SevenWritez

Here’s the thing. Like, if a guy’s gonna die, a guy’s gonna die, right? Who tha’ fuck am I to go against impulse?

I guess he doesn’t like being tied to a chair. His eyes are all bugged-out, pretty much bulging out of his sockets and shit, and I’m just watching him, holding my baseball bat over my shoulder. I lift it and drop it, tapping it on my shoulder, and as the guy tries to scream through that gag I’ve bagged him with, I stand there, tapping my shoulder, wondering what to do.

See, like, you’ve got different forms of art, right? And like, different things call to different people. You got the poets, you got the writers, the movie directors, the actors, the painters, all that shit. And honestly, I’ve tried all those, I’ve written poetry about love, stories about cops gone bad and bad guys turned to cops, but it just never really felt satisfying, you know?

I need action. I like things to move. But I want it to be artistic, you know? I can’t sit down in some chair staring at shit and taking my time, I ain’t no skinny four-eyed fuck. I like shit to be shifting, to be roaring by like a fucking bullet train, to be screaming in joy while I’m screaming in joy. I need shit to go under the same sort of emotional tremors I do, to bond with me, to bond with my art. Yeah.

So anyways, there’s a few ways to go about this, but right now I have to think about my options, which I’m sure the guy is, too. I fetch his wallet out of my pocket and flip through it. Right next to his license is a picture of what I guess is his family. His hands are on the shoulders of a little girl who is missing one of her teeth, and his faced is leaned towards that of a blonde babe who I guess is his wife.

“Yo,” I ask, flipping him the pic. “This your wife?”

His nostrils open wide, then get small, open wide, get small. I laugh and slip the photo back in.

“Who was that other lady, then?” I look at the name on his license. “Johnny? She didn’t look like this sexy bitch here. Fuck.”

She didn’t, either. I’d been in my car, eating a sub, when I saw him walk out the doors of his office building or some shit, and he was laughing and talking with some long-haired brunette. He’d had his hand around her waist, and she’d been tucked into him, and before she got in the taxi he’d looked around then tongued her up. I’d been watching his hands. He gave that bitch a good ol’ cheek squeeze, and damn it if he didn’t get hard off it. Shit, I got hard off it.

Anyways, I’d followed him on the ride home. No real reason, just something to do. He took a bus, the little shit. Took a stroll down some neighborhood that didn’t seem like the type for a man in a business suit, and when I guessed where he was going, I got him from behind, knocked him out, gagged him, tied him up, brought him back to my place. Put the paint on my canvas, wrote ‘Johnny,’ next to the other names on my bat, and waited for the fuck to wake up. So here he is now.

“Havin’ a little affair on the missus, Johnny?” I ask. “Fuck, man, why? This bitch is hot.”

One thing that gets me about guys like Johnny here is the way they fucking cheat. I can’t stand cheaters. You get someone to trust you, to devote them self to you, and off you go waving your dick around like it’s the thirteenth commandment. Can’t say I like that, not at all.

“I’d be better for her, Johnny, honestly. Me and the missus’d get along fine.”

I take the photo of his wife out of the slip and place it to my lips. I open wide, face the blonde babe, and give it a good, slow lick. Johnny here grunts something and his nostrils get all big and small, big and small. I laugh.

“Yo, check this. This bitch is hot, Johnny.”

I slip the picture into my pants, rub it around a bit, and cock my head back to sigh. He shakes once in his chair, and the legs give a little thud on the floor. I laugh.

“Fuck, man, chill. At least I ain’t fucking both of’em. Your daugher’s kinda hot. This your daughter?”

I remove the picture from out of my pants and tap the little girls face. He doesn’t answer. His eyes are round, his nostrils huge as hell, his chest heaving. Funny shit.

“Ok, look, Johnny, listen. I think you need to, like, repent. You know?”

Johnny doesn’t seem to know.

“Ok, well like, see, I think you’ve been unfaithful to your wife, or whatever. You’ve been cheek squeezing the wrong cheek. Get what I’m saying, Johnny? You hearing me good?”

I let the picture flutter to the floor. I lift my baseball bat and eye it from up to down. I spin it so that Johnny can see his name scribbled in pen along the side of it. I smile.

“Repent, Johnny boy!”

I send a home run into his sack, and Johnny boy here screams through his gag like a little bitch. The veins in his neck pop like popcorn, and his face looks like a fucking watermelon, a deep scarlet that makes me think of bulls off in Mexico, chasing down them boys with the capes or whatever. I place the bat on my shoulder and tsk, tsk, tsk, shaking my head. Eventually, Johnny boy stops crying and just breathes, big ol’ chest heaves.

