| Mystery and Crime Fiction posted April 9, 2015 |
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Novel Beginning-Serial Killer Contest
The Midnight Regulator
by michaelcahill
A Serial Killer Contest Winner
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
Ah yes, morning. It's just as beautiful as the very first one. I remember it so well. The shock of brightness as the sun made its encompassing presence known. My eyelids blinking, fluttering my eyelashes in a way that proved comely to all gathered. "Oh, he's so cute! Look at those eyelashes. I think he knows we're watching him!" Yep, I knew and I have to admit, I loved the attention. I immediately included fluttering eyelashes in my permanent bag of tricks.
The air against my skin thrilling every pore. Wow, it sent chills up and down and then straight inside me. Still, you all found it all so endearing and fascinating. I made note of every reaction. I knew this was important stuff and I was determined to learn it and remember.
Then those wonderful arms that lifted me into the air. I could feel the confidence in her that the man just couldn't muster. There was no question when she picked me up. I would find out later that women never have doubt when it comes to an embrace. Men, well, too much thought goes into it, what does it mean, am I obligating myself here, how will this be taken, I don't want to be perceived as being soft, there's an endless list that might occur to a man when it comes to a simple act of affection.
I'm not implying I was imbued with deep thought as an infant. My perceptions were instinctual, actions and reactions recorded in my unconscious table rasa to be used and pondered at a later date, much as I am doing now. No, I didn't know I was charming or endearing, I simply knew the cause and effect of my fluttering eyelashes. I learned of their beneficial nature to me. They became an asset and a tool long before I knew what an asset or a tool might be.
My mother had no ill will or agenda. People find it difficult to understand why I never developed animosity towards her. It certainly seemed as though she was a horrible abusive woman. She wasn't. She was insane. Insanity is a perfectly legitimate reason for abhorrent behavior. It isn't an excuse as no excuse is necessary. She loved me and there could be no mistaking it. Her intent centered on my well-being and her priorities placed me above all else. What could be more noble than that?
My father would be described as a no nonsense, nose to the grindstone, life is tough and you have to earn every crumb of bread you eat, type of individual. I knew his agenda though. I was another of his projects, much like my mother, his wife. We were counted as feathers in the suffering crown of the enduring sacrificing hero of exemplary manhood that was John Henry Roussin.
Oh my, this man worked laboriously ten to twelve hours a day, six days a week. Then, he came home to his severely mentally ill wife and their newborn son AND he did so, ladies and gentlemen, with a SMILE. If that isn't a candidate for a "Best Father in the World" coffee cup, then there is none.
"How do you do it, John? I'd crumble under the pressure. I sure as hell wouldn't be smiling." So might say any one of his many admirers.
"I take what the good Lord has given me and I do my best. I love them both, they are blessings. It isn't work when it's done for love." He would humbly reply.
HEY! People that bestow sainthood! Did you hear that? Whoooo hoo! Winner, winner, chicken diner. Saint Jonah of the big fish step aside, there's a new fisherman in town!
Dad wasn't my first victim or my last, but he was one of the few living victims. But, he couldn't talk and he couldn't write so I felt reasonably sure he wouldn't be able to rat me out. "Nose to the grindstone", indeed.
I visit him in the hospital once in a while, just for spite. He waves his stumps around and growls utterances no one understands. But, I understand, Dad. You're trying to point to your very own little boy as the one who chopped off your hands, but you have no fingers. You're trying to shout my name, but you have no tongue.
Before you jump to conclusions, let me tell you more about pops. I use "pops" not as a term indicative of my heritage or educational level, but rather sarcastically as to imply affection where there is none. He didn't beat my mother or me; he disregarded and used us. I view a beating as a more engaged and personal interaction. To be dismissed is intolerable to me.
My mother had many moments of lucidity. She had a kind heart devoid of any spite or meanness. Her delusions and paranoia caused behavior appearing to be violent and abusive, but these instances were merely self-defense. That there was no real danger was irrelevant, she perceived it and reacted. I find that to be reasonable behavior under the circumstances.
I love his psychiatrist. She has it all wrong, but she means well and that holds a lot of water with me. She'll tell me, "Don't feel bad, Johnny, he just can't handle you seeing him like this. He's the kind of man who thinks he should be taking care of you, not the other way around. He can't accept his life the way it is. Frankly, I don't know if I could either." Isn't that sweet? Yes, darling, I took care of him all right.
I still live with Mom, or she lives with me, I suppose. She's still insane, she still loves me. I've never killed anyone who didn't deserve it. They'd tell you I'm a psychopath with no conscience. They'd say I'm incapable of love. Well, what do they know?
