who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Little did they know, he’d hurt anything he wanted and as of late that was an ever-increasing number of human beings.

He often sat and thought why? but quickly dismissed such unnecessary reflection. Oddly it only seemed to occur while he was doing his weekly grocery shopping and at no other time. The check-out girls normally steered him back towards his vicious, bloody passion.

The bath would be a relaxing time this afternoon. Not an afterglow but a prewash. Peter was getting ready, ready to slaughter and butcher a few bodies into a soup of unrecognisable goop that would frustrate and confuse those given the job of catching him. He loved hearing them talk in the Madhouse about how they might do that.

How they will react when they have the culprit and the bravado expressed at how they (really one of them) would beat him to a pulp. Norman was the macho numb-nuts Detective and he was on Peter’s list of scene participants. Norman would be the taster for the wider main event they’d discover soon enough in the next room.

“Stupid fat prick, he’d be laughing for sure. His face was going to be squeezed over the doorknob and his flaccid pimply dick will be fused into the ceiling light fitting. That’ll fix him.”

Peter sat in his bath

Now home Peter sat in the bath and fantasised about the upcoming main event. His event participants were expanding in numbers. So was his personal pleasure.

Peter had bought himself a very smart fully furnished one-bedroom apartment. It was his “get away” apartment. He went there to plan. He’d never written anything down before and today was the very first time. The reason, it was becoming very complicated and requiring layers to be planned and reactions to be played depending on the actions of his quarry. At his reckoning there would be at least 14 people to carve up.

They’d be nothing like that Saw franchise. Those young Australian guys did give Peter some good ideas though. In fact, most of his planning and its gruesome application came from the excessive amount of film and TV he’d watched over the years.

He enjoyed his visual entertainment.

He stated rather boldly at work one day that surely if the writers for TV and Films could think it, then it would mean it’s probably happening or indeed possible. Of course, he was talking about conspiracies, world domination / control and the delicious influence those with money had over those without. Peter was one of the ones with money.

He was stumbling at the first part, the most important part, in that it would set the scene for those parts that follow.

He reviewed each one as he typed them out:

• Corral the participants in a manner that would not alarm them, give them a clue of what might lie ahead and under no circumstances give them a chance to escape.
• Confirm his choice for the first one to die.
• Prepare the scene so that his usual gloriously gory time can be achieved without any tell-tale remains.
• Sharpen and otherwise prepare the tools. Those shiny sharp blades he used for the dissection, the cutting, the chopping and the bit he loved nearly as much as hacking them to death – the dissemination of random false clues and body parts.
• The getaway. This part always gave rise to a warm smile on Peter’s face, his joy at beating the hapless Police and medical examiners. In fact, it was nearly the best part.

The scene was to be a local Italian restaurant called Danny’s that was tucked away from the Main Street and had three driveway entry and egress options. He’d arrive via one, dare to act out the passion, then leave in another vehicle by the second. The third driveway deposited its passengers out into the street and there were far too many people out there. He’d prepared the leaving car (which he had careful hidden) and parked the arriving car in plain sight on the road beside the railway station. He kept the cars out of the CCTV’s prying eyes and his movements to, at and leaving would not be captured by any cameras.

He’d walk from his van to the arriving car. He was worried about the van staying on the roadside overnight but the disconnect between all these vehicles should keep things safe. The only problem was someone seeing him walking from his van. The decision to disguise himself as a woman was very fortunate. He’d attracted a wolf whistle while struggling to get out of the van.

Thankfully the young whistling dickheads roared past him and carried on to the motor way on ramp. If by any extraordinary chance they were asked about an occupant of the van, they’d simply remember a blonde-haired stunner in a mini dress and legs all the way to heaven. He was a stunner and with his pumps tightly fastened his legs really did go all the way to his heaven.

Peter looked remarkably good in his female form. His feminine side was the right shape from all sides, with the right lumps. The odd one out was well enough hidden to convince anyone. He’d actually tried it out one night in a wild grab a granny pub two suburbs away from his swanky new “get away” apartment. Two blokes came onto him like a flash and one nearly succeeded he was that nice.

Peter wasn’t interested in sex that night, well not as a woman, but he nearly turned. The shock of the jocks face would have been worth the risk. His last shock and look of course. This change of form worked a treat when Peter needed to develop a strategy for arriving and departing. In as woman – out as a man, or vice a versa.

The cars Peter used aside from his own van, were purchased from a range of car yards down the Pacific Highway just over the state border. Their registration requirements didn’t really talk to the authorities across the border and Peter used that confusion to his advantage. His repertoire of disguise was very keenly applied when he bought them. He’d driven down booked a cheap “meth head” motel room and arranged his outfits.

He would buy cars with cash and drive them into various shopping centres nearby. The last time he went down, he’d bought 4 cars, each from a different yard and had eventually spaced out just across the border, closer to home and his apartment. They were super old ugly buckets but mechanically sound (that was a must) and once he’d picked them up, he was ready to move to the first part.

Not one of the slobs who sold the cars would be able to accurately describe the new owner of those cars, they were pretty dim and as far as they knew it was a bog-standard transaction, normal negotiation with some perceived win/win discount.

They were bought by a range of men apparently of different ages. One of the slobs actually lost the paperwork. Mac’s Cars was really an outlaw biker’s cocaine sales and delivery outlet, combined with a serious bit of money laundering. He’d really not remember the sale at all, nor would he remember the surfer dude seeking a beach and boards car.

The restaurant scene was the easy part. He bought it. Well any forensic check wouldn’t reveal that of course, but he did. The shelf company he used for such mischief was triple shielded from view. Mumbles Pty Ltd had recently purchased a struggling business despite it being a very popular and busy local restaurant. The owner, now the old owner and an unknowingly participant in the scene was kept on keeping the food as popular as it had been.

He couldn’t run a business for shit, but he sure could cook. It was that good Peter really enjoyed the takeaway he had delivered to his new pad and it was this meal that sparked the scene location idea so many months ago.

Point 1 was nearly figured out and the components set in their respective place. All Peter needed to do was to get the players there. It was time for an Italian meal, with his pleasure served as the desert.

Seeking an afternoon nooky Harry waited like a sexually deprived young 14-year-old. He was waiting for Ruth to finish work. She’d called saying she had some time off and some serious urges that only Harry could satisfy. The public prosecutor’s office was tucked upstairs in the back of the Gloryville Town Hall. A heritage listed building with lead light windows, arches, long spooky corridors and loads of sandstone. It even boasted scary statues, with enough architectural fear that matched an English cathedral.

Scare the crap out of the lower rung, the general population. Dominate with power, money and impressive defenses. This was the intent back then, but now it was a popular public space and hosted loads of fun things. Art, cultural extravagances, fashion, music and thankfully for Ruth a discrete application of Law.

