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Rated: 18+ · Fiction · Dark · #1786676
A serial killer makes his last intervention.
         It’s so easy to forget about your humanity when you meet the Tom Parkers of the world. Let me give you a small but vividly tasteless example.
         This thing called Parker had just returned home from a bar only to sit down in its La-Z-Boy to continue drinking like it always did. Its wife, a nearly broken shell of her former self, had taken a ride on the Valium train in the master bedroom only an hour before, their five-year-old son lying restless next to her. Full of a hope that I can no longer fathom, its son snuck into the living room and approached this beast trying to show it a picture that he’d drawn for it earlier in the day. Before this child could even say “Hi Daddy” he had been hit across the right side of his head so violently by Parker that he was thrown across the living room into a cement wall, leaving the child with yet another set of scars to try and forget.
         This, my sad voyeurs, could have been the beginning of a good night by comparison.
         You see the important thing to remember about these things like Parker is that they are enablers; they are always making it easy to do what needs to be done. Problem is, only a select few seem to step up to the plate to do anything. If they strike out, the victims are then left with only the hope that either fate or some kind of God will eventually find a way to make the boogeyman in their little world go away.
         That is where I come in.
         No, I’m no fucking angel, and if there is a God, I’m definitely high on his shit list as well. You may think of me, though, as fate’s right hand man if you’d like. Problem is for monsters like Parker I’m the real bogeyman.
         And I will never go away.

         One hour later, when all of the necessary variables have fallen into place…

         Knock-knock, ring-a-ding-ding.

         “Who the hell are you?”
         “Good evening to you as well. I’m a cleaner of sorts…”
         “Yeah? So what? I ain’t buying nuthin…”
         “Mr. Parker, I’m not selling you anything, I’m only here to offer you a chance. A chance to die like a real man. Mind you though, it is only one chance, and while I’m certain that you will fail miserably at this opportunity, I must offer it as it is part of my MO. Shall we proceed?”
         A blank stare… Oh, how I do live for these moments. My casual intrusion impeding upon the moronic monotony of their existence. Their circle of fate closing miserably with but a knock in the dark.
         Parker, as all of them sadly do, appeared at once speechless and confused, his drunken weight teetering on his doorstep. He belched loudly as his eyes strayed to the red tarp I’d placed carefully near the doorway.
         While I find some ignorance forgivable under the circumstances, I have great disdain for feigning deafness. I mean, really... a death threat should require at least some occasional discomfort, maybe even a scream.
         My blow to his head was quick, no blood spraying that would arouse any suspicion as to my arrival. I watched patiently as his body crumpled and spasmed, falling silently on to the tarp he had been so curious about.
         I casually stepped inside and placed a small brown paper bag on to the La-Z-Boy that had borne witness to my calling. I had waited for the young boy to go back to bed before I had made my visit, but I quietly checked on both him and his mother one more time to make sure that they were safe. At that point I retrieved my hidden cameras and I carefully rolled my quarry up into the tarp and taped it securely at each end.
         I am always waiting for a neighbor or loved one to catch me during one of my many escapades, however, in the last twenty years that has never happened. Maybe God hates the sinner but loves the sin, Kay sir-rah, sir-rah.
         After placing the tarp wrapped monster of the Parker household into the back of his battered pick-up truck, I locked up the small house making sure to leave a note beside the bag I’d left behind. The note, as well as the fifty thousand dollars in the bag, was for the soon to be widow. Like her son, she too, was a victim of the legacy of hatred her husband had long provided in broken bones and emotional warfare. That was now over I had explained to her in the note, but I reminded her that while her husband had left her, I, on the other hand could come back. Take better care of herself and even better care of the child and that little bit of misery could be avoided. I will know. As of today, I’ve never had to make a return visit to any of my interventions. Silence is truly golden in the world of the wary.
         I know what you’re thinking. Yes, it’s written clearly on your face. You’re wondering ‘Where the hell does he get all of that money from?’ Well… I’m a rich psychopath, what can I say? Let’s just leave it at that. Since our acquaintance is new, you’ll forgive me if I retain a few secrets for now. After all, you’re really only here to bear witness to what will become my last intervention.
         At least for awhile.


