Who committed the atrocities at 92 Second Street?
|11 - 19
By Stephen A Abell
Number of Words: 497
It’s amazing what you can find out on the internet these days. This is how I choose all my prey.
Take that wonderful, handsome, lesbian of an axe murderer Lizzie Borden. Within minutes, I knew the poor lady came from a dysfunctional family, caused mainly by the death of her mother. Her father soon took another wife and carved the household in two. The elder Borden’s took the rear of the house, while the younger occupied the front.
I found that very upsetting. Like my blessed Mother said, “If you ain’t got family, you ain’t got nothin’.” These people deserved nothing and I was going to deliver it to them.
If you have the money, there are so many toys to play with in the twenty-second century. Thanks to my parents, I’m stinking rich. I needed to be to purchase the bullet. I cannot begin to explain how it works, but it has something to do with wormholes, faster than light, and bending time. Needless to say, every time I strap myself in I kiss my ass goodbye first, just in case.
After purchasing the plot at 92 Second Street, I had my engineers build the bullet on the grounds, within a brick building.
A week later, I kissed my ass goodbye. It’s like a million shots of pure adrenalin to the heart. I was more alive then ever before as I shot into the blinding whiteness.
As the brightness faded, my eyes recognised I was in a basement. To my joy, over by the log pile stood the axe, handle intact and devoid of blood. It felt so warm in my grip.
Coming out of the basement into the kitchen, I noticed it was ten fifty. By my research, Andrew Borden would be in the sitting room.
Fast asleep was he, and at such an hour; what kind of man was he?
A dead one, I answered as I hefted the axe over my shoulder and let it fall with a satisfying wet crack on the lazy bastard’s skull.
It was such a wondrous sight pulling the hatchet free and seeing I’d cleaved his left eye clean in two. Oh, the rush was so sweet, and I loved the whoosh of the blade. Movement from upstairs brought my fun to an end.
Upstairs the useless new mother was on the move. My clothing and appearance froze the bitch in her tracks and I hurriedly pushed her into a bedroom. She tried to plead with me, but my ears were deaf. Only the axe was talking to me.
From below came the shocked cry of discovery and I fled quickly and quietly downstairs. Not caring what evidence I left, for no one would ever find me.
I hastily dropped the bloody hatchet near my bullet as I climbed aboard and slammed the return home button.
Smiling, I pulled myself free and saw the axe shaft lying on the concrete in a fresh puddle of three-hundred year-old blood.