“Look angry, Johnny boy. So what’dya do, anyway? You got a business card?”

I look through his wallet, but I don’t find any business cards. A visa, some cash that I’ll take later, a Life Fitness membership, and a gift card to McDonalds.

“Who the fuck buys gift cards to McDonalds, Johnny?”

Johnny’s eyes are darting about the room, looking at my writing desk, my canvas, my guitar and drum, my bookshelf, my closet with all the nice t-shirts. Johnny doesn’t answer my question. Not even a grunt. I lift my bat.

“Hey, stupid.”

I swing the bat into the side of his head. The crack of his skull sends a tremor up the wood into the grip through my hands. The sting of the shake makes me hiss and I drop the bat. It hits the floor at the same time his body does.

After nurturing my poor hands, I get down on my knee and poke his temple. He doesn’t respond. A red trail runs out his ear down his neck.

“Yo. Yo, Johnny?” Johnny ain’t even grunting now. “Aw, shit, Johnny. The fuck’s up with that?”

Then, ever so slightly, I hear a whimper. I look again. Johnny’s crying! I look at his ear, but there’s no blood. I look at my hands, but there’s no red imprint from the shake. I laugh.

“Holy shit, Johnny, I thought you was dead! Fuck, I thought I saw blood, man! Fuck. Mind of an artist, man, mind of a fucking artist!”

I see the mistake before I hear it. In hitting Johnny boy across the head I somehow managed to dick up his gag. Johnny seems to notice this, too, and once he catches his tears, he opens his mouth and lets out a holler. Thank God I’m quick.

“Help! Somebody he”—

I cover his mouth and slam his head into the floor. This time there’s a hallow thud, not fake or some shit, either, but real and—artsy word—tangible. Yeah, it’s a tangible sound. No blood.

“Fucking shit, Johnny, you trying to wake up the god damned”—I didn’t completely replace the gag yet. I moved my hand a little while talking. I forgot Johnny had teeth. The asshole bites me.

The teeth puncture my index and middle finger, sinking in, and a burn rips through my skin, then settles there. I crane my neck and scream. I try and pull my fingers out, but Johnny boy’s holding on, trying to gnaw them off. Like, literally. He’s snarling.

I lift my left hand, bundle it into a fist, and beat him in the temple until he lets go. His mouth pops open and I fall on my ass, cradling my hand. I look at my fingers. Blood and saliva.

Mouth free, he’s screaming again.

I stand up and kick him. Something cracks, and his jaw seems to shift under his skin. I bend down and fix the gag. From downstairs, a voice: “Leo?” Mom’s voice. “Leo? I-is everything all r-rah-right up t-there, Leo?”

I stand up, and shit, I’m breathing hard. I have to take a moment. “Yeah, ma. It’s good. Everything’s good. Just working out.”

I lift my baseball bat from the floor, and it hurts like a bitch holding it with my two fingers. “You shouldn’t have done that, Johnny.”

Johnny isn’t even looking at me now. He’s wriggling on the floor, like a worm. “Big fucking mistake.”

I cringe as I lift the bat, and my two fingers feel like gnarled sausage, but I take aim. Then I swing. The bat shakes this time. The crack is real. His eyes pop and his head thumps the floor. I lift and swing, faster, harder. A pop. Blood from his ears. Lift. Swing. Connect. A crevice appears in the side of his head. He’s not moving at all. Lift, connect, lift, connect, lift, swing, swing, swing. Finally I see the gray goo of his brain. After awhile, the cracks and pops are only memories. Now there is a wet slosh and squish. Hair spreads around the wound, blood makes a scarlet puddle, and there it is, there it is, the gray goo, the gushy mush of brain. Swing, swing, swing.

I finish. Ma’ knocks on the door. Her frail old voice carries through. “Leo-oh-oh. Are you o-okay in there?”

“Yeah, ma, I’m fine. Just working out.”

“I h-heard noises.”

“No noises, ma.”

I walk over to the door and crack it open, peeking at ma’s liver sore face. Her eyes are sad and blue. It pains me to see ma like this, you know? Just to see how people get all old and shit. Really sucks. Death really sucks. “You take your meds today, ma?”

“I-I think so.” Ma raises an eyebrow and looks at her feet, trying to remember or whatever. Poor ma.

“Well, I’m fine, ma. Thanks. And I think you should go take your medicine, kay?”

