Wednesday, 28 September 2011
JUST TO STOP THEM LEAVING by Nick Mott
Warning: Nick debuts 'n' pulls no punches...
Just To Stop Them Leaving
My lover called me 'an evil sadistic bastard' today. It was just in the heat of the moment. We were arguing and he just spat the insult at me. I thought it was uncalled for. It was only a stupid disagreement about motorcycle safety. I was pointing out the follies of his lax attitude and the injuries that could result when he just let forth with a barrel of abuse.
I needed him to get on the back of my bike, but he refused to wear the helmet and we started to bicker. I think he was just being awkward as he knew we needed to leave as a matter of urgency. I tried to remind him of the last time he was on my bike and had an accident, he wasn't holding tight enough and just flew right off. If he hadn't already been dead, it would've really done him an injury.
For now, he's securely locked in my bike box, well his head is, I dismembered the rest of him hours ago. I've managed to get the helmet on him, but I can still hear him moaning. He can be such a baby at times. For a man with no way of feeling pain he certainly whines like he can.
When I first met him, he was called Steve but I hated that name, so he's now called Donald. I think he prefers it. I didn't go out that night with the intention of hooking up with anyone, but he just appeared at the bar like a bargain basement angel. I instantly knew that I'd have a long and bloody night ahead of me.
We chatted for a bit and when I suggested we go back to mine, he agreed. Of course if I'd known at the time he was just another sleazy rent boy I would've walked away. I don't want to debase myself with those filthy, diseases ridden, whores, but by the time he was back at my flat it was too late. I was too horny and I'd already stuck a couple of Rohypnols in his drink and gotten my tool kit out.
I always start with a drill to the forehead. It kills them quick and keeps the screaming to a minimum. I've never been into torture. I just want to kill them so they never leave. Once they’re dead, the head comes off first. A sharp saw makes easy work of that. Never use a dull blade, it gets stuck on the spinal column and makes the job ten times harder, taking away the erotic element of the task. After that it's just a matter of chopping off the limbs with an axe, putting a thigh aside for later, and all you’re left with is the torso.
I may as well admit at this point, I tend to abuse the torso, just to satisfy those lustful needs. I always hide the head in a cupboard or the fridge cause I don't want them to see what I'm doing. That way they can't moan about it. I mean, at the end of the day, he isn't really going to mind is he – he's dead for fuck's sake.
Unfortunately for me, Donald was different. I decided to strangle him instead, just to see if I could. It was easier than I imagined. I put my hands around his throat, tightened my grip and in a few minutes he stopped breathing. Feeling his heart stop and watching his eyes go soulless was one of the biggest thrills I've ever experienced.
Emboldened by this new intimate pleasure of death, I wanted to try something else. So instead of chopping him up, I decided to dress him in my spare pair of bike leathers and go for a ride. I thought it would be liberating to drive around with him on the back, holding me tightly, but that was where the problem started.
Once we set off, I mistakenly thought he was secured to the bike but on only the second corner he went flying off. Worse still, a nosy woman saw us and stopped her car to 'offer her assistance'. Before I could stop her she'd called for an ambulance. I managed to get Donald on the back of the bike again and make a quick exit. The stupid bitch must've got my registration plate as only 4 hours later the police were at my door. There was no way I was going to answer it and after a short time they left but I wasn't sure for how long.
This has led me to my current situation. Donald and I are roaring down the motorway towards Dover, having fled Scotland hours ago. The cops are not that stupid and eventually they'll search my flat, then I'll be headline news. Another sick and twisted serial killer to read about over your morning coffee. The shock and revulsion shown only in the record TV ratings. Your fascination with me comes down to the fact that I'm everything you've always wanted to be. I take what I need and do as I please; I am what a man should be. No laws, no rules just the strong surviving and the weak making a tasty meal.....
Nick Mott (33) was born in Aberdeen, Scotland and currently works in the Oil industry. He has studied Psychology, Sociology and to his regret Politics. He is currently studying creative writing at the OU. He has been previously published in Prole and Pulp Metal Magazine.
He gets most of his inspiration from his metal hip which was implanted when he was 29. He fully believes this to be the first step towards his immortality.