Honeydew

That's what it was like this afternoon when I got off the bus in Daryl's neighborhood. That's what his name smelled like in my mind more and more the closer I got to him and sure enough I was right. I usually am.

It had smelled like David at first - his name, and then Darren and finally when I was in his very own city - Daryl. What a prime dork's name. Come to think of it maybe I'd be a psycho killer too if my parents had given me a name like that.

He wouldn't tell me anything at all when he had the chance, and now that I've jammed a length of galvanized pipe down his throat and smashed him in the neck with a mallet from his tool shed to destroy his vocal chords and make it impossible for him to scream he's never going to. Doesn't matter. His name is Daryl sure enough. Says so in his wallet. (I take their money - got to get it from somewhere after all! Sure as hell don't have time for employment with all the work I have to catch up on.)

His house is painted flesh pink with brown trim. Aluminum siding. I could have pegged him for a killer just on the look of his house. Creepy in it's excessive ordinariness. And daisies would you believe. Big yellow ones. A symbol of innocence. How very...

I grow tired of these low-rez serial killers who can't get it together to cover their psi tracks. Surely he felt me listening. Mustn't he have known I was coming? I am after all the demon he was conjuring with all his murderous mayhem. Where did he think it would lead?

Mind you there is the possibility that he wanted me to find him. he does have something of a hard on. I'll make sure he sees me cut that off before he dies.

He sure looks a picture.

I punched out some plaster in the ceiling of his living room so I could get to the rafters and loop some rope over there. He's bent right over, standing on tippy toes and supporting his upper body on his fingertips trying desperately to get as much body weight off his swollen purple nuts as he can. I kicked them a couple of times before I strung him up to tenderize them a little. I can see them there, stretched backwards and poking out between his arse cheeks like a couple of damp hairy plums.

I'm not going to touch him again until I've finished watching this rerun of Seinfeld. I'll just sit here laughing at the jokes and watching the blood from his mouth drip on the carpet during the add breaks.

His cock is still rock hard. I don't like that. I don't like the possibility that I might be giving these creeps any pleasure. Maybe it's just automatically hard from the tension in his balls. Hope so. There's a drop of pure clear viscous fluid oozing out of slit in his knob. I take it off with my finger tip and taste it. Honeydew. Men only make this particular kind of precum when their nuts are stretched out to near breaking point. Nothing in the world compares to it. Really sweet and fine and silky, lacking the unpleasant spermy taste of normal precum.

Since the nightmares started I have an endless supply of nuts to crush and a constant flow of honeydew to milk. I think sometimes that the honeydew might be what's causing all this. That maybe it's a magic hallucinogen that plugs you in psychically with evil. It wasn't until I met Peter that I started tasting this stuff, and it wasn't until I had tasted it that I started having the nightmare visions that lured me into hell.

Peter loved having his balls crushed. He'd drop acid and we'd do it for hours, tying them up, hanging weights off them. I would come and lick the drips that formed on the end of his beautiful cock, all the while sinking deeper into a kind of trance, maybe it was love.

And then, just as the nightmares started we broke up, and what I missed about him most was the taste of his honeydew.

But that was then. This is now. I have this nasty killer to deal with.

His poor balls. I won't kill him or let him down until he's really hanging from them. That could take a while.

He shifts a little. I can hear the wind in his pipe rushing in and out, whistling slightly. He coughs what ever it is up and it lands on the carpet. A bloody mess. Still he can't scream. Just a desperate rasping sound comes out. He looks at me pleading, gurgling slightly. Eyes wild. He's probably getting really bad cramps right about now.

I don't know how he can expect mercy from me when he showed his own victims none. Just three days ago he had given some poor girl an enema with plaster of paris. (No intention of ever letting it out again of course- some day someone's going to go digging around in this man's backyard and find a skeleton with a perfect plaster cast of a human colon inside it.) She had begged him not to to do it, but he had gone ahead anyway. I had to listen to her beg in his special cupboard in my very accurate nightmare. Beg and then scream. He let her suffer like that for two days.

I get so little sleep.

It enrages me that these sick fuckers keep me awake all night and day. It's all I can do to hold back my anger enough to slow down their final agony when I actually get to them.

He gurgles again.

"What was that you gurgled?" I ask faintly interested. "Gulp gulp, please gulp I'll give you anything blubbery blubbery! How am I to make any sense of that? You will have to articulate more carefully, Daryl."

I kick him playfully in the belly.

Unappreciative, he struggles to stay upright and save his doomed manhood.

I crack open a can of beer, trying not to think about the skinny little hand with maroon nail polish that was moldering next to it in the fridge.

Seinfeld is over.

He's whimpering. I sense he's about to lose control of his limbs, the cramps must be really awful for him. I sense a little twinge of pity. It's necessary for me to feel just a tad of pity, It's the only thing that links me now to my former humanity. Tenuous though it is.

I look in his mirror. Are me ears even pointier looking today? Are my eyes a touch too bright? My teeth get sharper ever time I clean them...I'm mutating into something stygian. I think people are starting to notice.

His body quakes and I hear one of the tendons in his scrotum snap. Youch!

He snorts out a shrill pig squeal of agony. It's lucky I smashed his vocal chords or we'd have the neighbors in here for sure and it wouldn't be about the too loudness of the music.

He's really hanging now. He's trying to hold himself up but his poor limbs won't do it. His arms curl underneath him and he shakes uncontrollably, lolling about with only one foot left on the floor for support. I kick it out from under him and he swings a little bit, spraying my ankle with blood from his mouth as he gasps with shock.

I love this bit. I go giddy.

I take out my cock and balls and piss all over him. I guide a nice heavy stream of stinking piss all over his red raw buttocks and down his back to flow over the handsome nape of his neck and trickle on his face and splash on the carpet to pool with the blood from his throat.

In spite of his agony, he manages to muster outrage at this.

What a man.

But not for long now that I've found this very nice kitchen knife. I'll just walk around his living room steeling it for a while and get it nice and sharp.

He's making a wheezing rasping breathy noise that would have been a scream.

Comeuppance time...

Cock off. I toss it on the carpet where he can see it.

He sees it.

Balls off! And he slumps, spazming to the floor, clutching himself, tearful eyes of horror and indignation would you believe. As if he didn't deserve it.

I think it's important to de-man them before I finish them off - after all, on the whole it is testosterone that drives these psychos to their hideous behaviour. Female psychos are very rarely as destructive.

Besides that, cutting off these guy's nuts means they really get to understand at the end that they must and will pay for what they've done. It drives through their fog of disbelief.

And here's the coup de grace - The look on his face as I plunge the knife into his throat and start slicing off his head! I have a huge catalogue of these pathetic expressions impressed on my memory now.

I know what he did to go to hell - But why do I have to live here?

Oh well, shower and leave. On to the next.