I'm John Henry Roussin, Junior. My mom and my friends call me, Johnny. No one dares call me Junior. In the press I'm known as The Midnight Regulator. I must admit, that is one cool ass non de plume. I'm not going to pretend I am not excited when they report on my deeds in the news. I'm human and fame, or infamy if you will, is a bit intoxicating. I stick to the suburbs of Los Angeles, there is enough retribution needed in L.A. proper for an army of vigilantes. I look for people deserving justice and I deliver it to them guilt free.
I always make it clear what someone has died for; I leave a note. I recently killed a restaurant manager for publicly humiliating one of his waitresses. The note said, "I treated my employee poorly. I yelled at her in public. Now I am dead." The news made out like it was a terrible price to pay and how it was too high a price etc., but the conversation drifted to poor treatment of restaurant employees and how wrong it was. I think they'll take a look around their restaurants now wondering if I'm sitting there before they embarrass their staff. I'll take that as an endorsement.
I'm not insane; indeed, I am skilled socially. A forensic psychologist wouldn't come close to a description of me in trying to profile The Midnight Regulator. I know; I've heard the descriptions. "He's a loner, probably in his late forties or early fifties. You wouldn't notice him if you worked right beside him. He works in a job that requires little human contact most likely on a swing or night shift." Well, they go on and on with the stereotypical misfit scenarios.
I'm the most likely to be remembered at work. I'm outgoing and engaging. I have charm down to a science. I don't crack under pressure and I'm not getting even for society's transgressions against me. I hate injustice with a passion and I've found it very satisfying to kill people who dispense it without a care in the world. I'm sure I've never killed anyone that at least a dozen people haven't fantasized about killing themselves. I'll never be caught.
Truth be told, I'm a hero, but no one dare admit they think that.
Ah yes, morning. It's just as beautiful as the very first one. I remember it so well. The shock of brightness as the sun made its encompassing presence known. My eyelids blinking, fluttering my eyelashes in a way that proved comely to all gathered. "Oh, he's so cute! Look at those eyelashes. I think he knows we're watching him!" Yep, I knew and I have to admit, I loved the attention. I immediately included fluttering eyelashes in my permanent bag of tricks.
The air against my skin thrilling every pore. Wow, it sent chills up and down and then straight inside me. Still, you all found it all so endearing and fascinating. I made note of every reaction. I knew this was important stuff and I was determined to learn it and remember.
Then those wonderful arms that lifted me into the air. I could feel the confidence in her that the man just couldn't muster. There was no question when she picked me up. I would find out later that women never have doubt when it comes to an embrace. Men, well, too much thought goes into it, what does it mean, am I obligating myself here, how will this be taken, I don't want to be perceived as being soft, there's an endless list that might occur to a man when it comes to a simple act of affection.
I'm not implying I was imbued with deep thought as an infant. My perceptions were instinctual, actions and reactions recorded in my unconscious table rasa to be used and pondered at a later date, much as I am doing now. No, I didn't know I was charming or endearing, I simply knew the cause and effect of my fluttering eyelashes. I learned of their beneficial nature to me. They became an asset and a tool long before I knew what an asset or a tool might be.
My mother had no ill will or agenda. People find it difficult to understand why I never developed animosity towards her. It certainly seemed as though she was a horrible abusive woman. She wasn't. She was insane. Insanity is a perfectly legitimate reason for abhorrent behavior. It isn't an excuse as no excuse is necessary. She loved me and there could be no mistaking it. Her intent centered on my well-being and her priorities placed me above all else. What could be more noble than that?
My father would be described as a no nonsense, nose to the grindstone, life is tough and you have to earn every crumb of bread you eat, type of individual. I knew his agenda though. I was another of his projects, much like my mother, his wife. We were counted as feathers in the suffering crown of the enduring sacrificing hero of exemplary manhood that was John Henry Roussin.
Oh my, this man worked laboriously ten to twelve hours a day, six days a week. Then, he came home to his severely mentally ill wife and their newborn son AND he did so, ladies and gentlemen, with a SMILE. If that isn't a candidate for a "Best Father in the World" coffee cup, then there is none.
"How do you do it, John? I'd crumble under the pressure. I sure as hell wouldn't be smiling." So might say any one of his many admirers.
"I take what the good Lord has given me and I do my best. I love them both, they are blessings. It isn't work when it's done for love." He would humbly reply.
HEY! People that bestow sainthood! Did you hear that? Whoooo hoo! Winner, winner, chicken diner. Saint Jonah of the big fish step aside, there's a new fisherman in town!
Dad wasn't my first victim or my last, but he was one of the few living victims. But, he couldn't talk and he couldn't write so I felt reasonably sure he wouldn't be able to rat me out. "Nose to the grindstone", indeed.
