"The Angel Or The Beast - First Chapter"

T h e An g e l

   Or

   The

   B

   E

   A

   S

   t

Prologue

     The Birth Of Death

“We’ll know for the first time, if we’re evil or divine.

We’re the last in line.”

                                                                                                            Ronnie James Dio

Part One

A Seed Is Planted

            Alone the killer marched through the woods with the dead carcass in a sack draped over his shoulder, the body still warm with lingering remnants of former life. His neck muscle grew sore under the weight and he switched to the other shoulder.

            Like a grizzly bear awakened from a winter hibernation, he lumbered forward with tunnel vision putting miles of distance between himself and the outskirts of town.

            A leaf fell from the branch of a tree and the killer paused just long enough for it to float to the ground. He stepped on it. Crushing it into the dirt.

            An occasional spasm from the corpse would jolt the murderer, bringing a smile to his chaffed lips, as if he had companionship on his journey. But he knew that was not the case for he was a loner, if not by choice then by the hand he was dealt.

            Under a contradicting sky alive with the sun’s radiance, the killer’s boots - stained with blood from repeated kicks to his victim - moved him closer to his personal private cemetery. Devoid of headstones the burial site already was the home of seventeen bodies. The killer didn’t need to mark the site to know where the victims were buried; he kept a written diagram.

            Since he started the killings no one in the town knew what to make of the situation. All they knew was that loved ones were missing, and they wanted answers. That made him smile inside. He enjoyed hearing his neighbors talk about it, indirectly giving him the attention he sought.

            He liked that.

            Killing was power, a gift. It was power over the victim and the lives that the killing affected. And after the rush of the first murder, he knew there was no turning back. Things would only escalate.

            As he neared his destination, he twirled the shovel in his gloved hands like a baton and recalled the exhilaration of the first time. Nothing compared to that. Was it the fear of getting caught? Maybe it was the mystery of the unknown since it was his first kill, but there was something special about choking the life out of a living breathing creature of God and feeling its life expel from its body as if that life were being transferred into his veins.

                        Closer and closer he came to the graveyard, and his footsteps slowed as the disappointment sank in. He hated burying the victims. That brought the relationship to an end. He’d much rather keep the bodies around in his bedroom where he could visit with them. But he tried that the first time, and was forced to remove the body within a few days when it began to smell.

            It wasn’t worth the risk of getting caught.

            As a solution to the problem, he chose a secluded site deep enough in the woods where no one would be able to see him - where he could share a special few hours cuddling and lying with the body. There he would have the time to decide how to bury the victim.

            Sometimes he felt it necessary to dismember the corpse, every limb. But then there were times where a simple decapitation served to provide the satisfaction his tortured head sought. There was pain in his life, and it was only as the bringer of death that he seemed to be able to cope with it. Arguing with the relief that the carnage provided never was a consideration. Rather, he succumbed and enjoyed the results.

            After tossing back some whiskey, a few beers, the conscience was silenced enough to make the transition into a conducive frame of mind. A mental state which allowed him to see that his victims were inferior. Their death was insignificant in comparison to the momentary burst of euphoria he experienced as he relieved them of their lives.

            It was such an incredible feeling to experience an orgasm without even having to engage in sex. And that climax was worth much more to the killer than the value of any life.

              With a thud the rusted metal of the shovel split the Earth and kept its place erect as the killer dropped the dirt stained sack and rotated his head, stretching his neck muscles. He grabbed from the bottom of the bag and felt the cotton, wet with blood, in his hands as he pulled upwards until the corpse was freed, lying on the ground before him.

            For a space of time that may have been mere seconds or several minutes, the killer gazed down at the dead body. He removed his clothes and tossed them into the sack after removing a little box of cereal and popping a few pieces into his mouth.

            Breathing deep, he dropped to his knees before the lifeless body and stroked the head. Then he let his fingers drift down the neck to the chest, and then the stomach - feeling the fur against his skin.

            The small boy munched on his breakfast and pet the dead kitten for three hours before burying it.

            He may have only been eleven years old, but he knew that he’d have to clean the blood from himself before changing into his new clothes before returning home. His foster parents were rarely there, but why take any chances?

            Naked, the boy buried  the animal - after beheading it - along with his soiled clothes.

            As he dressed into his Bat Man sweat shirt, he wondered what it would be like to kill a person.

            Someday.  

Chapter 1

Who’s Coming To Breakfast?

“Wanting people to pay attention, you can’t just tap them on the shoulder. You have to hit them in the head with a sledgehammer. Then you have their attention.”

 John Doe – Seven

The door slammed shut. I was trapped inside.

Or was I?

He thought of himself as the hunter, but I knew that he was the one being hunted.

He was a madman. I was an out of work plumber.

He was a murderer. I couldn’t step on ants in my apartment.

He came with the intention of killing.

I knew he was right. There would be a murder.

But I knew something he didn’t know...

I’d be the one doing the killing.

And he’d be the one dead.

