Sacrificial Mound
Chris started small, as his dad suggested. The first pet he sacrificed was Chewy.
Chewy was lovable for a hamster. He’d climb up Chris’s leg and sit on his lap. Most of Chris’s pets turned out to be more lovable than average. He suspected that some malignant force was making them that way – and making it harder for Chris to sacrifice them. In spite of that, Chris did exactly what his dad told him to do and kept all thirteen of his pets for only a few months, just enough time to grow to love them. Then he freed them, often looking into their eyes as they drifted away.
Chewy was followed by a rat, then a cockatoo, then a Chihuahua. The Chihuahua’s name was The Ricker. The Ricker lasted the least amount of time. Chris planned on keeping him for a few months, but after the shivering little shit pissed on the couch, he’d bought his ticket. Chris actually enjoyed sacrificing The Ricker.
After The Ricker, the pets got bigger, ranging from a small shaggy poodle hybrid named Goofy Joe, to the 13th and last of Chris’s pets, Benjamin Franklin. Benjamin Franklin lasted the full three months. Chris and the Bull Mastiff would be in the back-yard for hours, Big Ben barking through the cracks in the fence, Chris staring at the grass-covered mound in the middle of the lawn, wondering how he was going to fit Big Ben beneath it. When the time came, Chris found that Big Ben was too large to strangle, but a simple shot to the back of the dog’s head with a .22 did the trick. The dog was happy to go to the river that day. When the job was done, Chris loaded his friend up into the back of his SUV and took him home. An hour or so with a hand saw solved the puzzle of Big Ben’s size.
Benjamin Franklin was the last of Chris’s pets – the final animal sacrifice. Finally, Chris was ready to move on to larger, more intelligent creatures. But Who? His boss came to mind, but he dismissed the idea. He was too close to her. Besides, he didn’t think he’d have the time and strength to dig a hole that deep. She’s a very large woman. He thought about making his nosy neighbor disappear, but Mr. Mitchell was too close to home – and even bigger than Chris’s boss.
More than anything, Chris wanted to be successful in his new hobby – like his father was. After four decades and dozens of sacrifices, His father was never caught. Even now, so many years after he sacrificed himself, nobody so much as suspected that the senior Mr. Mercer was a superior being. Chris doubted that he would’ve ever figured it out himself if his father hadn’t shown him the ropes. The greatest memories of Chris’s life were when his dad took him on their trips. The cabin was the perfect destination. In that cabin, Chris learned where to cut. In that cabin, Chris learned he was a superior being just like his father – at least he had the potential to be, with enough experience.
Putting off the, “who-shall-I-kill” question until later, Chris retreated to his office and checked to see how many visitors stopped by his blog. When he saw that one of his readers left a review on his latest story, he was excited – until he read what they’d written.
“Unrealistic?” He said. “Amateurish? Who the fuck is this asshole?”
He scrolled to the bottom of the page.
“James Elliot. Mr. Elliot, you don’t know what you’re talking about! I was there! I saw what my dad…”
That’s when the idea hit him, turning his scowl into a smile. He fetched a black ink pen and a notebook.
***
Dear Mr. Elliot,
Thank you for your recent review of my story, To Kill with Style. Although I thoroughly enjoyed the way you picked apart my story’s plot and poked fun at my grammar, I feel that your review was a bit short-sighted. Perhaps you lack the insight required for you to adequately rate my work? If this is the case, I would like to let you in on some background information.
The ‘unrealistic’ description of Mandy’s decapitation was actually spot on. Yes, there really was white fatty stuff that oozed up from her neck after her head was cut off, so for you to say that those details are unrealistic shows just how much you know about the human body. You also said that eyeballs do not pop when someone rips one out and squeezes it, that they actually become gelatinous puddles when removed from the head. I completely disagree. Andrea’s eyeballs actually did pop. Not only did they pop, but they squirted a clear fluid all over my dad’s hands that took quite a while for him to wash off.
You also stated in your review that my story, ‘wasn’t very well thought out’ and that it, ‘just didn’t make much sense.’ I ask you this sir; when does life make sense?
In the final part of your review, you said it was impossible for a single man to take control over and then torture and kill two people. To prove you wrong, I’ve left a little surprise for you in your bedroom. You’ll be happy to know that in this case; your wife’s eyeballs didn’t pop – but your housekeeper’s did. I had quite a bit of fun testing your theories and proving them wrong… one body part at a time.
Now, as I’m sure that you’ve rushed off to your bedroom and are not even reading this last part – where I’m telling you that after leaving this note on your desk, I decided to stick around. I figured you would rush into the bedroom, see the mess I made of your wife and housekeeper, then fall to your knees, crying out in terror. Your eyes will be fixed on the art that I have created – relocating various body parts and removing skin in those intricate patterns that I wrote about in my story. I hope that before I come out of your closet and open up your throat, you’ll have time enough to appreciate just how hard it was for me to eviscerate your housekeeper and use her intestines to bind your wife before enjoying her flesh. Anyway, I’m off to your closet now. I’m not really sure how this will all end, but I bet it’ll make one hell of a story.
