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If You Want a Job Done Right . . .

By HenryNorthmore All Rights Reserved ©

Humor / Horror

If You Want a Job Done Right . . .

These are my woods. Don’t they know that by now? But still they keep coming with their noise and drinking and fornicating. I caught two of them doing drugs the other week, I take a very hard line on drugs, I soon taught them a lesson they won’t forget.

I could see two of them hunched over their crack pipe in one of the smaller cabins. I burst through the door leaping forward hatchet in hand, taking the top of his skull off like a cantaloupe in one fluid movement, his eyes still blinking as his body slumped to the floor. Grabbing the crack pipe before his scrawny friend could even comprehend what was going on, taking advantage of that crucial element of surprise I grabbed the nape of his neck and forced it so far into his eye socket something popped, well he certainly gurgled, juddered then went limp as blood gushed from his ruined face. I like to think of it as poetic justice. You’ve got to keep it creative, it’s how you keep this job interesting. There are just so many possibilities in your average work shed: saws, hammers, scythes, screwdrivers, pitch forks, even shovels can all cause a serious amount of carnage. Chainsaws are cool but very very messy. And noisy, you have to save them for near the end. When I see a tool box I can’t help but smile and think of Forest Gump and his ‘box of chocolates.’

I’ve always liked Tom Hanks, I did have a life before all this skulking about in forests killing people. I had a family, the four of us were heading for a camping holiday by the lake, driving through the woods minding our own business when the minivan from Camp Sunshine came careering round a bend, my dad didn't have time to avoid it. It hit us head on. I’m not sure what happened next I must have been thrown from the vehicle a good 60 yards because no-one found me. I woke up in the dark, in a ditch. I must have hit my head pretty bad, it hurt like hell, there was blood everywhere, a nasty flap of skin where my right ear should be and I’m sure I could actually feel my brain through the sticky mass of grit, gore and goo that caked the back of my head. I must have been unconscious for ages, the wreckage had been cleared from the road, the police and paramedics must have all missed me hidden in that ditch. I could see a light in the distance and staggered towards it. Oh the irony, it was Camp Sunshine. I was just looking for help.

I could hear one of the camp counselors sobbing as I approached the nearest hut. ‘If only I hadn't smoked all that weed I could have swerved in time.’

Another had her arm around him, ‘It was an accident Derek, that’s all it was. We’re still alive, that has to count for something.’

‘But that family, they’re all dead, that girl, she was only eight . . .’

It slowly dawned on me, ‘that girl’ was my sister.

I was standing next to the wood pile and caught a glimpse of the ax out of the corner of my eye and I just snapped. Next thing I know I’m standing over their mutilated bodies. I could hear voices approaching, coming to investigate the screaming I’d imagine. There was nothing else to do but kill everyone. It seemed like the only logical solution. After the accident I get these uncontrollable rages, which is actually an asset in this line of work.

After what I’d done I couldn’t really return home, hell there was no one left at home to return to. I was 17 and alone.

I’ve been living out here ever since, it must be over 20 years now. So how did I see Forest Gump you might ask? I was just about to lumber into a room for a quick kill spree (a family of five this time) with a machete (still a classic after all these years). I was creeping up to the window and they’d just settled down to watch a video (there’s no TV reception out here) and I caught a glimpse of Hanks on the TV in full Gump mode. I stood transfixed and watched the whole film from the shadows. It was a hot night, all the windows were open so I caught at least three quarters of the dialogue. I’m not afraid to admit I cried. I just didn’t have the heart to kill them after that.

Don’t worry I went back the next day to finish the job.

I’m an equal opportunities killer, men, women, children, white, black, Asian or Latino it makes no odds to me. But I draw the line at pets, I’m not a monster. It’s nearly always teenagers though, I don’t know what brings them all the way out here, but again and again they come like moths to a flame. The body count must have hit at least 100 by now, I used to keep count but after about 30 I just thought: ‘why bother? This is a way of life not a competition.’