         Kari Seabrook.
         Twenty-four years old, shoulder length blonde hair, with ocean blue eyes that can sense a sinner from a hundred yards away… explaining why I’m currently one hundred and fifty yards further down the road.
         Kari is a happy-go-lucky fiancée with the whole world in front of her, living hopelessly within a bubble of oblivious wonderment. Tell me, why oh why are so many of the young lovers in this world so eagerly willing to throw their lives into that great mixer of life called marriage? The play is nearly always the same at that age; an increasingly elusive euphoria that’s quickly followed by a regretful regurgitation called divorce. Sometimes in between maybe there’s a child or two who will eventually just seem to get in the way. For the price of genetic immortality there seems to be a lot of victims to go around. Eventually they’ll just end up screaming and chasing each other around on some inane TV show, proving that a man with my hobby is far more necessary than some carpenter on a cross. Sheesh.
         Getting back to Miss Seabrook… It appears that today she is being stalked, as she has been for about a month. Not discreetly I might add, and not by me either. I am, however, stalking her… well, stalker. Let’s just call him numb-nuts for now. I can understand numb-nuts’ fascination with Miss Seabrook. Really, I can, she’s a putrid rainbow of optimism. I, however, do not share in his blood-lust for her. That being said, it appears that numb-nuts has been a very, very naughty son-of-a-bitch for quite awhile now. His little getaway here in the mountains has quite a rancid history that nobody else seems to be aware of. Except for the ten or so dead bodies lying buried on and around his property, his only other neighbors are some deer and a few mountain lions… and of course me now.
         How do I know what numb-nuts has done you ask? Simple, the fool kept a diary. That and he posted some pictures that he shouldn’t have at a website I peruse on occasion. Thus, the pictures led me to him, as one must be careful of mirrors and envelopes I'm afraid. From there I found his diary, most predictable with its prose, but quite juicy in its evidence. I might add that numb-nuts will be one of my finest interventions. Stay and watch, there’ll be pie and punch.
         So how do I do what it is that I do? Well, there’s always a process, simple as it may be. First, I identify the quarry; done, check. Second, I determine the judgment; guilty or not guilty; guilty as hell, check. Third, I scout for the innocents. This one always troubles me, after all nobody is really innocent once they’ve learned to lie. In this case, I give it a check, as his latest target Miss Seabrook is relatively innocent. For now that is. The fourth and final step calls for me to set a trap. Here’s where it gets exciting.
         Who am I? Well, to be honest, I’m a very average looking fellow as you can see. Hairline is retreating annually, but age wise... well let’s just say that I’m around forty-something. Oh yes, I wasn’t bullshitting either in regards to my not being caught. I’m good. About fifty fucking times good. But I’m not perfect I’m afraid. Somehow, though, that has never been a factor to this day. But it is exciting, isn’t it?
         Killing that is.
         Want a prime example? Well there was this one time when I was being interviewed by a local TV journalist at the scene of the crime…
         “Did you happen to know Mr. Calabro, the alleged serial rapist?”
         “Sure did. He always seemed like a nice man too, always polite you know. I know he was always willing to give me a hand whenever I needed it. I guess you just can never really tell, can you?”
         Had the guy’s right hand in my coat pocket at the time, kept squeezing it to get over my anxiety over public speaking. Nearly burst an artery to keep from laughing at the… well… my mouth could use some good old duct tape now and then.
         I’d like to tell you that what I do is for the benefit of mankind, but I start to laugh every time I think about it. Let’s not forget that what I do is kill people. They may be monsters, and maybe in some way they are far worse than I am, but I do kill them, some brutally. I am their Bogeyman. But what I call an intervention is still murder.
         And I like it like that, baby.
         The trap is always different. Some, like Mr. Parker are too easy. Oh, by the way, in case you were wondering what happened to La-Z-Boy, let’s just say that he’s Gatorade somewhere in Florida right now. Numb-nuts, on the other hand might be a bit brighter, but I’ve got just the thing for him as well.
         The trap has to meet my standards. In this particular case, I want to expose numb-nuts to the world, in more ways than one. I also want no harm to come to Miss Seabrook. Not that I really care for her, it’s just that I can’t let numb-nuts play his game anymore. It’s my game now.
         First, I had to establish what numb-nuts’ Achilles heel really was.
         Well, duh, he’s a serial killer.
         So am I though. Nada, next.
         Oh yeah, secrecy. An expose is what is due here…Everybody loves a diary dah-ling.
         Before I drove into town this morning I decided to leave numb-nuts a small package at his doorstep, something to whet his appetite for me. Something that will make him all but forget about Miss Seabrook. Something the local press should be looking at right about…


         Well hello again, I thought you’d left me. It’s seven PM and we’re just about thirty yards west of numb-nuts’ hillbilly house. Tree climbing is a great skill to have if you do what I do. Not much partying going on tonight although you might not realize it with all of the screaming. Seems our favorite stalker has a bit of a schizophrenic streak. Won’t do him much good to keep arguing with the voices tonight though.
         I’m so disappointed. I had dinner plans. Can’t just one of these freaks listen to good reason? I left instructions for our favorite stalker that even a five-year-old could follow, but it appears that numb-nuts is really only four and a half. Along with the return of his original diary, which I had procured a week earlier, I left him a letter explaining to him how I had moved each of his victim’s bodies to more hallowed ground. I assured him that it was so they could rest more peacefully. It was all for the best. All I asked in return was for him to leave an envelope at the hotel in town for a Mr. Goole with a letter inside detailing the victims’ names. I would need them for the FBI. Also, since the press already had a copy of his diary (minus any references to his true identity), I wouldn’t need any more pictures from the special box that he kept hidden under the floorboards by his refrigerator. He could put them back in their original order if he so desired.
         Oh, and finally I did promise him that he would be left alone, to live out the remainder of his life in peace.
         Or was that pieces? I forget.
         Anyway, it appears that numb-nuts has panicked a bit, and I don’t think he believes that I truly have his best interests at heart. Currently, his Land Rover is packed and it appears that he’s thinking of leaving our little world a bit prematurely.
         Not without spark plugs.


         It is now nine PM. Nutty boy has stopped his screaming and is now crying.
         What oh what should we do?
         There are no neighbors within ten miles of this godforsaken hut, and since our friend has learned of the theft of his spark plugs he has been reduced to balling like a teething child. Not much of a challenge anymore, I’m afraid.
         It’s time to make our approach.


         Well, we gave him a chance to die like a man, but as usual…
         That was quite an ordeal wasn’t it? He still preferred to keep all of his secrets buried inside, but in the end his intestinal fortitude wasn’t up to the resilient interrogation of Mr. Bowie. I really do appreciate your help with the hacksaw though. It was getting rather difficult to finish with all of the bleeding from my leg. For once it appears that I might have let down my guard too far. How was I to know that he had that .38 hidden? Come to think of it… that wasn’t his, was it?

         Click, click...

         Oh my, but you’re a quick study I see. I wondered when you’d get around to it. I was beginning to think those fake blood packets I’d stolen might just be useless.  I’d say you could always run, but that time has passed, hasn’t it? Pity... save for the missing ammo in my pocket, you just might’ve been a hero. So sad they’re only blanks though I’m afraid. Kay-sir-ah, sir-ah... As you saw earlier, I love knives better anyway. They’re quite piercing.
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