Friday, May 04, 2007
The Thanatos Journals (Part 1)
I knew I should have felt something the first time I killed someone, but I didn't. I felt no immediate regret or remorse... not even sadness. I was standing there, a pistol in my hand, and a dead body at my feet, but I didn't feel like anything was out of the ordinary.
I don't think it would have made me feel any different if I had walked to the corner and bought a morning paper.
Maybe that's what was so odd about the whole thing: it seemed patently routine.
Of course that was 5 long years ago and I've been at countless scenes like that since then.
Okay... that's a bit of a lie. I may not have any moral compunction against murder, but I am human. More than that, I'm an American, damnit! I know exactly how many men I've killed, where I killed them, and how I killed them. I'm not dumb enough to keep a log of it, but I think it's only fair that I make mental pictures of each life I've ended.
Before you ask, I don't look at my jobs in terms of "good" or "bad" men. To me, there is no such thing. Good, bad, indifferent... it's just a way that people interpret things. There's no moral absolute in my world - just the job. I mean, let's face it, somebody had to do something pretty interesting to get someone angry enough to hire a killer to go after them! Granted... those reasons are not always intelligent, logical reasons. Sometimes some asshole with enough money to blow gets pissed off because someone beat them at the club tennis tournament. Who am I to argue the anger of people? I get paid either way.
In any case, I look at my job as nothing more than the human aspect of natural selection, only I make a living at it.
It's actually a pretty good living at that.
Sure, growing up Catholic and still practicing (well... sort of) makes for a very interesting dichotomy. I can't really deny that I'm breaking the 5th commandment every time I work, but I seem to be okay with it. Maybe it's because, according to my faith, I'm going to hell when I forget that I'm not supposed to eat a hot dog on a Friday during Lent. But priests who molest little boys are okay.
Yeah. I'm the hypocrite.
Sorry... tangent. I got a little wound up there. Sorry. But where to go from here? There's always the beginning, but what exactly is the beginning?
Would you like me to tell you about how I tortured small animals for hours when I was 6?
I can't tell you that. It didn't happen. I love animals... well. I love dogs. I've never killed a cat, but I don't think I'd pause over the trigger if Fluffy walked across my path.
Would you like to learn how my father used to beat me or my mother used to molest me?
Can't do that either... I have a great set of parents. Married for 36 years and never wavered in their love for each other or their children.
Honestly, I don't fit the stereotype of a mass murderer or serial killer. I think that's because you can't really put me in that category. I mean "mass murderer" is usually defined as someone who goes out and kills people brutally and indiscriminately. I actually am pretty humane... unless they really piss me off. If that's the case, I might make them feel something first.
No, I usually tap them between the eyes, use a fast acting poison, or a short knife stroke to their spine. There's no "kneecapping" or unnecessary torture involved in my kills. I'm a businessman, I'm not a sociopath.
Okay... maybe I can be considered a sociopath, but I leave that for the court-appointed shrinks to discover.
I'm also not a serial killer in the strictest sense. Sure, my kills are singular murders that occur, but they don't feature ritualistic taking of souvenirs or sex-related compulsions. I kill because I'm paid: pure and simple.
Is that enough rationalizing? Do you get a picture of who I am? I'm the guy sitting next to you at the bar. I'm the guy joking around with his friends (yes, I have friends... another reason why I'm not a serial killer) and his girlfriend about everyday, mundane things. I'm the guy who visits his grandmother once a week and talks to his parents almost everyday.
In other words, I'm frighteningly normal.
Maybe that's why people don't suspect. As a matter of fact, no one in my life knows what I do. I basically take "business trips," recon my mark, end their life, and I'm home on the redeye. Bada-bing, bada-bang, bada-boom...
Maybe next time we'll get into my first one... but I'm frankly a little spent from trying to make believe I'm normal. I know I'm not... I strive to be, but I know I'm really not.
I don't think it would have made me feel any different if I had walked to the corner and bought a morning paper.
Maybe that's what was so odd about the whole thing: it seemed patently routine.
Of course that was 5 long years ago and I've been at countless scenes like that since then.
Okay... that's a bit of a lie. I may not have any moral compunction against murder, but I am human. More than that, I'm an American, damnit! I know exactly how many men I've killed, where I killed them, and how I killed them. I'm not dumb enough to keep a log of it, but I think it's only fair that I make mental pictures of each life I've ended.
Before you ask, I don't look at my jobs in terms of "good" or "bad" men. To me, there is no such thing. Good, bad, indifferent... it's just a way that people interpret things. There's no moral absolute in my world - just the job. I mean, let's face it, somebody had to do something pretty interesting to get someone angry enough to hire a killer to go after them! Granted... those reasons are not always intelligent, logical reasons. Sometimes some asshole with enough money to blow gets pissed off because someone beat them at the club tennis tournament. Who am I to argue the anger of people? I get paid either way.
In any case, I look at my job as nothing more than the human aspect of natural selection, only I make a living at it.
It's actually a pretty good living at that.
Sure, growing up Catholic and still practicing (well... sort of) makes for a very interesting dichotomy. I can't really deny that I'm breaking the 5th commandment every time I work, but I seem to be okay with it. Maybe it's because, according to my faith, I'm going to hell when I forget that I'm not supposed to eat a hot dog on a Friday during Lent. But priests who molest little boys are okay.
Yeah. I'm the hypocrite.
Sorry... tangent. I got a little wound up there. Sorry. But where to go from here? There's always the beginning, but what exactly is the beginning?
Would you like me to tell you about how I tortured small animals for hours when I was 6?
I can't tell you that. It didn't happen. I love animals... well. I love dogs. I've never killed a cat, but I don't think I'd pause over the trigger if Fluffy walked across my path.
Would you like to learn how my father used to beat me or my mother used to molest me?
Can't do that either... I have a great set of parents. Married for 36 years and never wavered in their love for each other or their children.
Honestly, I don't fit the stereotype of a mass murderer or serial killer. I think that's because you can't really put me in that category. I mean "mass murderer" is usually defined as someone who goes out and kills people brutally and indiscriminately. I actually am pretty humane... unless they really piss me off. If that's the case, I might make them feel something first.
No, I usually tap them between the eyes, use a fast acting poison, or a short knife stroke to their spine. There's no "kneecapping" or unnecessary torture involved in my kills. I'm a businessman, I'm not a sociopath.
Okay... maybe I can be considered a sociopath, but I leave that for the court-appointed shrinks to discover.
I'm also not a serial killer in the strictest sense. Sure, my kills are singular murders that occur, but they don't feature ritualistic taking of souvenirs or sex-related compulsions. I kill because I'm paid: pure and simple.
Is that enough rationalizing? Do you get a picture of who I am? I'm the guy sitting next to you at the bar. I'm the guy joking around with his friends (yes, I have friends... another reason why I'm not a serial killer) and his girlfriend about everyday, mundane things. I'm the guy who visits his grandmother once a week and talks to his parents almost everyday.
In other words, I'm frighteningly normal.
Maybe that's why people don't suspect. As a matter of fact, no one in my life knows what I do. I basically take "business trips," recon my mark, end their life, and I'm home on the redeye. Bada-bing, bada-bang, bada-boom...
Maybe next time we'll get into my first one... but I'm frankly a little spent from trying to make believe I'm normal. I know I'm not... I strive to be, but I know I'm really not.
// posted by bjciii @ 12:06 PM 
