Falling For Evil

Part Three

The night rolled in like waves lapping at a cold sandy shore as I stood and waited outside a bar down a dimly lit back street. It's one of those kinds of bars where you find old drunks and mean looking biker guys drinking at, I felt unsafe and very unsure yet I waited and waited for Travis to make an appearance. 

   What if he's changed his mind? Or gone off on some mad killing spree and I'd see it on the news the next morning. Some unsuspecting woman caught in a trap and mutilated, then what? Of course the danger in him had me almost begging subconsciously but when I really thought about it, I'm putting myself in a very dangerous situation. I didn't have any guards to help me and Travis wasn't going to be carried back behind bars where he couldn't hurt anyone. I was putting myself in front of him, unarmed and vulnerable. 

   "BOO!!" Fuck!! I almost shit my stomach out of my arse when Travis came at me. "Fuck, you look terrified." I held my chest for a moment, taking deep breaths. "Jesus man, did I scare you that bad?"

   "Yes! Idiot." He laughed as he slammed his hand on my back making me almost fall onto my knees. "Don't, do that to me."

   "Calm your shit doc, I ain't gonna bite, not yet anyway."

   "Don't call me doc, it's Adam."

   "Fine fine, calm your shit...Adam." I've never been one to scare easily, hence my job. But he really gave me the damn chills just then. "Shall we go in? it's cold." I looked at him wide eyed and smiling, revelling in his minor victory at scaring the shit out of me, yet I followed him in and the warmth of the place hit me, the smell of brewed beer making my mouth water. "Find a table, preferably away from the rest of the patrons."

  "Fine, get me a pint." I said harshly enough it had him biting down hard on his bottom lip, then he just smiled again, brightly so. 

  "No whiskey?" He asked. 

  I shook my head, "Not yet." He smiled again and my stomach flip flopped all over the damn place. I couldn't ignore the feelings that slowly consumed me as I took a seat far enough away from prying ears. Then I watched him. I Watch how he moves and turns his head just slightly enough to look my way and smile. Then he was on his way towards me holding two pints like they're liquid gold. And fuck! I wanted him so bad it actually hurt or was it just the thrill I sought? Either way both were bad and equally disturbing. But I'm a man and I have needs, not like your average joe, but still I had this unquestionable desire to be taken by this man, be it painful, pleasurable or both, I had to have it, no matter how mental he is.

  "Here, a pint."

  "Thanks." He looked around briefly, taking stock of his surroundings and the people that were here. "So, how were you when you left after our session?" He side eyed me for a moment before taking a few mouthfuls of his beer.

  "Happy, I guess. I'd gotten a date, you see, with a cute doctor who happens to be my type."

  "I see."

  "Hey, just a quick question. You talk to fucking nuts right?" I nod, although it's not particularly a subject I wanted to be on, but I guess there's no harm in humouring him. "What's an organised serial killer?"

   "That's how it sounds, they're organised."

  "Come on, tell me a bit more."

  "Can't you watch a documentary on this stuff?"

  "Na, that shits way too boring for me. Plus you've been up and personal with those kinds of people."

  "It's not a pretty fairytale of wonders you know."

   "Obviously I get that, but you know that stuff intrigues me."

  "Fine," I let out on a long exhale "...an organised serial killer will be one who plans his crimes often methodically. He will first carefully select his preferred victim type, which could be based on the person’s appearance ...for example, a blonde-haired woman or a red-haired man, or age-group, like a child, young man or an elderly person... or perhaps a prostitute, or a person walking on their own in the dark, a gay man, a gay woman, an adolescent boy or girl …There is usually a sexual motivation, for most serial killers get consciously or subconsciously ‘turned on’ when they see their victim type."

   "Turned on, huh. Interesting. But what if said serial killer didn't get turned on and did their killings purely because they hated the victim, then what?"

   "I didn't say every serial killer gets turned on, but most do."

   "So, how's it all work?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Killing and shit, come on, let me in on the shit you know."

   "Why?" 

   "Because it interests me, that's all."

  "I'm not buying that, not for a second, but if you really want to know, then I'll tell you," I took a large mouthful of beer before proceeding. Maybe I do enjoy indulging others on what I know, like a sense of superiority  "So, serial killers will start their killing time as a novice, learning with each event of what tools are best to use. A change of clothing, perhaps a length of washing line or police handcuffs to restrain their prey. Some of the killers I have interviewed brought with them plastic sheeting to place on the back seat or in the boot of their car, in a calculated attempt to prevent blood, death-struggle vomiting, urine and excreta soiling the vehicle. Murder most foul is not like what you see on TV it can be literally foul. They don't care, not one bit and they do love telling you their horror stories."