Harry didn’t really take in this history. He was as horny as hell and was observably ready for Ruth. Lucky for him he was in a Police car and didn’t need to walk to the employee entrance. Ruth would come to, and for him soon enough. The more he thought about this the harder he became. Adjustments were constant and the effect uncomfortable. Harry tried to think of something else to distract him from the sexual athletics ahead.

Ruth grabbed her coat, tucked her small “Harry time” bag into her briefcase and did a final makeup check. Everything in order, her crisp professional exterior hiding the light blue and black lingerie combination she’d bought for this afternoon and evening’s entertainment. It was all well tucked underneath while supporting her fertile yet well protected reproductive parts.

Harry would near explode when this ensemble was revealed and would normally rage at removing it as quickly as possible. That was OK by Ruth, it really showed, as did the bursting hard-on he sported, that he was very keen on being with Ruth at this time. Ruth had the same feelings and obliged with great vigour at lunging onto this erect manhood prepared and presented for her pleasure.

Mutual moaning, grinding, sweating and slipping about Harry’s apartment. Drinks and a cigarette announced it was time to catch their breath and chat.

“How you are going with this serial killer?” asked Ruth as she shifted herself on the lounge.

Harry blew the first lungful of smoke away from Ruth and responded … “Well not very well at all actually, the fucker has the knack of blending evidence, DNA and other odd things that the lab can’t identify. They can’t identify anything, other than the things they can’t. I really wish they could find something, even if it was wrong.”

“How would that help?” … Ruth was a little confused by this statement. “How can the wrong evidence help you? Surely the only way to catch this bastard is too find something that will connect to him or lead you to him. Are you still undecided whether it’s a he or a she?” Ruth didn’t like breaking the sexy time mood with work talk but this was very different.

Harry was less concerned and could change tack quite easily, talking about serial murders one minute and fucking like there’s no tomorrow the next. Sometimes if he was striving to “not come within a heartbeat” he’d think of work and distract himself from the business at hand. At hand it was, Ruth grabbed his cock the very second he extinguished the cigarette.

Sexual release was over for now, it was let’s break for dinner time. Loose bits of sexual organs relaxed as they both prepared their evening meal behind a safe apron. Harry had the cliched naked female body graphic while Ruth and a bold statement graphic that Harry had organised. It said, “Please fuck me after dinner”. It was always a giggle when she put it on, dinner was often delayed. Not tonight though, they cooked, ate and then talked about the murders over two large glasses of Pinot Noir.

Harry went first. “What if the murderous bastard has a change of look? Disguises, maybe a woman one minute and a man the next. That would make getting in and out of the scene a bit easier and it might explain how he / she gets the victims into position in the first place. Maybe they’re at ease because he’s a she. What do you think?”

“Well it has possibility; the victims would immediately trust a woman with a plausible story.” Helping, or even in some case trying to take advantage.” Ruth suddenly thought of her missing witnesses. “Any news on my two missing Dead case witnesses?” … Ruth asked while slurping back the last of her wine. Almost licking out the dregs. She was readying herself for more sex. Maybe a quick pee first.

“We have Amy locked in the Madhouse awaiting the Federal wankers to give her a safe room location and sadly we’ve no news on Rick or Margaret. There’s no sign of trouble at their homes, they’ve just managed to vanish. It has to be Dead that’s behind it as Amy described what could have been an SUV from Dead’s carpool. That filth Muni was most certainly there but none of those able to accurately describe him would do so and Amy didn’t get a good look the main guy.”

Harry realised the glass clue and the need for a pee was also on his mind, he was to ready himself as well. Ruth was insatiable, very smart, very fit, sexy as fuck and very demanding. Harry loved it.

Dead was hungover

As usual he found himself surrounded by idiots, granted they were loyal but shit they were dumb. He stumbled out from his room and called everyone to his next demand.

“Get that fucking Amy, find out where the Police are keeping her and kill her with as much noise and mess as you shit fuckers can muster” … clear?” Dead was not very nice to his crew, but he did reward success with his flamboyant flurry and failure in his brutally ruthless way. “Who wants to have a holiday in Rome next week? Well whoever finds that girl will be doing so with their main squeeze, or better still buy one or two while you’re there … understand?”

Tim understood, he had a friend in the Madhouse, and he’d help for sure. He also had a hankering for a wild time in Rome. He’d been to Rome before and had done as the Romans do.

Its Swinging Time. Glenn Brown sat at his desk and stared at the invitation. Alexia had included him on the invitation so he may gain entry to the newest top-class swinger’s get together’s to hit Gloryville. This night was to be at the popular Danny’s, an Italian Restaurant in the CBD.

It boldly stated in promiscuous font and graphical styling that it was Sunday April 5, gathering and eating from 19.00 for a locked door “all in or you’re out” nude’athon starting at 22.00. Alexia was the cover name for the escort agency Glenn used and more than often abused. They tripled his fee and warned the girls, but the desperate ones thought they could get through his violent excuse for passion.

It was torture, rage, humiliation and often topped with a severe beating. Although sometimes he didn’t do any of that, he’d just halfway fuck for 20 minutes, stumble and then fall asleep. Alexia took his greedy share and the girls got theirs. Their share would almost cost them more than they earned. Many took a chance.

Billie was one desperate girl who really need some big money fast. She was none too shy at pulling a hustle, con, scam or a dick … she’d do anything and normally put up with anything to get some fast cash. She owed serious money to a bunch of unassuming psychopaths that would slit her open for a grand. It’d be unthinkable what they’d do for the half a million she owed. Compounding interest and her inability to show respect shot that figure up over a 4-month period.

Alexia had booked the exclusive swingers invite for Glenn and guaranteed him a glorious partner for the event, well at least one to get him started, be with for 20 minutes and maybe return to if he wanted. He often did swingers events and the girls he took were more than likely to survive the evening unscathed. They’d get shit faced, fucked right royally and earn more cash for the night than they would normally see in a month, even after Alexia slide his paws over the fee.

Peter enjoyed toying with the event’s participants. He knew what would entice what group and ensure they arrived as keen as mustard. Keen for what they thought was going to be a great night, but it was Peter’s night he’d planned, not theirs. They would play a vital and joyous role in their own slaughter and separation. Peter had coned Danny with an enticing reward to take the night off and organise his sou chef to manage the prepared entree and main meal to the exclusively salacious diners.

The invite list was carefully put together, arranged by Peter of course. Danny was too good to lose and after tonight he’d be happy enough to take a week or two off and then accept a miraculous job offer at a newly opened Pizzeria. Peter had organised that as well.

Glenn screamed at his jacket button as he dressed, realising that he’d ripped the entire section. “Fuck this” … he screamed some more and then grabbed another jacket, sadly one that he’d had to tear out of the dry cleaner’s bag. “Fucking night gets off to a good start” … At least he was going to get laid and his credit card was ready for the extension of credit ahead. He also had a very small personal supply of coke in his wallet that helped to prolong the high throughout the pleasure.

