The old radio lit up the corner of the room with a dim yellowish light as it was turned on, immediately the staticky sound of Merle Haggard's 'Mama Tried' playing in a real grainy and retro type of way. The faucet turned on, click click, and the sound of rushing water hitting the filthy porcelain bowl of the sink. Click click, boom. The red krovvy ran down into the sink...blood, that is. Beautiful blood. I'm getting ahead of myself, but you're an idiot if you don't know what kroovy is. Fool. Anyway, it mixed with the water, becoming a very beautiful foaming pink mixture of diluted blood, water and hand-soap as the two scarred and bloodied hands wrung about beneath the faucet. It all mixed together like a bunch of noxious toxic ingredients being thrown haphazardly into the cauldron of a witch. But where'd she come from? East? West? Why not North? Why always the West? Doesn't matter. Didn't matter then, and it sure as hell doesn't matter now. Oh, if you think the blood in the sink is bad? Just wait til you see the next room. It's a right fucking horrorshow. Like one of those old side-shows mixed with a slaughter house. And the man looked up at that point, looking into the dingy and cracked mirror infront of him, seeing his bloody hands slowly being absolved of the red kroovy. The life essence of another being simply washed from his hands like the piss of a horse. It's not important.
Mama tried to raise me right but I refused. I turned twenty-one in prison doin' life without parole, no one could raise me right but mama tried, mama tried. Good Lord, how true it is. The man thought this about the music as he looked upon himself in the mirror. His face was covered in blemishes and rough stubble. His skin was sun-beaten and greasy, only compared to the greasiness of his jet-black slicked-back hair, it wasn't so bad. Steel grey eyes stared back at him, pupils constricted, moving back and forth like some kind of earthworm. Those eyes used to be blue, he thought. Beautiful blue. But now, they're dull. Dull grey like the steel bars that had encased him for...what was it? Twenty years? Something like that. Doesn't matter. Didn't matter then, and it sure as hell doesn't matter now. The man splashed some water on his face, you know, like they do in the movies whenever they want to refresh themselves. Never seen much purpose in it, having all that tepid water running down and getting your shirt-collar all wet. But whatever, you know. I guess it doesn't matter. This was truly the Sixth Reich, wasn't it? Then, he turned the faucet off. Wouldn't want to waste water, lest some gang of crazy acid-hazed hippies were to beat the ever-living shit out of him on the basis of political opinion on water conversation. Real terrible spot, the world is in, isn't it? That's what they say on CNN and Faux News. But who cares about that? No matter what happens with gas prices and grocery prices, everyone still spent 30,000 dollars on fancy streak-of-lightning cars. And twenty bucks on a god damned steak. And you know, six bucks on a cup of coffee. The fancy coffee with foam and sprinkles and all that shit...whatever happened to a god damned cup of joe, anyway? Oh well. Doesn't matter.
Didn't matter then, and it sure as hell doesn't matter now. Obviously the world isn't in too bad of sorts if all that shit has been going on, still. The man reached into the pocket of his sports jacket and retrieved a pack of Pall Mall non-filter cigarettes. It was a soft-pack. He flicked the bottom of the pack with his index finger, causing one of the cigarettes to pop out of the open side of the pack like a Jack-In-The-Box. He moved his mouth to the cigarette and pulled it out. Tucking the pack safely and soundly back into his pocket. Reaching into the pocket of his dark blue jeans, he pulled out a brass-plated Zippo for some brand of generic cigarettes that he had never even smoked. He popped the lid off with a satisfying 'TING' and flicked the wheel. The flint sparked brightly and the fluid ignited, a geyser of flame erupting from it and catching the wick. Finally, the man moved the tip of the flame to the end of his cigarette. The tobacco within and the paper outside ignited, and he pulled from the cigarette to force it to catch. He flicked the lid shut with an equally-satisfying 'CLINK' and then tucking it back into it's rightful place. Sweet nicotine administration system, just like a needle. Except it went into the mouth, not the vein. Speaking of which... Some salt. Beautiful white salt. Rock salt? Sea salt? No. Just table salt. You know, the kind you would find at a diner, to put on some of those disgusting greasy french-fries that were probably touched by some equally greasy Mexicano cook who had just finished scratching his hairy, sweaty nut sack. But yeah, anyway, he poured the remaining bit of salt into this rusty old spoon...it was trusty. And rusty. Trusty and rusty. He dipped it in some water from the sink, and once again, pulled out his lighter. Flick, flick. Flick! God damnit, light, you cock sucker. FLICK. Finally. Bubbling up real nice and slow. Snow-white water. Char. Char. Perhaps he was Jesus' son.