“Alright. Are you sh-sure you’re ok in there? Not doing anything reckless, are you?”

I laugh and smile. “Naw, ma, just working out.” I crack the door further to slip my face out and kiss her on her wrinkly forehead. Then ma walks off, and I return to Johnny boy.

I get a towel and get to scrubbing up the blood. It’s going to stain, but if I pick up some oxi-clean later it should fade a bit. I dig in my closet for one of them black trash bags, and look for my saw while I’m at it. I find both, and get to work. I dig my hands around in his gray jello for a bit and then dump it in the bag. I take off the clothes free from blood and toss those in my hamper for later, then start at the limbs. The skin is easy to cut, but when getting through bone and muscle there’s always this rough resistance, and you gotta press your weight and shit. Anyways, I get the guy finished, and use up two bags getting him cleaned.

I look at the stain on the floor and sigh. I fetch a towel and scrub it as best as I can, but yeah, there’s still a big fucking smear and shit. I’ll have to stop by Wal-mart or some shit later. Anyways.

I pick up his wallet, finger through it, take the money, and throw the pictures, visa, whatever, into the bag. I’m about to tie both bags when my stomach growls. I remember something and fish Johnny boy’s wallet out of the bag. I find the McDonalds gift card. I consider a Big Mac.

I throw the wallet back with the parts, tie the bags, take them to the docks out in the city, dump them when nobody’s looking, and buy me a big ol’ juicy big mac on the way home. And some oxi-clean.

nacreous

well, you sure do have alot of dialogue in this work. Your good at telling the story through the use of dialogue. I just wish I liked the plot and the characters better.
Keep it up, though.

TheNextOne

The expletives are a bit much, but I'm with nacreous...I don't feel any particular emotion towards the characters because they have no perspective of their own. Everything is told through the one perspective of this foul-mouthed murderer. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying you shouldn't use curse words, but sometimes they are a bit much. Then again, it may just say something about the ignorance of the narrator who is also the fictional protagonist/antagonist of this whole story, in which case I would say you nailed the mental state of such a person fairly well (from what I can determine) even though I'm certainly no expert about such things.

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SevenWritez

I apologize for the obscenities (if they came off as over-used), but that's what I aimed for here. I just wanted to showcase a quick kill through the eyes of an arrogant, foul-mouthed murderer. Anyways, thank you both for the comments.

September

I think the swearing was all right, it did fit the character. I actually thought Leo was a very intriguing person, hearing everything told from his point of view gave us interesting insight to his thoughts, about how he wants to be an artist, etc.

Wildcard

I guess the biggest "pro" for this story is the mere fact of how vividly the tale is told. I read it til the very end.

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LolliAdverbs

This was brilliant, aside from the fact it needs to be introduced to my two good friends, semicolon and period. At first I had a little trouble, but then I started to read it out loud and I was mightily impressed. It's genius.

The cursing is great. The repetitiveness of shit reveals more about his character than I think the others are ready to recognize.

Two problems though:

1. You're title is a huge spoiler. It'd be better if you just let us figure it out. Naming it just Art would be just fine, although I'll be the first to admit that it's not catchy at all.

2. If he's murdering for art, I don't think you necessarily need to have become a cape crusader. He's nuts after all. It would better if you didn't try to justify his art with morality, because no matter how it's done, no one's going to believe it.

Comments (really unimportant, really):
--If this idea interests you, you should give a listen to Outside by David Bowie, which is essentially about murdering for art.
--It wouldn't hurt to have him mention what about the murder he finds beautiful. You start out well, noting the motions is the sexy part, but then you don't back it up later on. If the character is obsessed with it, the small things like the nose would mean something more to him.
--Wouldn't he choose a more artsy place then his mom's basement?
--We can make our own judgments on whether he's crazy or not. Drop the med bit.

Brilliant. Top notch, really.

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Holden Blake

It thought it was pretty vivid and yeah....the cursing does help to define the character but it is a bit extensive, three or four times would be suffice to convey that he has a habbit of using these words. Any more makes it sound too forced/contrived.

The story is pretty straight forward, the title is self-explanitory, maybe you have some other ideas? Nothing very striking seems to happen, yes the narrator kills a guy but we knew from the start this was going to happen. Perhaps spending a little longer building up the tension when the mother almost finds out after she hears the the victim trying to escape would be enough to act as a good climax point.

