I'm a Serial Killer Who Gets the Ick

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When my stomach settles, I get back to work. By the time I'm finished, I've vomited more than once and nearly passed out twice. You all done spilling your insides all over the outside, you big pussy? Shut up and go away, dad. This is my thing and I'll do it my way. Dad doesn't say another word, which is good because I am not up for his crap tonight. The silence doesn't last long. It never does. You always had a sensitive tummy. Stop, baby, and the little bitch. Ignoring my parents' voices, I do a quick assessment and, yes, I am done puking my guts out. I'm actually feeling good. Not great, but good enough to grab my shovel and scoop up all the dirt with my puke in it. Don't want anyone coming across that. I fill two trash bags with the dirt and add them to the pile of bags by my car. Finally finished with my evening's activities, I get the black trash bags loaded into my trunk, double check the scene to make sure I haven't left anything behind, then do one last look around the place, you know, just to be safe. No red flags that I can see. After wiping down my boots, stowing them in their own trash bag, and switching them out for a pair of crocs, I get in my car and drive off, leaving the campsite considerably worse than how I found it. What does it they say? Take only pictures, leave only footprints. That's it. Thanks, mom. Well, I didn't take any pictures because that would be pretty stupid. I'm not a memento guy. Others might be into that sort of stuff, but it's just too much of a risk. And sick as fuck too. Not that it matters with a psycho freak like you, Buster. Your sickness was there when you were born. Apple didn't far far from the tree, did it, dad? You think this is my fault? You think you got your madness from me? I'm just saying that you had your own demons too. And those demons weren't exactly nice to me. Aw, boo fucking who? The poor baby had a rough childhood. You know what? Let's not do this now, okay? I have work to do. Think it to work. I ain't stopping ya. Don't mind him, Buster. You are doing a fine job. Thanks, mom. Now, what was the other part she said? Oh, right. The footprints. Yeah. So I didn't leave any footprints because I don't want anyone to be able to match my tread pattern. What I did leave, though, was a lot of blood. Not mine. So no worries on a DNA match. If I'm smart enough not to leave my vomit, then I'm smart enough not to get nicked and leave any blood evidence pointing to me directly. The blood evidence I did leave should let the cops figure out who I found at the campsite. If the campers have their DNA registered anywhere, that is. My driver's side window is rolled down and the cool night air blows across my face. I breathe deeply, taking in the earthy freshness of the forest. It tastes like all the holidays rolled into one. A bit of Christmas and a touch of Easter. The warm embrace of the 4th of July and the clever horrors of Halloween. That last part, the clever horrors, is because of me. I sure did terrify those campers. Man, did they scream and scream and scream. Then, with a lot of help from me, they stopped screaming. Axes have a wonderful silencing effect when applied to the proper areas of the human body. Got a screamer on your hands? Aim for the neck. It's really that simple. Thinking of axes and necks gets me thinking of severed heads and geysers of blood. The gorge returns and I barely keep it in my mouth as it races up my esophagus. I swallow my sick, taking several shallow breaths, just like my therapist taught me. And try to center my mind so I can think of something a little more pleasant. A fucking therapist like you weren't enough of a pussy already. I ignore my dad's voice and scroll through my childhood memories. Dad drinking and mom whoring. You dumb slut! Did you think I wouldn't smell him on you? Do you think I'd give a shit if you smell him on me or not? At least I'm bringing home some cash. More than I can say for you. Dad beating mom. You will learn to be faithful, you cunt! Mom beating me. He will learn to listen, you pitiful moron! Dad holding that pistol and mom holding that knife. What stupid twat brings a knife to a gunfight? What kind of a weak ass bitch needs a gun? Can't you face me with your fists like a real man? Dad bleeding out on the carpet. The pistol in my hand now after surprising him and taking it from the crazy son of a bitch. You shot me? You fucking shot me! I don't know whether to be pissed off or proud. He didn't last long enough to be either of those. Then there's mom screaming at me, slashing the knife through the air, keeping me back. Stop pointing that at me! What did I do, huh? I fed you and washed your shit stains out of your underwear. I kept your father from doing his worst. You should be thanking me, you crazy little brat! Ah, and the memory of mom on the floor bleeding out next to dad. You'll burn in hell. Two more gunshots. One for each of them. Perfectly placed. Dead center in their foreheads. Man, I have always been a great shot. I should give back into firearms instead of axes and machetes. Although, now that I think of it, I ditched firearms because of all the ballistics bullshit. Yeah, that's right. Too traceable and too expensive to replace after every use. Sure, I