Billie was also getting ready and just managed to miss the crew’s knocking at her door as she slinked down the stairs. The best thing about the crew’s big beefy meat heads was their reliance on using the lift and Billie was well grateful for that. As she slinked down the stairs ever so quietly, she caught the raised eye of some of her neighbours.

Billie was smothered in her favourite perfume, her highest fuck me pumps, her fuck me one-piece cat suit ensemble and her most definitely fuck me more – lack of any underwear. The heads will explode when she walks into Danny’s with that pig Glenn. His it turned out would explode later that night – and not for the reason she thought.

Robert had done as he was told, arrived early. He’d set the ovens and the salamander to full speed and dragged the prepared food from the cool room. He was very busy unpacking and collating his night’s feast and almost failed to notice each employee arrive and take up their individual responsibilities. Their sense of pride was well known, and Peter had organised a way to save these lovely souls. He’d set the lock up time and invite structure so the “all in or you’re all out” would ensure that the employees left before the doors were locked.

Peter would be doing the locking, the chopping, the slicing and the marinating from 22.00 till the job was done. The only slight risky participant was Detective Norman Wallace. He was timed to arrive just before the doors were shutting. His reason for coming was the most perverse thing Peter had ever done, and that was saying something. He’d watched 7even with glee and enjoyed the “don’t look inside the box” scene with such excitement. He swore he’d try it for himself.

Norman was going to turn up, not so much an invite. He had a card dropped into his lap at lunch during the chaotic fire evacuation alarm. It was a false alarm, but the card wasn’t and neither was the photo within it. His Mother, Father and his two boys were shown in this photo.

The badly beaten mother cradled the blindfolded children in her lap and her husband lay beneath the three of them on the floor. He was split into two very large pieces. The instructions required Norman to be at Danny’s at 21.50 without telling anybody or his remaining family member’s bodies would be mailed section by section to the three local TV news channels.

One section a day

Norman had his gun and too many large gulps of vodka driving him on, he’d be there. How could he not. Weapons check time.

Numb had been invited to Danny’s. Sadly, for Peter, he’d declined by quoting some sort of a spiritual awakening. Over the years Peter had asked many people just what spirituality actually meant. A bit like the meaning of life question. So many people state they have, live, spread and even some claim they can infect others with their own brand of spirituality. Peter thought it was complete horseshit, a bit like those natural cure proponents who are suffering from terminal cancer. Those that decry conventional medicine and treatments and shove (at pressure) coffee up their arse.

The act of coffee enemas amused Peter, what lunatic first thought – Oh I’ll squirt some coffee granules with a little water and maybe some sugar (an arse latte) up my rectum. How could they think that it would heal the body, sure it might flush out the bowel etc. but why coffee, why not sand or salt?

The remarkably reviving cancer patient credits coffee enemas and daily introspection as killing any cancer cells and restoring the body to being disease free. Pity that most of them are complete charlatans. One in Australia has recently been outed as a complete fraud.

“So that Numb nuts ain’t coming, damn that fucks out the numbers” … Peter said to himself while sorting out some minor weapon checks. “What sort of a knob is this clown?” How can he suddenly become enlightened, surely that court case he’s involved with would keep him grounded?

Hopefully if he won’t come tonight like he should, he might actually be killed by that Dead fellow” … Peter was ranting as he often did but stopped himself before getting too wound up. He did that as well.

The weapons were first rate, glistening Japanese sushi blades, Chinese choppers, a pair of Swedish surgical secateurs and some American cigarette sized grenades. Peter was nothing if not worldly and matter of fact in his choice of weaponry. Of course, he also had his two guns. The “Magnum” was his favourite and he would regularly sneak a look at the marketing blurb. “MRI’s Big Frame Revolver is truly the biggest, finest revolver on the market today. The BFR is all stainless and has a cut rifled barrel that delivers unmatched accuracy with lead or jacketed bullets.”

What a killing machine this was, one shot correctly placed would rip the back of his victim’s head clear out and spread the contents over what ever happened to behind it. Sometimes shattering the very thing behind it as well.

The other and frighteningly efficient body slicing gun was the “Mini UZI Sub Machine Gun (SMG)” and the three box magazines he had for a quick replacement, each a 32-round box magazine.

These items were simply used to set the scene. By blowing the head and arms of two participants. This very loud and very bloody first action would alert the remaining participants to a simple fact. They needed to do what he said, when asked. No questions, no talking, remove all clothing and move into the positions he suggested. Peter would be very insistent that any embarrassed undresses needed to hurry the fuck up and not be so modest. Under the circumstances that was very fair. Then they kneeled.

He would then gather all of their jewellery, electronic devices including any pacemakers and even any prosthetics they may have had surgical implanted. Using the surgical secateurs, he’d remove stubborn jewellery and cut out the plastic tits bags and pace makers, he even removed a cochlear implant once. He would be looking for anything they may have, even in their nakedness, that could identify them.

Intact teeth were a no brainer, they were removed as well, or at least shattered enough to deny identification. Tell-tale medical procedures were impossible to locate, but his butchery would normally reduce that risk of identification considerably.

They remained kneeling. That would be the last voluntary movement they’d apply. Involuntary movement would be comprehensive and widespread.

Even with Numb’s dramatic change from a rampant fucking machine to the reincarnation of a seventies hippy aside, the night was going to be a wonder. Blood and guts and pleasure for Peter. Norman had not told anyone and thought he’d be able to get his family back. Though he didn’t know where his ex-wife was, he knew she’d have been be a target or be dead already.

He was right on both counts.

Lucy was watching. There was a majorly unknown factor about Peter’s big event, he didn’t count the quickie he offered Sally. There was a fly in his ointment, and she lived across the road from Danny’s. She was almost a hermit in her internal lifestyle. Out to the local shops, bank, government social support office and all done on a Thursday morning between 07.00 and 09.30. This was the only time she went out. Recently she had to see a Doctor but found one that would come to her, she liked that better.

The combination and careful management of the television, Internet and her net curtains provided all the entertainment she required. The goings on outside her small apartment were sometimes more interesting than the TV and cyberspace. The reality of people walking, talking. smoking, stealing things, selling things and engaging in all sort of animal inspired sexual behaviours often kept her up at night, it got her out of bed as well.

Lucy was 56 and single without having been married. She was once a vivacious young woman with a career in real estate but wound down from that semi fraudulent activity when the authorities cracked down on her qualifications, procedures and claims of income. She’d been part of the old school and thankfully most of whom were dead or in jail. Lucy was neither, she’d managed to survive the interrogation and paid a small fine. Lucy kept the 8 hundred thousand she’d hidden away and sought a quiet life.

She now had one at unit 5 / 2005 Main Street, Gloryville Centre. Just above the chemist and the newsagent and right across the road from one of Gloryville’s most popular restaurants. All three delivered when they were called upon to do so. All she needed most urgently was to locate a home visit Dentist, her teeth were giving her grief and this pressure to leave her private world worried her to distraction. After all, she only wanted to go out on Thursdays.

