Ever since the sixth grade, when Danielle Mattson called the chicken-bone-and-dead-fly sculpture I made for art class “disgusting,” I’ve not been one to take criticism well. I’m not saying I’m above reproach. I just think that if someone is going to find fault with one’s work, his or her critique should come from a well-informed, knowledgeable place.
Unfortunately, that’s hardly the case with reporters these days. If the media had any clue how much care and preparation went into my recent string of ritual murders, they wouldn’t call them “senseless.” On the contrary, my tri-state killing spree makes nothing but sense.
Is it that the media simply don’t see the pride and craftsmanship I put into my work? They know each victim’s arms have been meticulously arranged to mimic the hands of a clock. They know each victim’s arms have read an hour later than those of the previous victim. Do I receive plaudits for getting the arms to stay in place in spite of muscle contractions and the like? No. What about the way I wrap the victims’ own intestines around their necks not once, not twice, but three times, then tie them off in a sheepshank? Or the teaspoon of cumin I carefully pile on each of their eyesockets? “Senseless,” my eye. I’d like to see that retard Ed Gein do that without spilling so much as a grain.
If it’s a method to the madness that these journalists are looking for, they need look no further than the police evidence room. It’s all there: the methodically collected jars of toenail clippings, the red handkerchiefs lovingly stapled to each victim’s left earlobe, the cryptic notes painstakingly penned with my own semen—all the elements of The Plan. Isn’t it obvious that this is not the random cross-country slaughter of a playboy like Ted Bundy? No, these aren’t the acts of a “mindless lunatic,” but rather the impressive product of months of preparation and hard work.
The newspapers may misunderstand my work, but endgame will be mine. Hearing my ritual slayings called “senseless” just makes me want to redouble my efforts. Of course, I can’t move any faster or slower than The Plan allows, but the media’s thoughtless dismissal only drives me to work that much harder.
Sure, you could call my first murder “senseless.” I’ll admit, that inaugural evisceration showed my lack of experience. I was still green and hadn’t hit my stride yet. But by the third or fourth body, I had found my voice. From the way I wrap the bodies in gingham to the pattern of gnawing lightly on their pinky fingers, all of my work from that point forward bears my unmistakable stamp, just as a Picasso couldn’t be confused with a Braque.
There are certain words I might ascribe to my killings. “Precise.” “Cold-blooded.” “Jarring.” But “senseless”? It’s so typical of newspapers to lazily fall back on such a hackneyed description of murder. It’s like the Zodiac Killer. No one really got what he was all about. The journalists, more concerned with filling column inches on deadline than capturing his essence, never saw the artistry behind the blood.
The media don’t understand that, in my work, it’s all about The Plan. I am merely the vessel that will bring it to fruition. It’s not like I particularly enjoy killing people, but for the greater good of mankind, it has to happen. I’m sure a lot of people who have gardens don’t particularly enjoy weeding, fertilizing, and watering their plants, but they do it to make possible what such labor will bear: delicious, life-giving vegetables. I can’t really put into words what my labor will accomplish, as I am only told about The Plan in messages that come out of my pencil sharpener in small fragments. But, unlike some reporters I could name, I see that it will all make sense in time.
So here I sit, another misunderstood visionary whose detractors lack the critical faculties to properly assess and contextualize his work. Even though I’m already up to eight victims, I can’t wait to reach number 12, because that’s when it will all come together. Like a hurricane wind, I will unleash a gale-force fury that blows away those who were too narrow-minded to comprehend my work. Then, the world will know why I’m a ritual killer and not just some boob on a clock tower shooting students willy-nilly.