could switch out firing pins, but it's not exactly like I make brand new firing pin money or anything. Not even close. And what does a firing pin cost these days anyway? With inflation and tariffs, because you know those things are made in China, a firing pin probably cost as much as a brand new firearm. No, no. Axes and machetes are best. A quick acid bath, and they are clean as whistles. Little Murphy's for the wooden handles and a little mineral oil for the blades. Voila. Good as new. And, yes, I buy machetes with wooden handles, not plastic. If you're trying to get rid of traces of blood, it's best to stick with an organic handle. The acid works its way in there real fine, getting into all the nooks and crannies, making sure not a drippy drop of the old red is left. But with plastic, well, the acid doesn't work as well. It sometimes misses microscopic bits that are tucked up into itty-bitty pockets of plastic. I'd have to use a differed acid for the plastic handle, which more than likely would just end up melting the handle, making it necessary to constantly buy new axes and machetes. So, wood handles it is. Starting something new can be exciting, but it can also be terrifying. When Dr. No Sleep first launched, there were a lot of what-ifs. What if no one listens? What if no one likes it? 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Just needed to think of the good old days and debate the pros and cons of woodhandled versus plastic-handled implements of violence to get myself right. Coming around a curve, I gasp. Then I get it all under control and try to be super cool. Cop. Coming from the opposite direction. Total coincidence has to be. Did that couple scream and scream and scream? Sure. But we're in the middle of nowhere. And that wasn't even an official campground. Just a bunch of random campsites carved into the forest over the years. Unofficial, unsanctioned, unregulated, unwatched. But am I right on that last one? Are they unwatched? Maybe the sheriff's office is cracking down on illegal camping. Considering how many people visit this area each year. They could bring in a good deal of cash. All depending on how high they set the fines, of course. Stop thinking about fines and start thinking about why a sheriff's deputy would be out here this late at night if he didn't have a reason. You assume it's a man driving that cruiser. Yeah, I assume it's a man. Because no self-respecting sheriff's office is going to hire some dumb broad to handle law enforcement. There are plenty of women police officers, you know. Oh, I know. Who else will make the coffee and go for donuts? That's about all they're good for. You are a pig. Luke is talking. Have you seen your ass? Fucking oink or is what you are. Can you two please stop? I need to think. You aren't making it easy for me to do that. Miracle of miracles. They shut up so I can focus on the cop. Shit. Shit. Shit. Not good. I should have been long gone from here by the time anything was discovered. Ideally, it would have been days before the campers were reported missing, giving me one hell of a time cushion. But if the cop is going to that campsite right now and discover all that blood, I'm screwed. This county is too big. They'll have one of those thingies called out on me. What is it? A bolo. A be on the lookout. That's what bolo is. You don't have to spell it out, you dumb coos. Except that I do. Because there ain't no T and Bolo where there should be. So it's not as obvious as you may think, asshole. That really bugs the shit out of me too. Oh. And what should they call it? Botlo? Seriously? That's just stupid. No. What's stupid is the fact that a cop is about to ruin my great evening. I busted my ass tonight. Yes, Buster, you did. But hard work isn't everything. You gotta actually execute. That's what I did. I executed the shit out of those campers. We all have a good laugh over that. Then I make a decision. I yank the wheel hard. And with the tires squealing, I get my car turned back toward the campsite. Pressing down on the gas, I try to catch up to the cop. I need the guy in my line of sight. I need to see which turn he takes. If he goes right, then I'm screwed and will have to improvise. I hate improvising. If he goes left, then all's good in the hood. No need to hunt him down and take him out of the picture. What is it you plan on doing if he does turn right, genius? Track down that cop so you can kill him? Probably a good idea before he discovers the scene of my weekend fun time. Yes, but how will you even handle this, Buster? Just drive up on him and ask him if he needs any help? Or do you park off the road and walk through the woods until you get to the campsite? I haven't decided yet. Might want to get on that. And what happens when you get to the campsite? Are you prepared to hack a cop to death tonight? Wrong question. Oh? What's the right question, Moron? Do I use the axe or the machete? We have another nice laugh over that one. That is, until the mental image of chopping away at a cop makes me want to puke. With nausea taking the wheel, I slow down when I really don't want to slow down. But if you have ever projectile vomited while driving, then you know what a hazard it is. All that puke smeared across the inside of the windshield makes it very hard to see. And now the thought of a