Lucy had the structure and performance of this excursion so well organised that the employees involved in her purchases, withdrawals and receipt of funds could set their clocks by it. The local government parking inspectors didn’t even waste time coming back to check her car after the 09.00 half hour parking restriction – they knew she’d be gone by 09.27. “Crafty old bag” … they thought as they focused their special kind of love elsewhere. Their job was vital in keeping the parking opportunities open to all and not just those that wished to hog the very limited spaces in the CBD. They were disliked and all too often assaulted. Normally by those who disagreed with the need to regulate such spaces and abused the officers for doing so. Although some of the dimmer officers had a crafty side, like hiding in wait and watching while having a sly coffee, most of them were strictly above board and cheerful folk.

Lucy had been twitching her curtains as she liked to do and spotted something unusual. A woman had parked her car in a legal space and left it untouched now for 3 days, well 2 nights and today so far. It was 21.20 and it was still there. A green station wagon with tinted windows. It just looked suspicious, no one normally left a car there for this long and it wasn’t belonging to any local workers, she knew theirs and kept an eye out for them.

“So who was that woman” … Lucy thought as she looked up the newly created “non-emergency Police number. Should I report it? Maybe I’ll wait and see if it’s there tomorrow.” Lucy popped the “call us if you’re worried” Police number into her new Samsung mobile and returned to watching Hannibal on TV. She loved Hannibal and was desperately waiting for Season 3 to begin. These were just the refreshers from series 2 to wet the gory appetite of those suckered into the rich creamy visuals, clever scripts, exquisite food and top rate acting. Lucy fancied herself a TV critic, although she never wrote her thoughts out to share with anyone.

She was cringing at a particularly gruesome scene when she heard a noise outside. That normally got her straight up from her comfy lounge, but she held for a second. She was transfixed by the man stitched and grown into a tree on Hannibal.

Right – she hit pause and was at the window. “Oh look, that car is still there but there’s a man slipping something out of the boot and placing it in a sports bag.” … Lucy would talk to herself a lot nowadays and she was now.

She was very good at remembering features of people she saw, a trick she developed when avoiding the authorities sent to trap her wrong doings in the real estate days. 40-45, dark hair, well cut collar length, long hair as it was swept from the forehead back over his head, very well groomed and at a guess could have been described as a gay man.

He had an air of serious money and a deliberate matter of fact approach to his movements at this car. He wasn’t stealing anything she thought, he looked like the car and object belonged to him. He was dressed in a strange overall combination with black boots. He looked like an eighties rock star, maybe Gary Numan?

“What was he doing there? … she scribbled down her observations and continued peeking. Peter did not see the tiny gap in the curtains and had no idea that he and his drive away car were of such interest to the tenant within that apartment. He carried on with his plan.

Peter walked into Danny’s, flashed his invitation to the doorman hired for the evening and hugged the wall bench section nearest the door. It was directly under a broken light fitting and offered no clue as to his presence there. He deliberately wore his darkest overall set and kept his head down.

His sports bag sat at his feet. His shiny patent leather boots displayed orange laces for a touch of style. He watched the very proud staff glide about their business and accepted a glass of light beer when offered by the waitress. It was nearly 21.50 and Norman would be arriving soon.

The horny participants were too busy checking out the other lovelies in attendance and a quiet shy guy in a pair of overalls did not pique their fancy. They would notice him soon enough.

Say No to Drugs

Numb was wasted. He had collapsed onto the floor in a fit of dramatic overload. The excitement from his drug of choice had chosen to bite back and do it hard. He’d over done the fun, and had he been able it would be triggering a serious bout of regret. Only when he regained consciousness of course, for now he was a vegetative dribbling mess on the floor. His state was creating even more of a mess. This afternoon’s drugs party participant was not one of Numb’s normal music, fashion or film set, this girl was a serious gutter dwelling, street hardened addict of a number of substances.

Her pleasure of mixing a few together caught Numb off guard. In fact, if smacked him in the face like a train. Not even Superman could have lessened the effect. The gentle joint was loaded with heroin and it had a smack like no other smoke Numb and enjoyed before.

He enjoyed the sharing and the tentative touching / smoking / laughing type precursor to the rough sex he was after, but never got to enjoy anything with this sexy street urchin. She died. Numb was woken by his housekeeper and security man some 9 hours after his shambolic intake and was taken with most discretion to the local hospital’s outpatients. He was admitted under an alias, one specifically used for such occasions and one that had been used often. His manager arrived, payed off the hospital employees that knew and ensured the paps were clueless.

The recovery would be enjoyed elsewhere, this visit was to pump his stomach and load his system with the drugs needed to reduce the impact of the drugs he’d already taken. Good drugs and bad drugs ruled Numb’s life. He just sometimes fucked up the timing and dose of each.

Numb’s manager was a carbon copy blend of two infamous English rock managers. A bit of a combo between Peter James “G” Grant (Led Zeppelin) and Don Arden (Black Sabbath) a hard arse with severe physical, verbal and financial reactions to disloyalty and fraud. He had connections with a number of pizza sauce and olive oil distributors. The veiled understanding of his food supplier connections scared a lot of fraudulent, disloyal and other wise annoying buggers away. Only wise guys remained.

Numb was recovering and living up to his rapper moniker. He was flat out drinking water or even seating it out and could not sit up to save his life. He was safely housed in a special rehab clinic set up for the wealthy, famous or not. Society prided itself on those with money requiring special treatment and so they received it.

Amy was also safely held up in a special place but hers wasn’t as comfortable.

The highway leading south out of town had many seedy motels. They were loaded with drug addled folks, sex workers working and innocent yet desperate occupants. Amy was in that category, but she was under Police protection and the complete lack of imagination from those in charge inserted her into such a rank place. The manager, if she could be called that had strong links to Dead and Muni and she wanted the money on offer for her news. She texted Muni from the clean mobile he’d given her for such things.

“I think the girl you’re looking for is here in room 10”

“OK details” … replied Muni in a heartbeat.

“There are 4 Police here as well, two with her and two next door in room 9.”

“Good, hold tight and stay in your office” … Muni was on the job and on his way.

Amy was watching some daytime shit on the cable TV, some catch them if you can, revenge drama and it was very tedious. She’d watched a lot of TV the last few days and was anxious to be free of the snoring slobs who were supposed to be looking after her.

One day she’d gone to reception to buy some ladies things and the stupid Police didn’t even notice her missing.

“Safe my bum” … she thought, “How could these slow-moving chauvinists get into the Police let alone remain there? … and was that continual clapping from the mentally crippled knob in room 11? When he wasn’t screaming the worst profanities at his children he was clapping at the TV and screaming who-hoo”.

In fact, they weren’t his children, the whole motel endured him screaming that they belonged to someone else and that they were causing him no end of grief. A kind and loving God, if there was one, would kill that motherfucker dead right now. He was psychologically damaging these two innocent little beggars. The little munchkins will either kill him, grow up to be like him, or even worse become psychopaths, bent on a slaughter spree of their own.