I visit him in the hospital once in a while, just for spite. He waves his stumps around and growls utterances no one understands. But, I understand, Dad. You're trying to point to your very own little boy as the one who chopped off your hands, but you have no fingers. You're trying to shout my name, but you have no tongue.
Before you jump to conclusions, let me tell you more about pops. I use "pops" not as a term indicative of my heritage or educational level, but rather sarcastically as to imply affection where there is none. He didn't beat my mother or me; he disregarded and used us. I view a beating as a more engaged and personal interaction. To be dismissed is intolerable to me.
My mother had many moments of lucidity. She had a kind heart devoid of any spite or meanness. Her delusions and paranoia caused behavior appearing to be violent and abusive, but these instances were merely self-defense. That there was no real danger was irrelevant, she perceived it and reacted. I find that to be reasonable behavior under the circumstances.
I love his psychiatrist. She has it all wrong, but she means well and that holds a lot of water with me. She'll tell me, "Don't feel bad, Johnny, he just can't handle you seeing him like this. He's the kind of man who thinks he should be taking care of you, not the other way around. He can't accept his life the way it is. Frankly, I don't know if I could either." Isn't that sweet? Yes, darling, I took care of him all right.
I still live with Mom, or she lives with me, I suppose. She's still insane, she still loves me. I've never killed anyone who didn't deserve it. They'd tell you I'm a psychopath with no conscience. They'd say I'm incapable of love. Well, what do they know?
I'm John Henry Roussin, Junior. My mom and my friends call me, Johnny. No one dares call me Junior. In the press I'm known as The Midnight Regulator. I must admit, that is one cool ass non de plume. I'm not going to pretend I am not excited when they report on my deeds in the news. I'm human and fame, or infamy if you will, is a bit intoxicating. I stick to the suburbs of Los Angeles, there is enough retribution needed in L.A. proper for an army of vigilantes. I look for people deserving justice and I deliver it to them guilt free.
I always make it clear what someone has died for; I leave a note. I recently killed a restaurant manager for publicly humiliating one of his waitresses. The note said, "I treated my employee poorly. I yelled at her in public. Now I am dead." The news made out like it was a terrible price to pay and how it was too high a price etc., but the conversation drifted to poor treatment of restaurant employees and how wrong it was. I think they'll take a look around their restaurants now wondering if I'm sitting there before they embarrass their staff. I'll take that as an endorsement.
I'm not insane; indeed, I am skilled socially. A forensic psychologist wouldn't come close to a description of me in trying to profile The Midnight Regulator. I know; I've heard the descriptions. "He's a loner, probably in his late forties or early fifties. You wouldn't notice him if you worked right beside him. He works in a job that requires little human contact most likely on a swing or night shift." Well, they go on and on with the stereotypical misfit scenarios.
I'm the most likely to be remembered at work. I'm outgoing and engaging. I have charm down to a science. I don't crack under pressure and I'm not getting even for society's transgressions against me. I hate injustice with a passion and I've found it very satisfying to kill people who dispense it without a care in the world. I'm sure I've never killed anyone that at least a dozen people haven't fantasized about killing themselves. I'll never be caught.
Truth be told, I'm a hero, but no one dare admit they think that.
The air against my skin thrilling every pore. Wow, it sent chills up and down and then straight inside me. Still, you all found it all so endearing and fascinating. I made note of every reaction. I knew this was important stuff and I was determined to learn it and remember.
Then those wonderful arms that lifted me into the air. I could feel the confidence in her that the man just couldn't muster. There was no question when she picked me up. I would find out later that women never have doubt when it comes to an embrace. Men, well, too much thought goes into it, what does it mean, am I obligating myself here, how will this be taken, I don't want to be perceived as being soft, there's an endless list that might occur to a man when it comes to a simple act of affection.
I'm not implying I was imbued with deep thought as an infant. My perceptions were instinctual, actions and reactions recorded in my unconscious table rasa to be used and pondered at a later date, much as I am doing now. No, I didn't know I was charming or endearing, I simply knew the cause and effect of my fluttering eyelashes. I learned of their beneficial nature to me. They became an asset and a tool long before I knew what an asset or a tool might be.
My mother had no ill will or agenda. People find it difficult to understand why I never developed animosity towards her. It certainly seemed as though she was a horrible abusive woman. She wasn't. She was insane. Insanity is a perfectly legitimate reason for abhorrent behavior. It isn't an excuse as no excuse is necessary. She loved me and there could be no mistaking it. Her intent centered on my well-being and her priorities placed me above all else. What could be more noble than that?
