As some of you may know (fuck knows I post enough shit online about it) I am writing a perverse serial killer novella at the moment.
So I’ve been doing some research online about British serial killers and mass slaughter to get in the mood for some good old fashioned blood and guts. But there was one thing that was bothering me while trawling through page after page of Harold Shipman and Fred West case files and news reports. Some of the family photos are particularly funny by the way. How can they smile with all they have done floating around in their heads? Mental!
There hasn’t been a good serial killer in the British Isles for quite some time.
There was that guy in Ipswich that killed all those prostitutes but he was a mass murderer due to the timeframe and body count. It was quite fun watching it all unravel on the TV especially when the bodies started to pop up all over the place.
But for fuck sake, isn’t there anyone out there stalking whores or collection gay men for sex dolls?
There must be.
I read somewhere that at any one time there are at least eight active serial killers in the US as I type this so by the law of averages there must be at least one over here. The numbers must be triple in Russia; those pricks are severely fucked up.
Have you seen that video ‘three men one hammer’? Let’s just say once you have seen it you can’t un-see it!
So fucking wrong on so many levels.
And as for that Andrei Chikatilo character, fuck; the bizarro doesn’t stop with this guy’s story. This dude dubbed the Rostov Ripper (among other titles) sexually assaulted, murdered and mutilated at least 52 women and children from 1978 until 1990. This dude was into it all from cannibalism to paedophilia.
And what did we have at around the same time, some old chap with a folk guitarist’s beard that poisoned old ladies. But to be fair Shipman’s body count was insane. 250+, and from a bloke that looks like he knows a lot about old MG soft tops and enjoys a pint of nut brown ale with a pipe on a Sunday.
It’s true that Europe has had its fair share of nutters but the US has really cornered the market on funny as fuck sick bastards.
The list is almost endless when it comes to ‘celebrity’ serial killers and the sub culture they have spawned is almost like deity worship.
I know tonnes of people that are well into serial killer culture and for the most part I find it a little disturbing. Grown adults glorifying the tortured last moments of innocent people at the hands of deranged serial maniacs is something I will never understand.
So this is what my ‘modus operandi’ would be if I got off my lazy arse and acted out some of the stuff I write about.
I would start locally, find some right fucking wife beating scum bag that drools over their kid’s friends and make his life a misery before I ended the prick. There’s nothing like making someone suffer mentally before you pull out all the stops.
Then I would hunt him/her like an animal out in the woods. They would be naked and slightly drugged while I track them with a crossbow. Of course there will be several traps set out along some sparse trails; punji sticks covered in shit and the like, really fuck them up.
Then end it all with a nice slice across the throat with a bowie knife right at the point when they think they’ve made it out alive.
I haven’t decided whether I’d eat them or not but never say never, right?
And you do get some great cuts from the human body. You could also make some great pate if you had the time and inclination. Force feeding people in an isolated barn somewhere like geese until their livers burst. Human foie gras. The secret is not to over poach and season well.
Or, thinking along those lines I might become a class war killer. Open a village butchers and take out rich pricks to turn into pastes and sausages and cuts. All the posh pricks from around town will come to taste my products and rave to their friends how good my stuff is. All the while I’ll be sizing my customers up for my new batch of blood pudding.
Yeah I like that, the Butcher of Hawkhurst or something like that the papers will call me when I finally get caught eviscerating Lady Phyllis from the big manor house.
My fridges will be full of prime cuts and mince of the finest and leanest quality. The queen will have even eaten my sausage at some overblow garden party paid for by the common man. She was even over heard to say “Fuck me backwards, that’s sausage roll was the fucking bollocks!”
I’d even have jars of rendered human fat at Christmas on the counter labelled up with “for the ultimate roast potatoes” and charge £10 a jar for the shit.
Little did they know that for 15 years they were eating their friends, relatives and business associates at every well to do function they ever got me to cater.
I might have to write a short story about that at some point.
Might even put it up on the bucket list board in the kitchen. A little post it that reads ‘Make sausages from some posh cunt then sell them at the farmers market.’
That reminds me, better get my string bag out as the farmers market is in town next weekend, might have a look at the village butchers stall.