Amy watched the TV, the goings on outside and listened to the chaotic racket coming from room 11. Just as she thought of doing something, she saw a large black SUV glide into the parking lot.

“Fuck it’s them” … She turned around and saw that the two waste of oxygen Police officers were sound asleep. “It’s me that’ll save me” … she realised. She snuck out of her room like a quick mouse and barged into room 11. Fuck-knuckle started to say something and then realised that a very attractive young woman barging into his room was a very good thing.

“Hi what’s going on? … What can I do for you?” … Lucky for him the children and their damn mother weren’t in the room, they were down at the bowling alley scrounging for money.

Amy replied very quickly while applying a taste of life experiences she’d absorbed … “I’m trapped and bored in the room next door and I’m as horny as all fuck. I need a good fucking NOW and I want you to get into shower while I get ready OK? Screaming man whose name was Terry was very quick to understand the situation and extremely keen to say yes, but before he could his head felt like someone had just smacked the back of it with a tree. It wasn’t actually a tree, but it was a strangely ornate wooden thingy that the motel had proudly placed into each room. This one was now damaged as was Terry’s head.

He collapsed like a log

Muni and his man mountain crew got out of the fortified SUV and headed to rooms 9 and 10. Walk slowly, get to both rooms at the same time and pepper anything inside with enough bullets to bring down an elephant. No knocking, no sounds then off the bullets flew. They destroyed the room’s door, windows and walls and ripped the room’s contents to shreds.

Humans, beds, bathroom, TVs and everything else in both rooms. Both had the exact same number of contents. Muni didn’t realise that room 9 was missing a human.

The crew left without checking the rooms and as they drove off threw an obscenely large roll of bills at the manager. Job done they thought, aren’t we clever they thought and wow I’m hungry they all thought together. This meal was to be remembered for a long time.

Terry woke up to find a gaping bloody wound in the back of his head, his money, car keys and his woman’s clothes all gone. He noticed a wooden thing lying on the ground beside him which sported a phrase branded into the side of it … “Welcome to the Best Motel in Heading Harbour. We know you’ll enjoy your stay and that your memories will last forever”

“Too fucking right” … thought Terry.

The gruesome murders and Norman sat waiting for 21.50. It was two minutes to go. He checked his weapon and the sly clean gun he had in his socks. Neither would get hot tonight. He’d be struck hard on entry and then find himself waking heavily bound in the middle of the restaurant. He was naked and his eyes hurt from the sweat and blood.

Peter was in full massacre mode, guns had blazed, choppers had slashed, and knives had skinned the attendees. The gory soon to be putrid mess was strewn all over the restaurant. Bits of humans, pigs, sheep and a secret concoction that Peter had devised was blended in with all of it. The animal waste was from his butchery and the endless supply of various carcasses allowed him to blend a cocktail of gore that completely confused the Police and their medical experts.

He knew that they knew it was a mixing of wild and varying materials, but he knew they didn’t know how to trace his presence in these scenes. His was almost non-existent. He’d shaved everything, scrubbed every inch of his body and wore a suit of sheer plastic underneath his clothing. His head was covered by a solid hair net like thing that would restrain any loose skin or hair.

The mood in the restaurant had changed very quickly. Glenn was first – a bullet into his left eye and sadly Billie was showered with the contents of his head. She was shot next. The machine gun then appeared and sprayed the remaining swingers with a stream of bullets which cut a few in half. That dissection would not be the last. Peter liked to cut them down into even smaller and messier pieces.

Once he’d finished with this part of the performance, he drew himself a picture of surreal proportions with the smaller messier pieces he’d created. Norman was able to watch most of this placement and was in shock as he listened to Peter whistling while he walked about, splashed about and threw sections of humans and other matter around the restaurant.

Norman didn’t know what was in store for him. He was damn sure his family, including his ex-wife, were dead already. He gasped for breath as the adrenaline, anger and heart tearing fear gripped his entire body. He knew this lunatic would kill him, he only hoped it’d be quick. This mad fucker looked familiar but that hood and strange hair net thing which peaked out from underneath the hood hid his features. He realised that even if he could identify this man, he could do nothing about it. He was sure it was a man.

Peter had nearly completed the main event and turned to conduct this unusual last act. Norman would be a slap in the face of the Police, he was Police and would send a clear message that Peter was invincible. At least Peter thought that. He had nearly finished and danced over to Norman. He stared at him, letting him know who he was and simply sliced his throat like an orange.

He took his knob like head and placed it into a black plastic bag and threw it into the kitchen wet garbage bin. He made sure it went down the side as far as it would go and with a bit of luck as it was due for collection the next day, it would be on its way to the tip long before the Police were notified of the masterful scene.

Peter had finished, checked his possessions, left the fake apron and tools, his outfit’s security and prepared for his exit. He would be leaving as woman and her gear was clean, ready for wear and easily placed over the killing suit. The shoes were the only risk as he had to remove the boots and slip into the pumps.

This change offered a chance for something to be left behind. He was amazingly careful and took an enormous time in getting ready for the leaving car. It was parked just down the street and it would only take 1.30 to get to it. He strolled out like a super model, opened the door and drove off to his van. Switch done and he dreamt of his bath.

Peter loved this bath and almost fell asleep when he enjoyed it. He couldn’t do that of course as drowning was not part of his plan. The immersion into this mixture soothed every part of him. It washed away the sweat and toil of his pleasure. It also triggered a conclusion to each event in his mind. The cleaning and depositing of the bath’s contents also eased his mind. He was relaxed and ready for work the next day, the madhouse would be very angry soon enough.

As intended, it would take three days for the scene to be found. Norman’s head did indeed travel to the tip and was never found, the last insult thought Peter. The Police were inconsolable about finding the rest of Norman at Danny’s. It had taken some time to realise he was there of course as he wouldn’t be in one piece. When they dug deep through the now putrid body parts, they found his guns and badge tucked inside what was left of Glenn’s head. They couldn’t find Norman’s head.

Ruth sat at her overloaded desk and thought of giving it all away. The shit she had to endure, the arsehole she had to report to, and the overwhelming sense of futility forced upon her. Nothing it seemed was getting any easier. Far from it. More and more the job was being ruined by micromanagement from the microscopic dicks in management. With their stupid desk bound decisions, the stupid fuckers thought they were actually improving things.

No, they were fucking everything up, bit by bit and seemed proud in their taking longer and longer to actually achieve it. What they were achieving was making this job so fucking difficult it was getting to the point where Ruth would leave the mess behind.

“Being a defense lawyer couldn’t be that bad could it?” … thought Ruth as she grumbled away.

Peter didn’t leave any behind. His bizarre mastery of crime scene evidence gathering bewildered the Police every single time. This time Norman was his pièce de résistance. Harry stepped ever so carefully around the scene trying to get a handle on how this would be done. The perp or perps would have to have been in the club already – Harry had found a phone diary entry for the “swingers do” and realised that the restaurant was closed for this event and that the attendees were invite only.