If the story is just going to be based around this guy killing his victim then why not consider going deeper into the reasons why he feels the need to murder for 'art'? I get that he has tried other options but what has made him this way? Perhaps something from his childhood is to blame or even some specific turning point in his life when he either snapped, or simply decided that he was going to turn his hand to murdering for his art. It can be anything, maybe he's always suffered psycologically, just give your reader some sort of indication as to why he is the way he is.

If you don't want to go down this route then you should really think about adding a resolution to make up for it. The story is good but it leaves me with a lot of questions and there's simply not enough hints or evidence or any sort of allusions for that matter, to work out the answers to these questions. You don't have to answer them all, or explain the narrators whole life story but a few subtle hints would be great.


The narrator is not a very likeable character. He's a bit 2D at the miniute, ok well maybe that's a bit harsh. Let's say he's 2.5D...he's on his way to being a three dimentional, well-rounded character but he's simply not there yet. Yes you get a view into his present psyche and glimpses of his personality and background through his use of language and the assumption that he still lives with his mother...but I don't feel you go far enough.

At the moment there is nothing redeeming about his character, nothing that makes me as a reader care for or about him. At the moment he's just a nasty piece of work, a psycho that I'm have glad to be rid of when I've finish reading.The same with the victim, you can't really sympathise with him beacuse there's simply not enough of his character shinning though, alright we know he has a family and it is sad... but you need to really give him a voice.
If you want the readers to feel for him, then pull at our heart strings, if not then make him a slimy git..or better stil a snivelling, snotty idiot.

If your story is just a focus on the narrator then it would be great if you could think about revealing a little more of his character. I'm not saying you can't have someone that's pure evil, but you can convey evil in an enticing, sometimes terrifying way. With an evil protagonist, especially if he's your narrator, then it's never a case of 'I'm evil...no questions asked!' Ok that might be the characters stance on the subject but from a readers point of view there's loads of questions to be asked.

I see a little bit of black humor creeping through in the comments over the Big Mac but I'm unsure as to whether you have done this is to highlight the fact that his character is completely oblivious to the immorals of the crime he has just comitted, or whether he has a sadistic sense of humor and is mentioning the big mac as a way of musing over his crime. I think if you clarify this point and then employ a little more of this type of thing throughout you could really develop your character.

If you don't want to make him likeable to your readership, then at least make him interesting or funny in a dark sort of way- anything that will make the readers want to follow him off the page. I know it's only a short story but even with closure your readers should still be left wanting more. At the miniute I'm left wanting more..and that's beacuse I don't yet feel I know enough about the narrator than I should/want to.

Apart from that, your structuring is pretty good as is your attention to detail so I don't think you need any work on that. Not a bad little story all and all, it has wonderfully positive potential and flows well as a read.

Hope some this helps,

HB.

SevenWritez

Thank you for the comments. I'll take a moment to try and clarify a few of the questions raised, but rather than trying to pin point them one by one (there seems to be plenty between the last two posts, and I rather avoid an essay, as those are never fun), I'll give a brief synopsis of what was going on through my head as I wrote this.

First off, it started off in the same way many of my short stories do: I wrote a title, stared at it, and built a story off of it. Some of the points of the character--his excessive vulgarity, his gripe with men who cheat on their wives, and the sudden interest he took in the Mcdonald's gift card--were completely arbitrary. I harbor neither the intellect nor the wit to achieve something along the lines of humorous symbolism, and the times I do attempt such feats I end up failing miserably.

When I first began writing, all my stories dealt with psychotic killers and their incoherent broodings as they went about mutilating their prey, but as I grew and began to broaden my gaze, I left these sort of stories behind. When I wrote this I just had fun with it--being vulgar, being violent, laughing at the captured man--because I hadn't allowed myself to get wacky in a long time. I didn't know the story was over until I got there.

So, that's all there really is to this story. I have been considering making a longer version of this, but as of now, I'm still working on my novel, and I rather not try and spread my efforts between two large projects.

I hope this helps clear up any misunderstandings or confusions that have stemmed from this. In short, any of the plot points that may have confused you will most likely confuse me as well. I hope I have not annoyed anyone with this explanation, as I didn't expect it to get some of the responses it has.

Thank you for taking an interest in the story and thank you for the kind comments.

Mike C

I think you're mistaking vivid for graphic. I skipped the middle, it wasn't telling me anything.

I think it's a missed opportunity but (and this isn't ageist, it's an observation based on having been 17 once) an understandable one. I guessed your age right based on what I read. It's a missed opportunity because this encounter isn't about violence (except on the most superficial level), but about power and psychology. The story is between the ears of these people, not balanced on the end of a baseball bat.

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needmoneyforcollege

good story