windshield coated in puke makes me want to vomit even more. I hate this feeling. Absolutely hate it. Why can't I be like normal people? Normal people don't have to throw up every time they hack someone to death with an axe or machete. No. Normal people do the hacking. Then get on with life. No need for rubber boots. Or no vomit-related need at least. They're still the blood part though. So again, I am grateful for those boots. Put your mind on something else. You can do it if you concentrate. Okay, Mom. I'll try. I drive and think of puppies and cotton candy. I think of rainbows and unicorns. Of pretty Easter dresses and blood soaking through the material. I think of jamming 100 eggs down some whiny toddler's throat. I think of crushing the head of the fake Easter Bunny. Laughing as the children scream and blood pours out of those fake eye holes. Now, how is that? Better? Yeah, I did it. My tummy is better. Thanks, Mom. I press the gas down again and race up over a small rise in the road, just in time to see the cop turn into the forest. It's a right turn. And it's onto the dirt road I just left, only about 20 minutes earlier. Shit, shit, shit. Yeah, that sucks for you, kid. Leave Buster alone and let him think. Like thinking has done any good so far. Stop coddling him. Okay, decision time. Do I follow? Or park and cut through the woods? Before I can make my decision, a loud bang almost makes me piss myself. The wheel jerks, then pulls right. I'm stunned for a moment, then hear the thwomp thwomp thwomp of the flat tire. Crap! This is not cool. Not cool at all. I just got four new tires last month. I will be calling that tire shop and giving them a piece of my mind on Monday morning, that's for sure. We're taking a piece of their minds with a tire iron if they don't make things right. No tire irons, Dad. I'm not killing the folks in the tire shop, just because they sold me a bum tire. I have my limits. Pussy. I get the car pulled over onto the side of the road and sit there for a few seconds, thinking. Things have taken a turn, that's for sure. Alright, I now have a third option to ponder, which is whether I fix my flat before or after I go and kill a nosy cop. It's not a hard choice. Considering, I need a working vehicle just in case I have to make a quick getaway. That, and I have two bodies worth of parts stuffed into black plastic trash bags in my trunk. Probably don't want to be stranded on the side of the road, while all of that hanging out back there. You got a bigger problem, dipshit. And what's that, Dad? I'll let you figure it out. Just tell him, you just shut the fuck up! They continue arguing while the problem dawns on me. Ah, shit! The spare tire is under all of those trash bags, like, way, way under. I can't just take out one or two bags. Nope, they all have to come out. Shit! I shut off the engine and hop out. I can just make out the cop's tail lights through the trees, but after a couple of seconds, they are lost from sight, swallowed by the darkness of the forest. Okay, how long does it take to change a flat tire? I've only done it once, and that was when I was in college, and really high on some strong weed. My memories of the night aren't exactly intact. Did it take me five minutes? Ten minutes? 15? How long do I have to change this tire? Then get from here to the campsite, so I can stop a cop dead in his tracks. Jesus! What if I don't get the tire changed in time and he comes back? Shit! Now you're getting it, Buster. Put some hustle in it, or you are toast. I stop wasting time worrying and pop the trunk. I'm back there and hauling out trash bags so fast that I don't even flinch when some blood splatters against my bare hands. But the gorge makes its presence known when one of the bags slips from my now blood-slick hands and tumbles to the ground, splitting wide open against a sharp rock. Damn it! These bags are supposed to be three millimeters thick! I specifically made a trip to the hardware store so that I didn't have to settle for the thinner bags they have at the supermarket. Product quality these days has gone downhill. Those thinner bags at the supermarket are actually more expensive, you know? I know that, Mom. That's why I went to the hardware store. Aren't you fucking listening to me? There is no need to talk to me that way. Ah, shut the fuck up, woman! I'm not sure if that last voice is mine or Dad's. Get away! So embarrassing! They're growing up. Won't be long before the thought of a family holiday is just. But with Hilton's staycations all over the UK, we don't need to go far to feel close. Welcome! And with connecting rooms confirmed when we book, we'll have plenty of space to make the most of every moment. Everyone in the photo! When time away means time together, it matters where you stay. Book now at Hilton.com. Hilton for this day. Whether you're off to the big match, get in! Enjoying a trip to the coast to catch up with friends. Or exploring some incredible history with your family. Ooh, what is it? With up to a third off most rail travel, a rail card can help you save on train journeys all around Great Britain. Find the one for you at railcard.co.uk. Decencies apply. Pissed off and not caring who said what, I reached down and grabbed the split bag, quickly realizing that the fault didn't lie in the bag's manufacturer. But