So that meant the targets were carefully selected, with maybe an exception for the restaurant staff or any accompanying bimbo or boy toy.

Norman was here, but he wasn’t here for swinging. He’d had a prostate operation go south 2 years ago and aside from having no chance of standing proud was well known amongst those at the Madhouse, for having absolutely no interest in sex at all. He’d often shouted that the thought reminded him of the operation slip and his perceived lack of manhood. It drove him mad and the last place he’d want to be was in the middle of some wild naked orgy action with some high breasted rollers and big knobs.

Harry yelled out to anyone still at the scene, not really looking for a response but seeking any answers he could get “So, this perp or perps are here and must have set the whole evening up.”

“There must be trace of the restaurant booking, the invites and / or RSVPs if any.”

“Do swingers commit?” … wondered Harry to himself.

“The perp must have arrived here, done this deed and then left, how the fuck does he / she / they do that?”

“Anyone, any ideas?”

“The brutality must have made one hell of a mess on the perp or perps, although there’s still no sign of footprints, hand marks, or traces of tools being left in blood or gore.”

“And what the fuck is with this neat pile of apron and tools sitting in the middle of each scene like a shrine?” Harry realised that none were answering, and he was essentially talking to himself. Rhetorical was a solo effort.

“OK, sorry, back to work, I’ll leave you to it” Harry mumbled some more frustration under his breath and went out for a cigarette. The smoking helped, maybe not his long-term health, but it sure gave him time to think, reflect, contemplate and sometimes resolve the issues causing him to get all morbid, angry, frustrated and sad. Tonight was at least three smokes worth. He’d ring Ruth and see how she was getting on.

Ruth didn’t answer her phones. She had three phones and it often took days for Harry to reach her on any of them. Ruth was a very complex woman and they lead almost two totally different lives within the one relationship. Often both needed each other – but most often didn’t. It was a blissful time and a separate almost anonymous time at others. This must be one of those others thought Harry. He lit another cigarette and stumbled into the driver’s seat and headed to the Madhouse.

Ruth had turned all her phones off. She was listening to an album that had taken her fancy and she’d left it on repeat on her iTunes collection. Today was a cracking time to forget the fuckers stumbling through her life and listen in peace to the album she’d been keen enough to buy, download and manipulate through her various devices. A quiet time with some wonderful tunes pouring into her ears.

No disturbance, no noise, no work, no shit and no thoughts other than those delivered in her interpretation of the songs. Bliss. Times she’d forgotten about, experiences relived and a smile on her face that stayed there for about 40 minutes. Wow! Numb was recuperating as only wealthy folks can. An agreeable reality TV crew was following his remarkable recovery from surgery. He’d had no such surgery of course but the fake melanoma removal story fitted the wronged multi-millionaire in need of rest story to a tee.

Amy was also in need of rest and she’d found a quiet spot to lay low. It was in a cafe owned by local skin heads who were in the process of re-imagining their obviously tainted reputation. The last place Dead’s crew would think of, or be allowed to look, was in the “Sharpened Cafe”. No people of any colour other than the “racist view of white” were found frequenting this oddly successful food outlet. The coffee and food were actually very good and well-priced. A lot of local people had “other people” buy takeaway as they couldn’t bring themselves to go there but wanted the quality fare on offer. Amy’s dumb arsed brother had joined up with these less enchanted singularly stupid fuckers and proudly displayed his new neck tattoo at any opportunity.

It was a swastika being clutched by an eagle’s claw. Amy always smiled when she saw it, because the claw looked like a thin turkey holding onto a broken stick. A talent less backyard tattoo fumbler had scorched out this mess as a favour to Frank. He didn’t care, he thought it looked great. Amy was sitting in the back booth waiting for Frank and enjoying a large moccochino with cream and some raisin toast.

The front doors suddenly blew off their frames and crashed out into the street. The noise of the explosion was incredible and the change in pressure swept everyone in the shop and the street off their feet and even altered some of their aggressive posturing.

Bill had his right arm blown off just after he dropped the bomb at the cafe’s front doors. The idiot didn’t realise that his jacket sleeve had caught on the ornate door handle and he simply dropped the explosive device right there on the concrete step. The door handles were old movie props that proudly supported a brass skull at the top with a winding snake wrapped around a pole to the lower point.

They did look very good and often discussed, but one of them had been twisted that badly and moved that quickly from its original mounting that it now held poor old Bill by the chest to what remained of the front wall. His right arm was across the street in a bloody mess and his left was trying to comfort his open chest. Being right-handed he found this difficult.

The lady who was reading the menu at the front window was dead and sadly separated from her lower limbs, they shared the footpath with Bill’s arm across the road. The scene was like a zombie movie set, blood, gore, coffee, glass and attitude with fragments of Cafe strewn all over the place. Amy survived intact, although her ears hurt a bit. The booth she was sitting took the force of the explosion and sadly so did the canoodling couple in the booth in front of her. They weren’t canoodling anymore; they were unnaturally spread all over the booth.

In a louder inner voice than normal Amy wondered … “Dead or his mountainous crew couldn’t have known she was there?

Who was this crazy mother fucker setting off a bomb at this of all places?”

Skinheads weren’t popular and their most vocal objectors were peace loving pacifists, those rallying against fascism, corporate greed etc. “Surely they wouldn’t be sending slobs to blow up the “Sharpened Cafe” with maybe an innocent or two inside?”

Amy stopped thinking about this and thought about getting out. The last thing she wanted was to be talking to some pickled, donuts breathing fun stopper, look what happened the last time. She bolted to the kitchen door and out into the back-lane way that normally screamed of bad things. This time though it was just rubbish and smells, no other bothers to worry about.

She made it clear away as she heard the sirens belting out their rhythmic chants, cutting their way through the traffic.
They all felt the explosion, heard the bang, smelt the impact and reveled in the subsequent arrival of raging sirens. The crew immediately moved from recording Numb and his petty problems and aimed their cameras down to the cafe below. Numb was recuperating inside his second love / drug nest apartment which was two floors above the “Sharpened Cafe”.

The scene below was amazing and the crew jumped about like a wine waiter at a wedding. All the mayhem, drama, arms and legs, and flashing lights would make great reality TV. This was reality. Why or what had happened was a detail they failed to worry about, and it only entered their concentrating brains when the door to the apartment smashed open.

Muni wasn’t very shy in coming forward. He shot the camera crew in one sweep of his weapon and then grabbed up the feckless Numb in his right hand. He dragged Numb to the door smashing his head against a wall as he did so. The remaining crew members arrived with the Paramedic trolley and bagged up Numb, tied him down, adjusted their uniforms and casually waltzed out of the building and into the Ambulance they’d stolen for the occasion. Numb was on his way to meet Dead. Recuperation and reality were over.

