Heir to the Throne
David Allen Mullens paced his cell, anxiously cracking his knuckles in anticipation, knuckles on the same hands that had murdered twelve people in a four week killing spree. He wasn’t scared or sweating he was just excited.
He had been in prison for three years and had only managed to kill two in that time. It is tough to kill when they keep you sequestered from the general population or locked in solitary most of the time. He was beginning to feel robbed of the title. But with the air conditioning, cable TV and three hots and a cot, he thought he hadn’t done too badly for himself considering that he only had a seventh grade education.
He had killed people as far back as he could remember. For one; it was fun, and for two; it was easy money, but that reasoning was one he had grown in to. There was a time that he had taken no pleasure in killing. That was when he had killed his mother. He had killed her when he was 15 years old.
After years of killing small animals and insects he audibly heard something in his head snap, and the next thing he knew his mother was laying on the kitchen floor, the refrigerator door still ajar. He could still remember that her caved-in skull looked like it had spilled strawberry swirled oatmeal, it was his favorite breakfast but she would never make it for him again. His mother had been the catalyst but she was only one cause of his motivation. He wasn’t the type to sit around crying to a shrink about it though; all those pussies that pissed and moaned that mommy didn’t love them made him sick to his stomach.
Mullens had grown to believe that he was a god in his own right. He had not yet created, but he had mastered destroying. Soon though, that would change. Soon he would be a mentor to one, maybe more. Who knew? That was the great thing about being a god. That whole vengeful Old Testament god thing was pretty sweet gig.
Killing was easy…killing people was even easier. Human beings were like scared cattle when confronted with violence. He was the top of the food chain. He was essential to keep the balance of nature. He was simply thinning the herd, if you will. Those he killed were expendable, and it seemed that there was always more bred to replace the fallen. He wasn’t entirely sure the number of people that he had killed over the years, but he did like to boast that it was well over two hundred.
He considered himself a renaissance man of sorts. Sure he would bust a nut, that was a given; but the manner in which he killed them would be no two the same. Shoot them, stab them, skin them, torture them, burn some, strangle some, cannibalize some. Whatever, he was open to suggestions. He watched a lot of horror movies and if he saw an on-screen murder that looked like it would be fun to try, then why not.
As a renaissance man he was something of a philosopher and recognized the fact that those fat cats in government were worse than him. In times of war they had phrases like collateral damage, it seemed about the same to him. There were generals in the joint chiefs of staff that were responsible for more death than he, but they received medals for their actions, they received praise for their resolve and prestige for their carnage. They didn’t even have to wash the blood from their hands. They were the Charles Manson of the military world. And any serial killer worth his salt knew that Manson was a fake and a pussy. Mullens had watched those televised interviews with Manson, he would rant like a lunatic, he made no sense but Mullens thought that that was the whole point of the charade. Manson didn’t want to be released. He knew that someone would kill him about five minutes after he had been released. Man, with five minutes alone in the same cell as that dude, Mullens would show just what a joke Manson was.
It was this hypocrisy that made it so easy to kill. That; and it really got him off.
What was the difference between a murderer and a conqueror? Besides public opinion, he thought it was a very fine line. Everyone wants to be evil. Everyone wants to feel the power then trip on it. It was exhilarating. Why do you think that fantasy revolves around Vampires and werewolves, and creatures that morph into killers? It is because our base nature wants that power.
He believed all humans are evil creatures by nature, most however, lack the courage to act upon those desires. He was not one of those. I am what all human sheep yearn to be. He thought smugly.
He had decided to write his memoirs this past year. Consider it a treat to the world of psychology. Five hundred pages of his heroic deeds written in minute detail. Mostly it was a way for him to show ultimate dominance over the victims. He was proud to have finished his book, but he doubted it would be well received by the masses: the spelling and grammar left much to be desired but the insight into his mind… that was what should sell. But then, he thought, the truth was never well received. Fantasy always topped the best sellers list. People were engrossed with fantasizing. This was another reason they were so easy (and fun) to kill. When confronted with a reality less cordial than a tea party, they simply froze in their tracks, like deer in the headlights.
