A Serial Killers Guide: Dexter's Final Cut, Dexter, Darkly Dreaming Dexter, Dearly Devoted Dexter, Dexter in the Dark, Dexter By Design, Dexter Is Delicious, Double Dexter Tribute - Episode 1 by C.A. Jarest Page B
Authors: C.A. Jarest
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into their flesh with an old ass, rusty chain saw that could have used some WD-40, but me being a cheap ass, forgot. Their flesh getting caught up in the joints of the saw, the fresh, warm, vibrant blood spraying my face. Oh their screams and tears, here’s that fucking box of Kleenex! I’ll give you purpose! I give you permission to be depressed now. I’d have to go get another one of those, fucken cum couches for the next client. Or maybe not, they should be aware of what they are getting into. Tell them that the last client was so depressed; I had to kill them, explain that no amount of Kleenex could fix their problem.
This room I sit in, too much sunlight, large windows, cool air, leather couch and fancy oriental rugs. I swear I’m part vampire, I only come out at night; I dance in the darkness with my switchblade and precision hands. The smell of leather, reminds me of home. Reminds me of when I was free to do as I wanted; no rules, no one telling me who to hunt and how to do it. The restrictions and confines of the right angled boxy offices of the CIA, with their white walls and bubblers. Their fancy suits, pencil shirts, and dull ties. I much prefer the vast plains of Kansas, fields of roaming cattle, racing horses and tumbleweed. That was my playground, my sand box. Living on a ranch it was easy to kill, no one notices a missing chicken, a barn cat that no longer comes by, or a missing calf. It was the cycle of the farm, things die all the time.
I was eight when I made my first kill. It was a goose. I hate geese, those fuckers. Hissing, biting, all around annoying animals. That goose, it followed me, chased me, bit me, and hissed at me. How I hated that goose, it was my mother’s; she had bought it as an egg. That ass wipe poultry only liked my mother. Ever more reason to rip that gullet out, tear those feathers from its wings. I knew that goose hated me too, with a passion I still do not understand to this day. I had followed my father out on his hunting trips many times; he did not know I followed him. I had mastered the skill of being quiet and unseen early in my life, my mother hated me for it. I watched my father closely as he set his traps; he was so tedious about setting them. I wanted my trap to maim, tear into the gooses orange fleshy foot, rip open to the bone, crack the hard white calcium, shattering the bone, shards being flung into the air. I also knew that I could not set the trap near to the house or barn, or where my parents might find me. So I followed the goose for a few days and discovered where it liked to rest.
So I set my trap in the grass patch it liked to eat from. I got up early that day, went to the barn and found myself a cleaving knife. I did not want the knife to o sharp; I wanted to feel the flesh of that tight ass goose under the tension of the knife, the tugging of its flesh being cut open. I wanted to feel everything; I wanted to soak up all of the killing. I grabbed a spool of rope as well before I dashed out the barn door, giddy I was. It was like my first Christmas day, that first present from Santa, the very first one; the virgin present, the virgin Christmas day. There they sat, those colorfully wrapped gifts, under the sweet smelling pine tree. A holiday for parents to psych their kids up and when they are no longer of tender age, they crush and rip all that imagination they created in their kids. A holiday where people rush to the stores to buy the newest and latest thing for the people they think love them, the people they think they love. Wrap those things they bought in the store and pretend giving that person the thing that makes everything better. Empty, heartless, price based holiday. The one holiday where it is acceptable to buy the love of someone; your child. Yeah, that was my first kill, I killed Christmas.
The goose did not waste time in waddling her fat lard ass down the river bank to that patch of grass. The grass she ate from every day, that patch of grass
This room I sit in, too much sunlight, large windows, cool air, leather couch and fancy oriental rugs. I swear I’m part vampire, I only come out at night; I dance in the darkness with my switchblade and precision hands. The smell of leather, reminds me of home. Reminds me of when I was free to do as I wanted; no rules, no one telling me who to hunt and how to do it. The restrictions and confines of the right angled boxy offices of the CIA, with their white walls and bubblers. Their fancy suits, pencil shirts, and dull ties. I much prefer the vast plains of Kansas, fields of roaming cattle, racing horses and tumbleweed. That was my playground, my sand box. Living on a ranch it was easy to kill, no one notices a missing chicken, a barn cat that no longer comes by, or a missing calf. It was the cycle of the farm, things die all the time.
I was eight when I made my first kill. It was a goose. I hate geese, those fuckers. Hissing, biting, all around annoying animals. That goose, it followed me, chased me, bit me, and hissed at me. How I hated that goose, it was my mother’s; she had bought it as an egg. That ass wipe poultry only liked my mother. Ever more reason to rip that gullet out, tear those feathers from its wings. I knew that goose hated me too, with a passion I still do not understand to this day. I had followed my father out on his hunting trips many times; he did not know I followed him. I had mastered the skill of being quiet and unseen early in my life, my mother hated me for it. I watched my father closely as he set his traps; he was so tedious about setting them. I wanted my trap to maim, tear into the gooses orange fleshy foot, rip open to the bone, crack the hard white calcium, shattering the bone, shards being flung into the air. I also knew that I could not set the trap near to the house or barn, or where my parents might find me. So I followed the goose for a few days and discovered where it liked to rest.
So I set my trap in the grass patch it liked to eat from. I got up early that day, went to the barn and found myself a cleaving knife. I did not want the knife to o sharp; I wanted to feel the flesh of that tight ass goose under the tension of the knife, the tugging of its flesh being cut open. I wanted to feel everything; I wanted to soak up all of the killing. I grabbed a spool of rope as well before I dashed out the barn door, giddy I was. It was like my first Christmas day, that first present from Santa, the very first one; the virgin present, the virgin Christmas day. There they sat, those colorfully wrapped gifts, under the sweet smelling pine tree. A holiday for parents to psych their kids up and when they are no longer of tender age, they crush and rip all that imagination they created in their kids. A holiday where people rush to the stores to buy the newest and latest thing for the people they think love them, the people they think they love. Wrap those things they bought in the store and pretend giving that person the thing that makes everything better. Empty, heartless, price based holiday. The one holiday where it is acceptable to buy the love of someone; your child. Yeah, that was my first kill, I killed Christmas.
The goose did not waste time in waddling her fat lard ass down the river bank to that patch of grass. The grass she ate from every day, that patch of grass
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