in my own deficiencies, with tying a proper goddamn knot, knots have never been my strong suit. Now, I can tie a knot. Do you remember the time I tied you to a kitchen chair and made you watch as I burned mom with that knife? You know what's funny about that knife? No one asked you, woman. That knife was the knife I held that night you killed us, Buster. How was that funny? We only had three knives in the whole damn house. Do you think we fucking had four knives, Money? That's like me not having brand new firing pin, Money. Stay out of this. This is between me and your mother. Maybe if you went into the knot tying business, we could have afforded all kinds of knives. You did have a gift with knots. Not that the boy got any of that gift. No pun intended. What fucking pun? You said not that the boy got any of the gift. Get it? Knot and knot. Oh shit. Yeah, that's a good one. They banter and laugh it up while I stand on the side of the road with my crocs soaked through with blood and, yep, that shit. I have shit on and in my crocs. The night just keeps getting better and better. Once I finally have all the bags out of the trunk and piled next to the back bumper, I lean in and immediately lean back out. My trunk does not smell so great. After a few cleansing breaths, I fill my lungs and hold it all in. Then lean back inside the trunk. The spare tire is at the very bottom and I can see blood pooled in the crevices around its frame. Man, I did not do a good job containing things tonight. I have got to start preparing more and keeping my head straight while I work. I think I've let the enjoyment of the hacking and slashing and killing and chopping and bagging get in the way of the real, boring work that has to be done if I'm going to continue my lifestyle. Of course, having my parents living rent-free in my mind doesn't help things much either. I make a mental note to be more disciplined with my own actions and with my parents from here on out. A sloppy attitude leads to sloppy work, which leads to a sloppy life. You sure can't afford a sloppy life. Now can you, Buster? Sure can. I manage to unscrew the bolt holding the spare tire inside my trunk. It's a tight fit, so I really have to put my all into it to get the tire out. The pain radiates up from my lower back and I curse the night, knowing I'll be alternating cold and hot on it when I get home. How many times have I had to tell both of you to lift with your legs and not with your back? Enough times that I wanted to shoot you. Yet you never did. No, I did. I shot you both. Now, can you shut up and let me change this tire? Or what? You'll tattle on us to your therapist like the big pussy you are? Are you kidding? I haven't told my therapist about you two. You haven't? Why ever not? For obvious reasons. Such as? Do I really need to say it? Isn't that the point of therapy? Saying things out loud? The point of therapy is to waste a bunch of fricking time, just like the idiot is doing now. Forget your stupid back and change the damn tire, you fool! They keep on like that in the background, while I get the jack out and position it under the jack point on the side of my car. Mindful of my back, I crank the jack until the flat tire is about 4 inches from the ground. Then I get the tire iron and loosen the nuts. You're supposed to do that before you jack the car up, dumbass! Excuse me for not being a tire-changing expert. You ain't an expert in anything except for fucking up! Fuck you, old man. I've killed 14 people and not been caught yet. Yet. The word is yet. And with how you will fall apart, puking your guts out at the side of blood and gore, it's only a matter of time before a weak pussy like you gets caught. And I'll be there in the front row, laughing my ass off at your fuck up! Will you two be quiet? I hear something. Do you hear that buster? I'm a little busy, mom. I'm a little busy at the moment. No. The dumb broad is right. Better listen up. Fine. I'm listening. I finish loosening the last nut, then stand up straight as I press my hands against my lower back, stretching out the painful tightness that is crept in. At the same time, I listen to the forest sounds around me, an owl hooting, a fox crying, something scrabbling through the brush, car wheels on gravel. I spin about and see the headlights coming back out of the forest. That answers the question of whether or not you could change a tire and still have time to go kill the cop at the campsite. Don't say it. Say what? That you fucked it all up? I wouldn't dream of saying that. Leave the boy alone and let him work. He doesn't have time for your bullshit, you stupid bastard. I don't have time for any bullshit from either of you. Ignoring their crude responses, I focus on my next move. Looking around, I see the main problem right away. Black bags filled with body parts are piled up on the side of the road, right next to my car. Dad and mom are at each other's throats, but I can't let that distract me. Immediately, I start grabbing bags and throwing them into my trunk. The third bag bursts open, and two legs and an arm fall out, splattering my crocs, my shins, and the bumper of my car with blood. I instantly retch. There he goes, being a pussy again. Suck it up, buttercup. You can't be a squeamish serial killer. That's not a thing. It's not his fault that