   "Fuck man, they really do think this shit over. Me, well I've not killed anyone but I'd love to get my hands on that damn chick."

   "So, you'd be ready to kill because she pissed you off? Or is it because you simply don't like women?"

   "Ha! You got me there…Adam, I don't like women, that much is true but I've not killed any, I dream of it or think about it, a lot, but I've never done it."

   "I can see that."

   "Can you? Is there ever a time when some look guilty before they've been found guilty? I mean you don't walk down the street and look at someone and wonder if they've murdered anyone or intended on murdering someone because they have a sour look on their face."

   "No, that's true. But you can usually tell someone's intentions, if you're smart enough that is."

   "I talk about murder, but do I look like a murderer or look like someone about to commit that crime?"

   "No. You do not." And no he didn't. He looks normal. I guess I could ask, define normal. Because he's right, there is no telling from face value who or what someone is capable of, until you get in their head. Like with Travis, he talks about killing some woman, but is he really capable of it? There's saying it and there's doing it. Can he really do it? Could he be smart enough to get away with it or execute the perfect murder? Me, personally? I think I'd easily get away with it. I know how it all works, what's to be done, when and where. I could easily get away with it. 

   "You are most definitely thinking about it, right?"

  "Thinking about what? You murdering someone?"

  "No ...your thinking about whether you can do it, right?"

  "Honestly, yeah, I've thought about it. I've thought about how. Then I thought to myself what a stupid thing, killing. Why do it? But then again I would see it that way, because I have no reason to kill a person other than proving I could get away with it and that's pretty sad."

   "Life's sad. Everything and everyone around us are sad. They live in a dream world, pretending that nothing bothers them. Smiling and hoping to just forget their harsh realities until one day they explode. Because life is just like that, one big kick in the teeth."

  "I guess."

  "Do you enjoy your job?" He asked, then drank more of his beer. 

  "Sometimes, yeah. Then some times I fucking hate it."

  "Why?"

  "Because some people are so fucking boring. Bitching about their lives but never doing anything to make it better. Now that's sad."

  "I guess we're all like that."

  "True true."

  "Like that old bat that came out of your office in tears. What did you say to make her blubber like that?"

  "Ha! Now that's funny. Mrs fucking Walker," I sat back for a moment reminiscing on the whole conversation earlier. "Every week she comes in whining about her abusive husband and never does anything to help herself when the help is there, instead she takes her sleeping pills and hopes for a better day."

  "Jesus, what stupid old bat."

  "Exactly. I told her instead of paying me and not listen to buy a baseball bat and cave his head in."

  "Brilliant!" He shouted, giving the table a hard slap. It made me shiver, imagining his hand on my bare skin. "Awesome man, let's hope she does, I'd love to see that shit on the news." He laughed and then sat back in his chair. It went silent, both of us just staring at each other. How does this feel so normal? I have thoughts about how bat shit he is and how it scares even me a little, but sitting in front of him, in a bar with a pint, talking about murder felt so fucking normal. Now that should be what frightens me. "Hey," he said, scratching at his chin. "Wanna go back to mine and fuck?" My mouth propped open at his sudden question. Obviously I've thought about it, but not this early in the game. "So?"

   "Ah, well...I'm not sure…" He cut me off with a wave of his hand and took in the last mouthfuls of his pint then gasped and wiped away the little bit that dribbled down his chin.

  "Come on doc, let's go crazy." He said, getting up and holding his hand out for mine. I looked at it and the redness that appeared there from the hard slap on the cool wood. "Please."

   I sighed and got up. "Fine, but if I change my mind I'm going home."

  A grin spreads from ear to ear. "Once I get my mouth on your dick, there's no going back from that."

  "Your ego is atrocious."

  "The ego in my pants is far worse."

  "I think I'll change my mind."

  "Don't be stupid. My ego is very good. You'll be screaming my name over and over again, you'll see."

  "Huh, I see. Then shall we?"

  "Man, I think I'm liking you more and more."

  "Wonderful." I said in a rather sarcastic tone as we left, trying not to let any other invading thoughts plague my already numbed out brain.