Soon though, he would be gone and he needed an heir to his throne. Someone who would take the scepter and see it for what it really was… a weapon.
He would become a tutor to one, maybe even more, who read his memoirs. It was the least he could do for the next generation. If only he had had a mentor to learn from, maybe then he wouldn’t be pacing in this cage like some kind of animal.
A priest had come to take his confession an hour ago.
Priests... he had to smile. That priest in particular wouldn’t have lasted more than five minutes listening to his confession. The priest had been a young visionary wanting to change the world by speaking of the works of Jesus. He was naive and ignorant of the way of the world. Maybe Jesus had walked the world 2000 years ago, maybe not, it really didn‘t matter to him, but if Jesus had, then the world had shown that deity what it most desired…his blood.
He had thought of killing the priest. That thought brought him comfort to his jangled nerves. But he was retired now. He had retired on top. He still held the title. He refused to worship a god that would create a race of barely sentient cattle in his own image. Mullens believed that must be a distinctly feeble god. But he wasn’t about to worship Satan either. That would have been even worse, in his opinion. Hell, Satan had been defeated and cast from heaven by that distinctly feeble god.
He knew who the true god was. It was himself. That was why he wasn’t scared to be fried in the electric chaise lounge. Sure he was anxious, but only to get the show on the road.
He had a kingdom to rule. He could hardly wait to be that ‘still small voice’ whispering his wisdom into his successors’ ear. They would become his saints and his disciples. And in time they would rule heaven, hell and earth.
He heard the guards walking toward his cell. He could hear everything. The creaking of their patent leather belts, the jingling of keys, the squeak of their shoes on the concrete causeway, the quick breathing of fear and somewhere…very faintly he could hear a guitar playing a death dirge so sweetly and so sadly that he felt tears well up in his eyes. He wasn’t ashamed of his tears, but he had a reputation to uphold, so he blinked them back and smiled because he felt so damn alive; it was the same feeling he had when he killed someone.
He felt the familiar ache in his groin and patted his growing erection affectionately and sighed.
Soon, Vlad, soon, he thought.
The guards stopped before his cell. He knew the routine and allowed them to clamp the manacles around his wrists through the food tray slot. Then and only then did they enter his cell and shackle on the leg irons.
The young priest was there, enthusiastically reading him his last rights. He knew the kid envied him, he could see the jealousy in his young green eyes. They ushered him from his cell and began their walk down a long hallway. He turned his head to the side and winked at the priest praying beside him as they walked.
Tough luck kid, there is only one deity here.
He could smell the fear emanating from the guards, they knew his record. He felt their hatred for him, but he could understand that, their hatred was rooted in jealousy and fear.
The pressure of his sex against the crotch of his jumpsuit was a bizarre mix of pleasure and pain. It suited his tastes well. The guards noticed it and sneered at him with disgust. He blew them a kiss. Cattle would never understand that kings always had a scepter. Some were just larger than others.
They ushered him, hurriedly towards the execution chamber to the cadence of the Lord’s Prayer. He thought that the Lord had every reason to be praying now. He’d need all the help He could get, here in a few minutes.
They led him to the wooden chair and strapped his wrists and ankles into place. They covered his eyes with gauze and tape and covered his head with a cloth hood and a wet sponge atop his shaved head.
He moaned in anticipation as he felt them affix his crown to his covered head. It was his coronation after all.
He laughed with a spasm as he felt the surge of electric rip through him and the warmth of his release beneath his coveralls.
It was good to be the king.
K.R. Helms is a former Marine and freelance writer. His work has been featured in 69 Flavors of Paranoia, Dark Gothic Resurrected, Death Head Grin, Down in the Dirt, Dark Highlands Anthology Vol.2, A Means to an End from Postmortem Press and Sex and Murder Magazine. He is slated to appear in anthologies from Static Movement and The HorrorZine later this year. He resides in rural Ohio with his wife and daughter.