The Art of Negotiating and Fatality is final

The glib words flowed one after another, but none flowed with more flourish than the line – more words for me.” Numb was dreaming about his favourite creative moment. That moment he wrote his multi-million-dollar cross genre hit. A big moment and worthy of dreaming about.

The studio executives and teenagers of both sexes had no idea such a brilliant piece of music and banal, idiotic wordplay could go together so well. Numb has blatantly ripped off a sixties soul classic and simply scampered some bullshit phrases over the top. The only skill applied to this enormously successful release aside from the original song, was the production lovingly applied like cream on a scone, by one “Fat George”.

George wasn’t actually his name and nor was he fat but fuck he could twiddle a knob in the studio. He was the current darling of the mass produced and consumed music scene. The kind of music that always ends up sounding the same. Shit music sounding the same and earning millions for those lucky enough to have the percentage in their favour. More often than not, not the so-called artist.

Numb wasn’t dumb and had a contract that provided a confident crotch bulging swagger, percentage and obscene success. Numb wasn’t swinging at the moment. He was just waking up and mumbling lines of the memory to those who were gathered about. Sadly, these folks weren’t paying attention, they were just drinking and whooping about in their confident drug altered state. They felt they’d had a win and wanted to emulate the gambling ads on television and celebrate without restraint or taste.

Dead and Muni walked out of the arriving car elevator. They walked into the large warehouse mezzanine area and changed the atmosphere immediately. The lighting even seemed to change all by itself. No one spoke, laughed or whooped. Suddenly there was restraint.

Dead cleared his throat …” Well done, you dumb arsed motherfuckers, you did it and you should all thank Muni for helping you getting it done.”

The screams and self-congratulatory cheering woke Numb with a jolt. He realised he was hanging upside down and strapped into some sort of a training harness suspension system. He also realised he was completely naked and dripping wet. It became reasonably obvious where he was when he turned his head around towards the noise, and the looming shadows on the floor.

He saw three solid feet of man muscles only a few feet from him and that slab of a flesh was just one man’s shoulders. The neck that only just managed to poke out of the collar bone was larger than both of Numb’s legs. The legs of this behemoth were actually larger than Numb’s entire body. Numb turned a bit further round. He could only half glimpse the outrageous scene developing within this get together. He understood that he would be playing a major role in the proceedings.

Muni had caught a sniff of Numb’s awakening. He gave a very subtle signal to his closest comrade. The signal required the fully loaded suspension system to be wheeled into the middle of the room, out from the dark corner and into the light. Numb was famous and deserved the audience he’d pulled together for tonight’s performance. Muni was containing a huge self-satisfied grin as Dead saw the rack system appear. Dead was well chuffed.

“Ah, here he is … is this the fucker who thinks he’s me?” … The attending crowd knew not to answer, they knew it was rhetorical question, even if they didn’t know that was what is was called.

“What are we going to do with you Numb Nuts?”

Well Dead, I’d hope we can talk about our problems and keep me alive so I can find a way out of the court case. An out where we can both win” … Numb thought this was probably a confident start.

“How the fuck are we both going to win?”

“The court case can be resolved pretty quickly with an agreed compromise. You’ll be seen to win and we’ll both share in the earnings gleaned from our story. Bonus for you is your rep is sound and I’m seen as a shitless music industry fake.”

“That doesn’t worry me of course … because I’ll make even more money by selling and promoting that worrisome detail. You can sell your story and add weight to your street percentage by being confirmed as the real deal.”

“Fuck me” … screamed Dead. You’re one clever fucker. Just give me a moment. Someone get this shitless fake off the rack and give hm a blanket or something.

“Muni slice off his wedding ring finger”. “Make it two joints up, Yakuza style and take a vid of it being done. Oh, and bandage the stump nice and clean with disinfectant. Give me the finger when you’ve done it.”

Muni completed the task that quick that Numb had only managed to react to what he thought was a joke, before it actually occurred. His finger was considerably smaller, and the medical attention was immediate and successful. He was also given a bottle of vodka to help numb the pain. The joke was made as the intended numbing result was communicated.

Dead was angry, not because he had not tortured Numb. He was angry because it seemed that Numb had planned this brilliant outcome all along. Dead was angry because he hadn’t. Dead was simply going to torture and flay the fucker spreading his bits around town, thus sending a message to all who could understand such warnings. But and here was the but, Dead could achieve nearly the same outcome with doing anything that messy.
Sure, he’d have to smash Numb in the face a bit, and he did have a part of his finger, but he’d need a little more. What could that be. Well there is still Amy rolling about somewhere and the crowning action could be Ruth. She was hot but she was the system’s public face which was set on embarrassing him. Dead wasn’t one to be embarrassed.

“That elusive bitch Amy and Ruth were to be killed” … thought Dead. “Alright Crew I’ve some news.”

It was time for a farewell to Robert. Gloryville used to be, indeed still appeared to be, a nice place to live. The calm public face of any town or city always seemed to hide the true goings on. The media in were often oblivious to these goings on. The public pretty well all time. The famous expression – ignorance is bliss, applied full force at the great unwashed of Gloryville.

The greatest drama in town seemed to be who was going to host the high rating nightly news broadcast now that the award-winning broadcaster was dead. Robert Browning had been wandering down the street behind his apartment building, when the front of the “Sharpened Cafe” unexpectedly blew up and out. Killed him after the deep-seated wounds took their toll.

The fact that three local television network employees were slaughtered in a unit above the cafe didn’t seem to bother anyone. They didn’t care about the legless lady or the chubby fucker with one arm who was nailed to the front wall at the scene. All anyone worried about was who could replace Robert.

The news in town was hotly contested. The content was the same, except for the shit they each made up and claimed exclusivity for. Channels 9, 11, 7 and 8 all managed to research, shoot and murder a topic they thought would rate well with their target audience. “Rubbish like “The Best Way to Avoid Major Traffic Grid Lock – A Special Report” or “Details of the Gloryville High School Reporting System – A Special Investigation” blah blah blah. All rubbish. The increasingly shrinking audience was very fickle.

Robert had a masterly, slightly patronising style that seemed to garner and reward those that tuned into him Monday through Friday. Channel 8 swung well in the ratings race due to to the power of Robert. Even in death Robert was hogging the airwaves. Who would replace him? the most common headline.

Gloryville was a small riverside town. It had some oldie world historical buildings and feelings. It was proud of its subservient, religious and morally conservative population. This majority is the reason Dead and others could swim about almost unnoticed. The media missed most of it and the population would not even think such criminal activity could occur. Fuck knows what they thought about the recent gun murders or even Peter’s colourful handiwork.

The ageing population hid in their dimly lit domiciles while the younger wilder residents raced about in the light and the dark, depending what time of day it was and what they wanted. They gave, wanted, got, turned down and turned out for a huge range of things. Most hedonistic activities were covered, enjoyed and well provided.

