Home Editorial Fiction Creative Non-Fiction Poetry Reviews Submissions Contact Us
The thing about murder is, itís much easier than everybody thinks. Thereís this fucking mystery about it, like itís something exotic and cruel, the greatest evil, and only serious mindfucks do it. And all the tame people, the ones who think about it, in their little beds with the lights out so even God canít see their nasty thoughts, they all think itís difficult, like theyíre going to get caught by Plodder of the Yard because, stupid bastards, they left a vital clue behind, they said the wrong thing and caused lightbulbs to flash in the mind of the great detective.
Itís all shit, guys. Itís not like that at all.
Wanna kill someone? Okay, letís do it. Here, now. Iím up for a bit of dusty.
First off, your prey. Absolutely do not CHOOSE your prey. Losers do that. Losers do time. Understand, itís a simple fucking equation, right? If youíre gonna murder your missus, forget it. Get a hitman, itís so much easier, a nice two-grand transaction done at the train station and sheís meat and youíre clean. Nobody you know, rule number one. The plods, thatís all they can think about: whatís the motive, why did nasty man A kill poor fucker B? Whatís the connection?
If there ainít a connection, where do they go then? Shitting round their sties in ever angrier circles, that's where. And you? Youíre cruising down Buchanan Street, buddy boy, you earned that swagger with a one-armed thrust into the fuckwitís heart.
Yeah, rule number two, know where the heart is. Itís not where most folks reckon. It ainít on the left, not quite. Get a book out the library, thatíll show you. Rule number three, know where the kitchen is. What I mean is, no fancy fucking knives and shit. Nothing traceable. A nice carving knife from Poundstretchers does the job just as well, and thereís millions of them out there. And yours, once itís in the river, isnít yours any more.
No trophies. Remember that Cracker episode, the crazy scouse one? All those news reports on the wall, what the fuck for? Just draws attention. Trust me guys, you ainít gonna need anything to remind you of it, youíll be shitting that moment for months to come. Every time you turn a corner, look up on a bus, change channel on TV, every time thereís a flicker of change in reality, thatís when you see it, the shape coming towards you, the shine of your steel, the whip of your hand, that pitiful look on the dead fuckís face as he looks at you and grabs his chest and falls to the ground.
Rule numberÖwhatever. Donít stay to gloat. The fuckerís dead, leave it at that, give him some dignity and get the fuck out of there. Donít ditch the blade too soon, the plods check everywhere, seriously, everywhere, youíve seen it on the telly, lines of them on their hands and knees. Donít run. Donít look back.
When they talk about it at work, join in. Say what they say. First few times youíll be fighting the vomit every time itís mentioned, but roll with it, guy, get over it. Okay, youíre shit scared, but heís shit-stiffed, so whoís the lucky one here? Donít get all pitying and start whining. If you feel sorry for yourself you may as well go down the station and hand yourself in because youíre as good as nailed anyway.
Get ready for the next time. Rule number last. Get ready for the next time, because thereís gonna be one. Itís a drug, man. Better than cocaine, and your nose donít fall off, neither. Better than heroin, ecstacy. Itís a bit like speed, but rougher, more spaced, yeah?
The funny thing, right, it gets easier every time you do it. Iíve done six now, still get a buzz, but it gets easier. Hereís the thing though Ė the nightmares get worse. How is that? Whatís the point of that?
I see these fuckers whirling round my head, all six of them, and theyíre screaming like, chopping at me and Iíve got no hands or something because I canít fight back and they keep chopping and chopping and eventually they start slicing into me, tearing at my flesh with their hands and their teeth and I feel every moment of it but it doesnít affect me. Itís agony but I donít feel the pain. I die, over and over, but Iím watching it every time, alive and laughing. I laugh at them. Middle of a fucking nightmare and I wake up laughing, donít stop till thereís a half bottle of whisky in my gut. Thatís it, you see. Thatís the drug. It makes you invincible. Thatís meÖinvincible.
Tom Conoboy lives in England, but was born in Scotland. He works in local government and relieves the boredom by creative writing. He has been published in a variety of journals and ezines, including Word Riot, Eclectica, The Harrow and Mad Hatter's Review.