Short Story Weekly! A Quiet Peace by Malacast Agent

This week’s short story is not vey PG, and although compared to other forms of media out there, is no necessarily the worst thing ever, but may be a bit too squeamish a subject for a certain audience. I know most people who read these stories have come to expect rather G and PG-rated content, but the following story, although brief and contextually short even in the guise of a prose short story, I say: reader discretion is strongly, and duely advised. A Quiet Peace is the name of this week’s story, and it goes of the beaten path of what I’m thrown at you so far. I know the Harrowing Inheritance was itself a novel, and I justly apologize, but I promise I will be taken no shortcuts here in coming up with even more short stories weekly! This piece is an original idea, although it borrows one scene from what I believe was an episode of Hannibal, but it really is rather arbitrary, and could be anything but, still, I give credit in-case there is a connection. Lastly, I would just like to say thank you! Thank you for reading the Malacast Editorial! Next week will be a special decade post about the blog, a future perspective of where it goes, and a while lot more stories t comes. After I reach a certain number, I will be archiving these stories to a separate page, just to make it easier to follow, and stay in-touch with what’s going on, and also so it’s easier than going through page after age f stuff to find them! Thank you again for reading my blog, I sincerely love each writer I get, and each critique I can apologize for the lack of credible editing on these newer pages. Again, I just got a laptop, and going back to writing on there, is much easier, and dare-I-say, much more accurate than typing away on a tablet. So please! Enjoy the noir piece: A Quiet Peace, and look for an upcoming Fall Newsletter, this is my umpteenth attempt at one, and I want to make it count! I remember the first time I ever killed It was a clean death, perfect, and absolute. It was frantic, but lovely in its simplicity. I was a late-bloomer: thirty-five years of age, and it was the first time I ever in my life raised my hand in malcontent to another blessed soul. Nothing fancy, I jus bludgeoned the body into a bruised and broken corpse. I hid it in the waters down by the bayou. The gators finished it off for me, and I was nothing but shocked at how simple it was to even take a life. I barely remember her face, but I recall her graceful beauty, a down-and-out waitress of sorts. It had to be a waitress, but I wasn’t precisely sure. My second kill was much more ferocious than the first. It was my own mother, who had the unfortunate pleasure of being in the wrong place with the wrong attitude, at the wrong time. I am a monster, but even a monster knows where not to tread. So what does that make me? It was guttural, she spewed forth a volcano of blood and gurgling moans of horror, it was unfortunately, not a quick death, and I regretted every slice and slash. The viscera laid out everywhere, almost too bright to gaze upon, as I spread the makeshift organs into neat piles. I refused to throw own mother to the gators, it wasn’t right. I cried long that night, until I felt nothing else, the last of m humanity a pale complexion leaving the base of my skull, and melting into oblivion. The fog was always there, whether the steam of heat smacking the icy cold pond waters of the morning, or the settling in cool airs to the boiling seas on the dusk. It was always fog, and fog covers up the dead well enough down here, until the gators sniff it out. I never much liked talkative people, never much cared for the chatter of townsfolk, or tourist alike. They never said anything meaningful, never anything real. Sure, they talked about family friends, what they want to do when they get back home. They talked about their pitiful jobs, and their pitiful cars, with the multilevel garage to their forlorn mansions. Nope, never did take kindly to it, found it to be a whole lot of boasting bullshit. I never did want to hurt nobody with my anger, just gotta hard time keeping it under wraps. Ask any animal that ever taste even as pittance of blood though, and they’ll tell you that the killer instinct is older than any random act of kindness. I saw other people as foes, to be hunted and slaughtered, not because I was black-hearted, but because I felt I was living, and hey were wasting their lives. The never even stopped to acknowledge the scenery, not that there’s very much to see down here, but they snapped pictures, and deleted them minutes later. No even photography last loner than a few hours in this world. I wasn’t hurting them; I was releasing them of their