My father would be described as a no nonsense, nose to the grindstone, life is tough and you have to earn every crumb of bread you eat, type of individual. I knew his agenda though. I was another of his projects, much like my mother, his wife. We were counted as feathers in the suffering crown of the enduring sacrificing hero of exemplary manhood that was John Henry Roussin.
Oh my, this man worked laboriously ten to twelve hours a day, six days a week. Then, he came home to his severely mentally ill wife and their newborn son AND he did so, ladies and gentlemen, with a SMILE. If that isn't a candidate for a "Best Father in the World" coffee cup, then there is none.
"How do you do it, John? I'd crumble under the pressure. I sure as hell wouldn't be smiling." So might say any one of his many admirers.
"I take what the good Lord has given me and I do my best. I love them both, they are blessings. It isn't work when it's done for love." He would humbly reply.
HEY! People that bestow sainthood! Did you hear that? Whoooo hoo! Winner, winner, chicken diner. Saint Jonah of the big fish step aside, there's a new fisherman in town!
Dad wasn't my first victim or my last, but he was one of the few living victims. But, he couldn't talk and he couldn't write so I felt reasonably sure he wouldn't be able to rat me out. "Nose to the grindstone", indeed.
I visit him in the hospital once in a while, just for spite. He waves his stumps around and growls utterances no one understands. But, I understand, Dad. You're trying to point to your very own little boy as the one who chopped off your hands, but you have no fingers. You're trying to shout my name, but you have no tongue.
Before you jump to conclusions, let me tell you more about pops. I use "pops" not as a term indicative of my heritage or educational level, but rather sarcastically as to imply affection where there is none. He didn't beat my mother or me; he disregarded and used us. I view a beating as a more engaged and personal interaction. To be dismissed is intolerable to me.
My mother had many moments of lucidity. She had a kind heart devoid of any spite or meanness. Her delusions and paranoia caused behavior appearing to be violent and abusive, but these instances were merely self-defense. That there was no real danger was irrelevant, she perceived it and reacted. I find that to be reasonable behavior under the circumstances.
I love his psychiatrist. She has it all wrong, but she means well and that holds a lot of water with me. She'll tell me, "Don't feel bad, Johnny, he just can't handle you seeing him like this. He's the kind of man who thinks he should be taking care of you, not the other way around. He can't accept his life the way it is. Frankly, I don't know if I could either." Isn't that sweet? Yes, darling, I took care of him all right.
I still live with Mom, or she lives with me, I suppose. She's still insane, she still loves me. I've never killed anyone who didn't deserve it. They'd tell you I'm a psychopath with no conscience. They'd say I'm incapable of love. Well, what do they know?
I'm John Henry Roussin, Junior. My mom and my friends call me, Johnny. No one dares call me Junior. In the press I'm known as The Midnight Regulator. I must admit, that is one cool ass non de plume. I'm not going to pretend I am not excited when they report on my deeds in the news. I'm human and fame, or infamy if you will, is a bit intoxicating. I stick to the suburbs of Los Angeles, there is enough retribution needed in L.A. proper for an army of vigilantes. I look for people deserving justice and I deliver it to them guilt free.
I always make it clear what someone has died for; I leave a note. I recently killed a restaurant manager for publicly humiliating one of his waitresses. The note said, "I treated my employee poorly. I yelled at her in public. Now I am dead." The news made out like it was a terrible price to pay and how it was too high a price etc., but the conversation drifted to poor treatment of restaurant employees and how wrong it was. I think they'll take a look around their restaurants now wondering if I'm sitting there before they embarrass their staff. I'll take that as an endorsement.
I'm not insane; indeed, I am skilled socially. A forensic psychologist wouldn't come close to a description of me in trying to profile The Midnight Regulator. I know; I've heard the descriptions. "He's a loner, probably in his late forties or early fifties. You wouldn't notice him if you worked right beside him. He works in a job that requires little human contact most likely on a swing or night shift." Well, they go on and on with the stereotypical misfit scenarios.
I'm the most likely to be remembered at work. I'm outgoing and engaging. I have charm down to a science. I don't crack under pressure and I'm not getting even for society's transgressions against me. I hate injustice with a passion and I've found it very satisfying to kill people who dispense it without a care in the world. I'm sure I've never killed anyone that at least a dozen people haven't fantasized about killing themselves. I'll never be caught.
Truth be told, I'm a hero, but no one dare admit they think that.
A Serial Killer Contest Winner |
 Recognized |
I realize that "show don't tell" is the mantra here, but I decided to write this the way I feel like writing it. If the pace is a bit slow, well, I want to take my time. I want the focus to be on the main character and his thoughts, so that's what is here. I imagine it would be more wise to start off with an action scene and get to what's on his mind later, but I guess I'd rather write than be wise. :))
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