One thing that has to be said for living in the woods, fending for yourself and slaughtering strangers, it keeps you fit. And on days where I’m not working I bench press logs and take a jog round the lake, it must be a good 16 miles at least. I need to keep in shape and it’s a great way to check the perimeter for intruders. It’s all about muscle mass and stamina. You have to be able to keep going longer than they can. The first time I could lift a man above my head and snap his spine across my knee like kindling was a proud day. All that work had been worthwhile.

I take pride in my work, I like to make things theatrical. You take just one the first night, a quick silent kill, a slit throat or a butcher’s knife straight through the heart are favorites of mine. I’m a hulking brute but I can be surprisingly quick and stealthy when I need to be. It freaks the rest of them out, but just enough, they usually think they’re goofing off or asleep drunk in one of the other cabins. Go back for two or three the next day, ramp up the tension, then you have to go back for the rest of them in quick succession that night or things get complicated or worse still they get organized.

Variety is the spice of life so they say. Machetes, axes and kitchen knives all get the job done, but you need to be able to improvise. I’ve used corkscrews, beer bottles, dumbbells, anything that comes to hand in the heat of the moment. I once bludgeoned a man to death with a saxophone, that was one for the scrapbook.

It must have been about 15 years ago I found the mask. It was around Halloween and yet another hapless bunch of teens had headed to Camp Sunshine, they had all kinds of costumes and whatnot ready for the big day. I saw this clown mask one kid was wearing and I just had to have it. I was pretty ugly anyway, I had some nasty scars from the accident and of course some people do fight back (I’ve been punched, kicked, stabbed and even shot more times than I care to remember), so I always put the frighteners up people when I leapt out from behind a bush, but the mask just completed the look, added an extra dimension. I can’t look in the mirror without it now. It’s pretty tatty these days but I think that just adds to the image.

It’s the practicalities people forget. It’s not all fun and games. You have to clean up, scrub the floors, wash the blood from the walls, even do the dishes. It has to look like they never even arrived. Thank god I got my drivers license before all this happened, dumping cars is probably the biggest headache in this game. There must be at least 30 at the bottom of the lake by now. Of course all their stuff comes in handy, I go through their luggage take any clothes that fit (I’m an XXL, but it’s all muscle) and burn the rest. Shampoo, soap, and food are always handy, I can easily go a year without seeing anyone so everything helps. The rest of the time I hunt, always good to practice those bow skills and after a bit of trial and error (and the odd bout of diarrhea) I soon learned what roots and berries were safe to eat.

And don’t get me started on body disposal. Mass graves are the most convenient, but let’s just say there are some very well fed bears in the area. I think it makes them kinda temperamental, but they know to steer clear of me. I do keep the odd trophy, I don’t know why but I like things nice and orderly, jars full of eyes, fingers and ears hold a special appeal. Which is strange because the rest of my shack is a total mess, but the odd severed hand nailed to the wall brightens up the place. Call me sentimental but Derek and whatshername (I never did catch her name, I was too busy hacking her apart with an axe for pleasantries) take pride of place, their decapitated heads on the mantel piece. My first kills.

I’ve been lucky, Camp Sunshine really is the most perfect place in the world. I was terrified when I first saw a cell phone, they could have ruined everything. When I found out there was no reception in the area I was overjoyed, it’s something to do with the surrounding hills. God bless those hills. The local cops are suitably lazy, if they had ever taken things seriously rather than just chalking it up as another ‘Missing Person’ time after time I could have been in real hot water. If they’d closed down the area and searched the woods they would have found me, I know my shack is set away from the main campsite but screaming hysterical teenagers seem to stumble across it on a fairly regular basis.

Am I lonely? If I’m honest, yes, sometimes. But this is a calling, I didn’t choose this life it chose me, when I do see people I get to spend the most important moment of their life with them. Their death. I don’t know what the future holds, I’m not getting any younger, there’s no serial killer pension plan, but that’s another problem for another day I say.

Anyway what’s that noise? It must be Tina or Tammy or Tracy, I forget. She’s the last one left this time, now where did I put my machete?

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