he gets the ick when he sees blood. Some people are like that. And some people ain't like that. I wished I had the son who wasn't like that. This pussy makes me want to puke. Again, hold it back. My stomach spasms and the sick spills from between my tightly pressed lips, spraying out wider and tighter than if I just opened my mouth. What was I thinking? You weren't thinking, you stupid fuck! And now you don't have time to do shit! Here comes the pig! I straighten up and look over the top of my car. Dad's right. The cop is only yards away. Then he's rolling up right next to me, his side beam armed and pointed in my face. I shield my eyes with my right arm. I hear his window roll down. What's the problem, sir? Flat tire, but I got it handled. Sure? I'm sure. Alright. By the way, he didn't happen to hear. His light moves away from my face, and I blink away the splotches and spots. Ah, sir? What's that on the ground? I look down at the body parts, the blood, my puke. Then I look back up at the cop, who still has his light on the gore by my crocs. I don't even have time to bend over again as the vomit explodes out of my throat, and for once, I'm not mad at myself for throwing up. The stream is perfectly aimed and hits the cop directly in the face. I watch it happen through narrowed eyes as I puke again, then again. Oh fuck! What the hell?! I'm still spasming and vomiting as I reach down and reach for the other things I saw near my crocs, my axe and my machete. Christ, boy! Now is not the time to debate! Just choose one! With my body rebelling against me, I reach down and snatch a weapon, the lurch over to the cruiser and the puke-coated cop. He's retching too, which makes it hard for him to unholster his sidearm. He really should have gone for the shotgun bolted to his dash. If he'd done that, he might have been able to beat me to the punch. Instead, he gets punched in the head with my machete. Yup, I went with the machete, knowing I would need to stab through the cruiser's window. Swinging in an axe was too risky. The machete was definitely what was called for. Maybe I do know a fucking thing or two, and I'm not always fucking up, eh, dad? You keep telling yourself that, Moron. See where it gets ya. The machete comes out of the cop's head with a loud, squooshing noise, forcing me to take a deep breath and rest a hand on top of the cruiser. Not that it matters. I don't even think I have anything left in my stomach to throw up anyway. I let the breath out and survey the scene. If you're wondering just how fucked you are, let me tell you right away, dipshit. You are royally fucked. You don't know that. Really? Do you think he has a bodycam on or a dashcam? It may not have been activated. He didn't flash his lights or run his siren. Yeah, but did he have time to turn that shit on while you were puking and coming at him without machete? That's the real question. Leave him alone. He knows what to do. I do? Yes, son, you do. You know what always helps cleanse the ick out. This episode is brought to you by Simply Safe. And this... Simply Safe On... ...is the sound of peace of mind. Simply Safe's sensors, HD cameras and 24-7 security monitoring protect your home inside and out against break-ins, fires, water leaks and more. So you can relax. Visit simplysafe.co.uk slash pod for an exclusive discount. I nod because I do know. The first time I ever threw up from seeing blood was after shooting my parents in their heads. Ever since then, I've been a mess. Even after the urges drove me to my hobby, I still had the ick. For me, blood equals puke. Except for that one perfect moment. The moment after dads and moms' bodies had gone cold. I was lost and didn't know what to do. Then I saw the lighter and knew exactly what to do. I quickly get my shit together and open the cruisers back door. It takes me a few minutes and a couple of breaks from some gagging. But I manage to get every bag into the back of that cruiser. With my eyes averted, I pick up the body parts and toss them into the front seat. Then I go back to my trunk and snag the small emergency gas can I keep there. Don't want to run out of gas when hauling a cop of bodies around, do I? Now that's good thinking. I pour the gas inside and outside the cruiser. I fish out my lighter and set the whole thing ablaze. I don't stick around. I gather everything up that I'm keeping, especially my axe and machete, and throw it all into the trunk, which means I see the blank spot where the spare tire goes. Shit! I spoke too soon! He rattles on about what a useless hunk of nothing I am, as I race to get the tire changed while a police cruiser rages like an inferno behind me. Finally done, I do a double check that I haven't missed anything. Finish loading my trunk, then finally get the hell out of there. The burning cruiser is a bright spot in my rear view mirror for a few minutes. Then I'm over that rise and it's out of sight. Doesn't mean it's out of mind though. Body cams, dipshit! Shut up! You should find a new hobby. Shut up! They keep at me, so I turn on a true crime podcast to drown them out. The first commercial makes me laugh. With our clinically proven wristband, you won't feel nauseous or motion sick ever again. Why gets that simple? But I make a mental note to check out the website when I get home. You never know, right?