|Bang! Bang! You're Dead! (standard:drama, 1246 words)|
|Author: James C. Bernthal||Added: Aug 18 2004||Views/Reads: 3041/1309||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|I sat down at the computer an hour ago and decided to write a story. Here's the result.|
BANG! BANG! "You're dead!" As the old man looked down at the blood soaking through his shirt, I could not help but to laugh. This was getting to be fun. I didn't know why, but every murder, no matter how boring, still held fascination for me. It was just as well. These people wouldn't like to know their deaths were in vain. There were several dead people now, all having died the same way: two bullets to the heart, stashed away in the bomb-shelter we never used any more. The adventurous aspect for me was keeping a family whilst murdering one person every other day. To the victims, I was Lord Colin Grafton. To the rest of the world, without my moustache, I was Andrew Griffin. The question I've been asked since is why I was committing these crimes. The answer I return in each case is simple: I did it for pleasure. To satisfy the senses, I have found that one needs to feel power, preferably by murdering the powerful. It's always upset me that I never quite got to the end of the alphabet. My first victim was Amelia Browning, then Brian Corrington, then Cynthia Dakers and so on. It is saddening that the thing had to come to an end after Vladimir Warren. To get back to my narrative, it was, if my memory serves my correctly, on 22 August 1989 that I made my first mistake. The old man, Terence Upjohn, fell to the floor as usual. I checked his pulse, just in case he wasn't dead (I'd been ridiculously lucky so far, in that a single bullet had killed each victim). There were no crucial last words. There was nothing unusual. This man was as boring as his tiepin. I carried him down the down the stairs and opened the door to the secret passage, which led from our lounge to the bomb shelter. The fact that I was getting away with these killings was (and still is) incredible to me. The only real risk was making sure the family wouldn't notice, but it seemed unlikely. My wife was always in the garden, and as blind as a bat, while my daughter was constantly absorbed in her computer screen, and oblivious to outside occurrences. Now that Mr. Upjohn had been added to the other nineteen, and the door was locked, there remained only to sort out the room I called "the killing room". Otherwise, this room was the guest room. I mopped up the blood and recarpeted the floor. No doubt, no one would notice. They hadn't the first nineteen times. I glanced at my watch. Una Varinski was late. I was particularly proud to have found a lady with the initials of U. V. There was a ring at the doorbell. "I'll get it!" called my daughter, Nancy. "No!" I cried. "I'll get it!" I simply ran downstairs and opened the door. "Good afternoon. What can I do for you, madame?" "Good afternoon, Mr... Err..." "Lord Grafton. Of course, this is not my house, but the home of one of my clients." The visitor looked enlightened. "I see. Good afternoon, Lord Grafton. My name is Una Varinski." Your last chance and you've lost it. "We arranged a meeting here so that we could talk through the arrangements that were made regarding my fridge company." "Certainly." Who wouldn't want to invest millions in a fridge company? "We are keeping this to ourselves, aren't we, Miss Varinski?" "I must admit that I'm very excited about this, your lordship. I've done what you told me to the letter." Good. "I've worked hard preparing for this." So have I. Do you have any idea, you strange lady, how difficult it was to find a lady with your initials? "Please come upstairs, Miss Varinski. We can discuss it better in my study." I led her upstairs and opened the door to the killing room. "Just in there." She walked in. I entered and locked the door. Click here to read the rest of this story (78 more lines)
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