The colours of Gloryville were legendary. Professional and amateur photographers and busloads of artists flocked to the river’s edge, the botanical gardens and the streetscape captured millions of shots and miles of easel canvas. The rest of the country saw many a documentary on the boastful aspects of Gloryville. Much boasting and deservedly so.

The Mayor of Gloryville was a complete knob

He was also a millionaire. He’d managed to buy his way into the position by investing in media slots and subsidising ridiculously obvious vote gathering publicity stunts. The aged population and the well connected, incredibly closed-minded business community ensured his success. He ran Gloryville like an English Holiday Camp. All smiles and “Hidie’Hi” complete bullshit publicity and an avoidance of anything vaguely important.

Peter excelled in this vacuum of normal governance. The Police, Fire, Ambulance and General Medical Services were grossly understaffed and underfunded. The three rs, roads, rates and rubbish were OK, but they just only just managed to scrape by.

Just in time collections, repairs and the rates only rose a modest amount each year. The unwashed thought all of this was marvellous. Harry and Ruth did not fare so well. They got naked together and when finished, lamented their failures. Who would replace Robert they thought?

“How’s it going at work lover … is that clown letting you get on with your job?”

“No Harry, the man’s driving me insane with his interference and micromanagement. I mean sure I understand he’s asked to carry this torch of bright shit into my office, but I really wish he’d take some common sense and bounce it back up the chain.”

“Make those nongs understand.” … Ruth was very insistent in that last part.

“I’d think you’ve got some shit on your plate … what’s happening with you at the moment?” … she asked of Harry.

“Well in addition to having no clue about these murders, I’ve been given an oversight role in the “Sharpened Cafe” explosion and the news crew who were slaughtered in the unit above. It seems that you know someone involved in the upstairs.”

“Why, what ‘you mean – who was there?”

“Well would you believe we found footage of Numb being there.”

“Oh Fuck!”

“Yeah, he was working on some reality TV crap. The filming had stopped when the door smashed in. Luckily one camera caught a glimpse of Muni firing an outpouring of bullets into the apartment … we have everyone looking for him now.”

“We still can’t find Numb; he wasn’t found in the apartment. He must have been taken by Muni, and as you know Muni never goes anywhere alone.”

Ruth didn’t want to think the worst, even though she knew things wouldn’t be good for Numb if Dead had him. She had to think of something else … “What about the murders? … Any clues at all?”

“Nothing – fuck all sadly. The lab is desperately trying to isolate some DNA and they think Norman’s body might be the best bet. They reckon that the heavy-duty work involved in the separating and final handling of his head, should have left a trace or two.” “It doesn’t look like his head will ever be found though, we might get lucky, but I doubt it.”

This stilted sometimes forced banter went on for about 20 minutes and concluded at a natural pace when they gathered their collection of clothing, public persona and confident stride. They strode out of the discrete hotel room and into their separate ways.

Harry walked into the Madhouse with a spring in his step. His “I’ve had sex” spring was on show to those who’d know. Peter knew and he knew who. Peter had been watching the activity in the homicide rooms with great interest. Warren had gone home ill and the rest of the clown car coppers were stumbling about the office like the circus was auditioning new acts. None of them would get the part.

Ruth strode with a stern purposeful walk back into her collection of offices. No one would have known that she’d had sex. No one could tell the difference; she was stern and purposeful all the time. The office was abuzz about Numb’s disappearance, the cafe and the news crew. The fact that Robert’s replacement remained unknown was also a topic of hot conversation.

There was a strange hurriedness to seemingly unconnected events all over Gloryville. People were hastily closing shops, closing their business down completely and people were leaving town. The highway in and out of town was getting slower and one way – the out way, was getting very crowded. No one knew why these strange things were happening.

“How long can we go on swimming in this muck Malcolm … asked Margaret”

“How the hell are we going to find anything of note in this never-ending sick bucket of mess, and what the fuck are you doing under your apron?”

Malcolm had been caught gently readjusting his increasingly manly member. He’d continued his serious fantasies about Margaret. The way she often leaned into and over the bench as she worked was most provocative. In fact, it was dick hardening – it was that good. Malcolm remembered a young lady he shared his university degree with, and his mind wandered off to her and what she might be doing now? Something to do with teeth he remembered.

Margaret yelled at him again, he must stop displaying his enjoyment while working with her.

Malcolm had successfully completed an entry-level university science degree and could be (at a stretch) described as a scientist. This completion came as a complete surprise to Malcolm and even more so to his mother and grandmother. They loved him of course but really thought that fast food, bar work or the retailing of hipster jeans may be his lot in life.

His life changed for the better once he’d completed his degree and ended up at the Medical Examiner’s Office on a 12-month traineeship. They both still spoiled him rotten. Their “little boy” was now out in the world.

Margaret liked Malcolm but she was riding him hard and teaching him all she could. She wasn’t oblivious to his intentions but wouldn’t entertain them, under any circumstances. Not that she wasn’t keen for some woman on man action, it shouldn’t happen with this eager young man. She liked plenty of young men, but not one that’s grown in her working garden. Her roots are to be gathered from outside her garden. Plucked from afar and far afield.

Over the years Peter had survived some very strange and mind scaring sexual experiences. He’d tried gay, both top and bottom, bondage, slave and master (although not in the same session of course) and he’d tried rape, being raped and even a heterosexual boy next door fumbling virginal dalliance with a young girl who worked at the Madhouse. She was really lovely, and Peter was almost thinking of himself as providing a servicing of gratitude. She was that nice. His view of the sex was not so nice.

Peter ended up combining a number of features from various adventures. The most dominant, visually repulsive (if anyone had witnessed them) and the darkest no-vanilla aspects of each of them. He topped this off with killing folks and dismembering their bodies. He’d added this extra component over time. Back 5 years ago when he started, he was very tentative and singular in his methods. As time went by, he added more bodies, gained a higher level of confidence, added complexity and the increased level of toying with Police became climactic. Now it was just killing and cutting – no sex.

The bath ritual grew out of these incremental steps he had taken. He fancied himself as some sort of a master, toying with authorities and making life and death decisions for those chosen. For those that were killed – the ultimate toying. The Police hadn’t even managed to connect the 18 murders he’d carried out over the past 5 years. Nor would they – he thought. The bath had a powerful subliminal message effect and triggered the willingness for the next event.

Main event or not, even the little sidebar projects helped him to reach that point of self-actualisation. He’d been to a course or two whilst working at the Madhouse but had misinterpreted and readjusted the message to suit his own predilections.

The tastes that grew and fed the growth, as he grew more confident while seeking more. Peter was getting better, bigger, stronger and providing more control. No one could beat him.

Harry was wondering how he’d beat this monstrous killing spree; would it be like Jack the Ripper. Known around the world as a failure, a mystery and something that can never be truly known. Surely something is going to reveal itself, Scotland Yard didn’t have 2015 science and technology back then. Peter had some serious science and technology and he knew how to use it.

The story might continue when time and life permits