Draw it up into that needle, pulling back the plunger with the back of his thumb. Loaded and heavy now. And the hard tip of the needle immediately plunged through skin and cartilage and the blood entered the dropper's neck...dancing, dancing, dancing...swirling...a cloud of blood in the snow-white water. Spinning infinitely. Push it down. Down. Down. Down. And the man's eyes watched the snake's eyes, just waiting....and watching. "GOD DAMN, I SAY, GOD DAMN!" The voice roared loudly, laughing crazily afterward, pupils instantly constricting in a predatory way. The needle was thrown down, shattering across the disgusting turquoise colored tiles. Ceramic tiles, at a discount price, only at Lowe's. His hands immediately stopped shaking. The sweat stopped pouring. What a mess, he had been...until now. Focus. Sweet focus. His mind was no longer a scattered bag of presents. Like Santa's Christmas bag. His mind was like a narrow tunnel now...one thought train. The voices didn't speak to him when he was up. Focus, awake...euphoria. Everything had taken on a blurry orange tint. Lights seemed to refract and dance infront of his glazed eyes. Content, focused, awake, euphoric. Nothing was wrong. Oh God, nothing...it felt so good to be free. Severen. A few disgruntled roaches crawled across the walls and floor beneath him as he sat on the toilet seat. They were angry at being disturbed from their slumber in this fine motel room. It had been inhabited by truckers, hookers, alcoholics, crack-heads and tourists. But also, by God knows how many roaches. His face simply spread in a wicked grin. The SNAKE.
Standing up, he seemed to pulsate with an unknown energy within him as he slowly made his way through the bathroom. He saw a yellowed poster of a Play Boy pin-up on the wall, which he hadn't noticed before. When he had come back into reality, the general back-alley ambience of the suite was so rotten, so incredibly foul. How long had I been sitting there? All these signs of violence. What had happened? There was evidence in this room of excessive consumption of almost every type of substance known to civilized man since 1544 AD. What kind of addict would need all these coconut husks and crushed honeydew rinds? Would the presence of junkies account for all these uneaten french fries? These puddles of glazed ketchup on the bureau? Maybe so. But then why all this booze? And these crude Play Boy photos smeared with mustard that had dried to a hard yellow crust? These were not the hoofprints of your average God-fearing junky. It was too savage. Too aggressive. Please don't forsake him. But even the presence of the most aggressive, savage and angry junkie...would not account for the mutilated corpse on the bed. Surrounded by a sheet of thick plastic blood-drenched trashbags, woven together haphazardly like a hobo's own patchwork quilt. The body had been disgraced and shamed in all of shame and disgrace's many forms. The body wasn't readily identifiable by the face...the face had been sliced up real great and horrorshow. The face was cut open in a permanent wide and twisted grin...the eyes had been removed, leaving only a pair of sinister hollow holes with dried blood having run out of them. The hair was matted with blood and vomit and God knows what else. The outer parts of the ears had been sliced off, as if they'd been put on a sandwich at a New York delicatessen...infact, they had been. As a matter of fact. But does that matter? No, it doesn't matter. Forsaken?