Through my eyelids, closed and weighty, I see the hollowness of the room engulfing me, the entire abandoned mental hospital itself a graveyard populated only by the shattered and fruitless visions of patients who fell to their demise there. Invisible scars overwhelm the ceiling, riddling the area with the scribbles of insanity, and the floor emanates the final gasps of life from those who parted from the world in this concrete solitude of forever.   

As the yet uncaught serial killer rattled the doorknob from the other side, I quickened the pace of my breathing, exaggerating it as if I was nervous, frightened – increasing the gasps in volume to ensure my would be attacker could hear the blubbering through the paint faded wooden door.

Baiting him in.

Across the nape of my neck, goosebumps erected under the excitement of the moment. And in the same instant, beads of perspiration escaped from my head, traversing the contours of my face. As they reached my throat, I tilted my head back and felt my eyes flutter as the sweat rolled through the goosebumps.

Was I cold or hot?

Neither, I decided. I was simply experiencing the euphoria, the anticipation. Do all vigilantes feel this way? There’s nothing like the rush of killing.

Nothing.

Responsible for seven murders, the man known to the public as the Cereal Slasher - due to his habit of leaving a box of sugary breakfast cereal containing a custom “surprise” with the mutilated bodies of his victims - began to slam his shoulder into the aged wooden door. Paint chips that would have passed for white about thirty years prior began a slow descent to the filthy floor as the door conceded and cracked under the assault.

Do I sound terrified I wondered to myself as I removed the hunting knife from the sheath around my ankle and admired my toothy grin in the six inch sharpened blade. Dragging the steel across my forearm, I turned in the darkness and eyed the concrete floor.

My attacker chose abandoned buildings as the sites for his killings. There was always a homeless person, a couple seeking a romantic interlude, or someone in hopes of privacy exercising solitude in an empty building. And police weren’t too privy to patrol the abandoned structures with much more than a drive by and a quick shine of a flash light.

Even with a serial killer taking victims, authorities apparently didn’t deem the loss of lives as important. Crackheads, homeless, whinos, no big deal. Sure, the cops made it appear to the public that they were doing all they could do to catch the Cereal Slasher. The Police Chief said all the right things to the media.

“We won’t rest until this madman is behind bars,” was the latest quote, but then I’d have to assume that the breakfast loving killer was arrested, because it appeared like the entire police department and the FBI was fast asleep when I arrived at the abandoned mental ward dressed in grease stained blue jeans and a worn Army jacket.

Setting the trap for my prey.

I scratched at the six days worth of brown stubble on my face and turned my gaze away from the business man who I saw enter the complex carrying a brief case. Realizing that no business transactions could be conducted since there was no management office on site, I rationalized that the suit wearing man was likely my target: The Cereal Slasher.

As I heard the door give in to his second charge, I recalled the silver briefcase and wondered what flavor cereal he chose for me. Unfortunately, the papers reported that peanut butter Captain Crunch, my favorite, was already used on his second victim: A sixty-two year old bag lady. And the killer hadn’t repeated a flavor yet.

Maybe it’s Cocoa Puffs I thought as I positioned myself into a corner.

The wooden door parted and broken remnants sailed inside as the would be stalker forced his way into the room.

All of his victims were elderly, disabled, or at a physical disadvantage due to malnutrition or a similar condition. My fake limp was enough to draw the killer in, I assumed as I eyed him and sat back in the corner, cowering and whimpering.

His face was similar to the police sketch that appeared in the last newspaper I saw a week ago. I hadn’t been home to read the paper or see the news  since I’d been spending the last seven days living like a homeless man, trying to draw this sick bastard in. And now, there he was right before me.

My pulse jackhammered in my chest.

In the darkness, my hand began to perspire around the black onyx blade of the knife I gripped concealed in my pocket. Grinding my fingers around the cool handle, I felt a blast of anticipation course through my body; and I fought to keep the excitement from becoming visible to my victim.

“No. No. No,” I mumbled, shaking.

Seeing me as not much of a threat, he knelt down and opened his briefcase.

“Hungry,” he asked. “I packed us some breakfast. I know it’s late; but it’s never too late for cereal.” Then he did something unexpected.

He pulled out a gun.

None of the previous victims of the Cereal Slasher were shot. All were stabbed, gutted, and skinned. Hence, the Slasher monicker.

Thrown for a loop, a wave of disappointment washed over me as I realized that I was going to have to call an audible and employ plan B. I released my grip on the knife and replaced it with the nine milimeter.  

Not knowing if he was planning to use the gun or not, I had no choice but to shoot him. And I couldn’t remove the gun from my pocket or he might shoot me first. My finger eased the trigger back...

Bang.

The shot reverberated in the air and he collapsed as the smoke rose from the hole in my Army jacket pocket. Surprisingly, the damage to my garment was nothing a patch wouldn’t conceal. The same couldn’t be said for the hole in the killer’s head. Blood oozed from the wound as he twitched and convulsed on the floor before me.

If he wasn’t dead yet, he would be soon enough.

The floor, now a crimson canvas of justice, absorbed the remaining pulses of life as I ensured not to step in the growing puddle.

