Richard Butchins's Blog: Angels stand corrected... - Posts Tagged "disability"

Here's an early festive treat from Pavement....enjoy

Christmas Day. I wish myself a very merry Christmas and smile – what a stupid fucking concept. I sit on my bed and stare at my twisted feet for an hour or two. Time hangs in the air of my room, each second is palpable – they don’t so much pass as expire –dying one after the other and falling to the floor, littering the threadbare carpet.Thousands upon thousands of these dead little husks of time lie shadowlike on the floor, the bed, everywhere. I amuse myself by imagining that I am killing each second in person, throttling this one and stabbing that one. Can I wait a minute and massacre 60 in one go? I’m bored of this game and wade through the corpses of dead seconds to open a tin of sardines. Christmas day, what a fucking waste of time, the day that the Son of God, who’s not the Son of God wasn’t born.

The only good thing about this day is that the streets are quiet and everything is closed, well, except the Asian shops and the Turkish restaurants and shops over in Stoke Newington. Good thing – because that’s where I am going to get my Christmas day kebab. I reach for my clothes, only to find that I have no clean underwear; I took all my killing garments to the Laundromat but forgot to take any of my daily dirty laundry.

“Shit.”

I pick up a pair that has been in the laundry bag for a week or so; they should have aired out by now. I pull on the rest of my clothes, shoes and coat, and grab another £50 note from the pile. I pick up my phone: there’s a text message from Martha wishing me a merry Christmas. It’s been there since last night, I just hadn’t noticed. I think I can deal with seeing Martha again. I don’t like her but she’s marginally better than nothing. I think this as I tramp along the hall. I open the door and stand stock still in shock.

Snow.

Another little slice of my novel Pavement for your delight...

I could grab someone off the street. How? I have no car and my disability would be a handicap in that scenario. Perhaps I should kill a child or several children, – it would be easy to entice the stupid little fuckers to my house and easier yet to butcher them and there would only be a small body to get rid of – but there are problems, children are not responsible and won’t understand what is happening to them and they certainly won’t understand why.

I need a cogent adult that understands the reality of what is happening to them. Perhaps a pregnant woman, however, the thought of ripping the dead woman’s body open to find the baby was still alive makes me feel nauseous. I would have to kill the baby or maybe I could dispose of the woman’s body and keep the baby and raise it as my own.

“What? Don’t be fucking stupid. No killing babies or raising them either.”

I say this out loud to enforce the thought, because sometimes thoughts seem quite reasonable until you voice them out loud, and that thought didn’t sound so great. I take a break, make a cup of tea and look for inspiration. As I place the spoon in the sink I spot the answer. It’s staring me in the face, a card lying on the side of the sink:

Yuko Japanese model
A&O, Lesbo Actions, VIP massage, Uniforms, Spanking, Watersports, Toys.
I’m local and can make hotel visits. Call 0773 788443.

I pick up the card and sit down with my tea. Of course, the serial killer’s old standby – the prostitute, a perfect victim – society hates them and no one cares about them if they disappear. The hooker, she’s expendable and dirty. Society secretly thinks they deserve to die because of the knowledge they carry about what so- called respectable men get up to. I feel ashamed that Yuko will have to be my victim, she feels like a kindred spirit, another invisible person despised by a hypocritical society. I am also upset that I will be pandering to a cliché in such a blatant way, but it really has to be said that nobody will give a fuck if a hooker vanishes.