Didn't matter then, and it sure as hell doesn't matter now. The body would tell you that the victim was female...a young female. She'd been scratched, bitten, stabbed, jabbed, beaten and sliced open real nice-like. It was the only way...the only way to play. Hell, the only way to win. And what's the use in playing if you don't win? Right? Come on, tell me I'm right. Give me the fucking satisfaction, you grimy dirty filthy shithead. Whatever. Fucker. Various chunks of flesh, fat, meat and cartilage had been cut off in various places, all seeping blood. Flies were buzzing around ravenously. The man beheld this sight and seemed upset at first, until another psychotic grin spread across his face. His personalities cycled through like a vending machine spinning it's lights around, trying to show you all of the brilliant ice-cold soda selections you could possibly make. Just one big cycle. A vicious circle of personalities. A circus. A white trash circus. Wait, what? Oh, wrong thread? Oh well. Fuck it. Leave me alone and let me fucking write, god damnit. Oh, you chicken shit bastard! He decided he had been in hibernation for long enough. Much longer than enough. Far too long. Time to stop dicking around and get down to brass tacks. He walked over to the corpse on the bed and threw both sides of the woven trashbag quilt together. Then he wrapped the trashbags around the poor girl...he bent down and kissed her bloody forehead. "You made a delicious meal, darling." He said, laughing raucously at that before covering her face with another bag. He took a roll of duct tape and tore some off, wrapping it all around tightly, keeping the bloodied body confined inside a plastic prison. Nothing more than garbage to him, now. Maybe if she had some meat left...
No. Nah. Venom. Bubkiss. He lifted the bundled body and walked out of his motel room, slipping on his shades, despite the fact that it was night-time. Everything was too bright for his eyes when he was like this. Even the darkness. Nobody would be out there, surely...all of the decent folks were in by eleven. And it was now three o'clock in the morning. No, four o'clock. Oh, hoh, what I want to knowww...where does the time go? He whistled a jubilant tune as he carried the bundle of plastic and blood and flesh down to his car. Roughly, he hefted the big akward bundle into the rusty trunk of his tan 1967 Pontiac GTO. He called the GTO 'Greta' and you'd be best to call it that, too. Slamming the trunk closed, he turned around, still smoking his cigarette. God, it was out...I hate it when that happens. Don't you? Oh well. He produced his Zippo and struck the flint, quickly re-lighting the cigarette since I haven't the time to describe the whole thing constantly. You know, I'm a busy man. A writer. I have things to do! Ok, relax, I'm full of shit...whatever. And fear struck him like a bucket of water. The initial shock followed by the feeling of being weighed down...drenched heavily in fear. Paranoia. Leave the country. Blow the weekend. Get the fuck out of there. Intense fear and loathing, intolerable vibrations in this place. Of course, it all had a reason behind it... And the reason was the middle-aged trashy looking woman staring at him like she'd seen a ghost. Perhaps she had. The ghost of the poor girl...he called her 'Second Meal' during the deed...Second Meal was probably haunting him. The man stared the woman down...she looked like a waitress boss at some kind of back-alley diner. The kind of woman who didn't take any shit. She was smoking one of those sickening mentholated long women's cigarettes..you know, the ones with the generic girly names and huge filters. Which were usually smeared with cheap lipstick. Or whatever.
Immediately, the man tucked his hand into his pocket. As the hand came back out, a silver-finished Desert Eagle pistol glinted in the orange streetlight and the moonlight, too. It spoke seven times, each time, saying only one word...'.50 Action Express'...the bullets tore through the woman like nothing. A hot knife through butter, even though that simile is used much too often. Blood drenched her as she had no time to scream out, falling down with seven fresh gunshot wounds peppered all throughout. Overkill, some might say. But when the man wanted the job done, it damn-well got done. He looked around, hearing some people stirring up above in their collective motel rooms. "Fuck!" The man exclaimed, before running and jumping into the driver's seat. Greta's engine churned and whirled, trying to start, before finally roaring to life, spitting and popping flames and black smoke and unburned gasoline out from the tail-pipe. "That's it, baby! That's it!" He shouted. The song 'Jumping Jack Flash' by the Rolling Stones began to blare from the radio. Tires screeched as he backed haphazardly out of the parking spot, tearing ass out of the parking lot of that backwoods trucker motel like a shooting star cuts through the perpetual night sky. It was time to get out of town, he knew. And driving down the highway in the rain...The Highway Killer cruised, headlights illuminating the darkness. He preferred to be called Mr. Black, however. At least...that's what his friends called him. Hah. Friends?