I rose to my feet and stood over the lifeless body as it came to rest. Disappointed that I wasn’t able to use my knife and prolong the death, torture him as he’d done to undeserving others, I knelt beside him and took a good look.

The open briefcase called to me, and as I peered inside; my gaze was met by my favorite captain. Sir Crunch appeared to be smiling at me in all his peanut butter glory. My host had decided to make a repeat performance. I wondered if we had something in common in the form of our breakfast choices and felt a slight repulsion course through me.

Just then, a light snuck in through the slats in the boards that covered the two broken windows. I positioned myself out of view, gazed through a space where a board had been broken, and watched the patrol car drive by. The flood light from the driver door was quickly extinguished when the vehicle passed the building.

To serve and protect I thought to myself with the dead body of a serial killer inches from me.

With the room falling back into darkness, I stood and wondered if the police would find the body and realize it was the Cereal Slasher or think he was another victim. Would they see the cereal box and assume the killer left it with the victim. I didn’t want to leave a note to alert them otherwise, but maybe I’d have to. What were my options? Not saying anything would only serve to keep the public in fear for no reason.

Other than a note, I could make an anonymous phone call. I decided to wait two days and see if the police found the body on their own and would ascertain that he was the Cereal Slasher.

Surely they could manage to do something right I thought as I exited the building.

The cool air on the back of my neck felt like what the doctor ordered, and I crossed the street in front of a stopped bus picking up a few passengers on my way to a twenty four hour diner with a sign that boatsed “Open twenty four hours. Seven days a week.”

My hand met the door and as I pushed it open, I noticed the lock, questioning its purpose due to the open all hours schedule.

A booth in the corner became my home for the next thirty nine minutes.

“Can I get you something?” a woman who looked like she was made from a cookie cutter waitress mold asked with pen and pad in hand. Looking like that one aunt that happens to be in everyone’s family, she awaited my response while chomping on a piece of gum.

“Coffee,” I responded. “What’s with the locks on the doors?”

“They keep the criminals out. You planning on sticking the place up, toots?”

“No, but if you’re open twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, locks aren’t necessary. You’re never closed.”

“Well, on the rare occasion when we have to close...”

“Have to close?”

“You know, like a holiday or something.”

“Sounds like you need a revision or amendment in your slogan.”

“That’s not a slogan. That’s a tentative schedule which is pretty much adhered to ninety nine point nine per cent of the time, sugar.”

“Ninety nine point nine? Is that an accurate figure?” I asked as I closed my menu. “Sounds pretty official.”

“Dead on accurate. We have our research department in the back. Right next to the cappuccino maker and the waffle iron.”

“That would make it official. I’ll have the number four. And do you have any cereal?”

“Yeah. We have...”

“Captain Crunch?”

“Regular, peanut butter, or chocolate.”

“Wow. You guys have it all.”

“That’s our motto,” she said as she pointed to a sign behind the register which read - Our motto: “We have it all.”

“I’ll have the peanut butter.”

“Name’s Flo. I’ll be right out with your coffee.”

“Name’s Jack. Do you have to pass the research department on the way?”

“No. The coffee machine is in the far wing by Statistics and Measures.”

I smiled as Flo departed and realized that I indeed could hold up the diner. It was deserted and I had a gun in my pocket. Not that I’d ever rob a place. Outside of killing a scumbag rapist, killer, or pedophile, I couldn’t break the law. I’m pretty harmless.

I usually stayed within the limits of the laws of the land. But, then there were some stupid laws too. I’d be dishonest if I said that I never jay walked, crossed when the signal said Don’t Cross, or that I paid tax on every dollar I ever made. Illegal doesn’t mean immoral to me. If I’m not infringing on the rights of others, it’s pretty fair game in my eyes. No one suffers when I jay walk, but if I were to rob from somebody – well, obviously that affects someone negatively.

Murder wasn’t high on my list either. But, it wasn’t like I was running around on a murder spree. I wasn’t going into public places and blowing people away. No. All the people I’ve killed, and will continue to kill, are people who have infringed on others in incomprehensible horrific ways.

Mollest a kid, you deserve to die.

Rape someone, you gotta’ go.

Commit a violent crime against the elderly, ditto.

Torture someone or an animal, see above.

My list is a little longer than that, but I believe that anyone can gather a good feel for the way I operate based on the outline I’ve provided.

Flo was back with my coffee and cereal as I adjusted in my seat to get a good view of the flat screen TV suspended from the ceiling to my left. There was minimal sound, but I listened and read along with the subtitles and learned that the president was now aware that most of our imports come from other countries.

“Well, he’s just a brilliant fella’ now. Isn’t he?” Flo asked as she trotted off again.

I poured some milk into my coffee and opened the small box of cereal, dumping its contents into the bowl. The clanging of the bits of sugary delight competed with the television news broadcast.

A smile found its way to my lips as I spooned in some Captain Crunch, thought of the dead Cereal Stalker, and pictured him to be my father.