lives, which were killing them long before I slivered their organs into strings. Sure, you can call me a serial killer, that’s what the all want you to think! I never had a series of murders yet that was even remotely the same! I just killed, ain’t that hard, and it wont do to make a pattern of it, I just killed indiscriminately. I kill d some Cajuns, some whites, a couple of blacks, an a few Hispanics, and it was all the same to me. They all bleed, and they all have organs in strings, ain’t no racism in me, I’ll slice any man, woman, and it wont make much difference to me what building they go to pray. I ain’t crazy though! That would inquire, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and trust me, and I know exactly what I am. Sure, you can try and pinpoint a movie to me, because that’s how we analyze these wretched situations. I don’t need any motive to kill, and that’s what scared those who want to try and stop me. Only once I had a motive, but I was not the same person I am today I kill, like others hunt, and not necessarily for the same reason. Sure, I murder, but I’m not some sick bastards looking to score an exotic meal. No, I don’t kill for pleasure, apathy, or for some jolly old need for attention. These reasons are so below my character, it’s insulting to think otherwise. Sure, I can be psychoanalyzed, I can even be mapped o some other killers, I copied their methods a while ago. Yes, I even took a page from old Jack the Riper, but I was young, and not killing with an adult mindset. Is killing wrong? Well is living a life of regret, boredom, chagrin, and a constant lack of worth as sinful as murder? I don’t kill those who love life, nor the attention-seeking imbeciles who love to hate life. I’m talking the automatons that have died long ago, and I can see in their eyes a restitute of thanks for allowing me to release them from this world. You can call me deranged, but I know that is the sort of jargon we all placate in our minds to keep from allowing such thoughts to even make a lick of sense. I cannot fathom the non-killer perspective; I cannot claim to be fixable, because I simply don’t see another way of living. Am I wrong? Society will clearly judge me so, but am I what makes you quiver under the sheets at night, not because I could be outside our door, oh no, that’s not why: it’s because deep down, I start to make more, and more sense. I know it’s difficult to believe a person such as myself could be anything but a madman. I mean, I’ve killed numerous times, and I clearly haven’t done even an iota of what I’ve hoped to accomplish. There’s a whole world out there, waiting to be massacred, and not because I hate it, but because I love and appreciate life, the fault I have, which I’ve dropped, is assuming that ALL life is precious, when clearly, most precious life is very, very scarce. I remember one glorious afternoon, I was chatting with a young girl at the ice cream parlor. She must’ve been no older than ten, and she was licking an ice-cream cone, which was melting furiously from the heat of the humidity, as well as from her tongue. She was an amble girl, growing into a beautiful woman, I could appreciate that, but without the inherent need to act upon it like a pedophile scumbag. Yes, I’ve killed a mess of pedophiles in my time, not because the were pedophiles, but now that I look back upon my work, I kind’ve wished I was even more ruthless than I was to them. She smiled at me, and I smiled back, I innocently waved at her, and she waved back. Despite what you might think I look like, some gruesome, overweight monster with two teeth, and even less hair, in overalls with nothing else one, I’m actually quite charming, and that is probably why I’ve killed so easily, and yes, I do use my assets to gain an advantage in this game. Am I narcissistic? Probably a bit, but even the most wretched spawn of filth has their own level of narcissism, because loving yourself is the first step t being beloved by everyone. “How are you today, mister? It’s awfully hot out, don’t you think” She spoke to me in the most sincere voice, like an older Shirley Temple with the innocence of an angel, nonchalantly enjoying the last remnants of childhood before hormones will whisk her away into womanhood, and desolate depression. “Right you are, young lady. My! What a big cone you have there! Surely a little one like you couldn’t finish that whole cone?” “Oh, you’d be surprised mister, m dear old friend Mr. Felix got this here cone for me, said he’d watch me while Mom and dad were at work, They’re always at work, so they hired him to take me places and have lots of fun!” I knew of this “MR.” Felix” he was a depraved monster, doing the most dreadful things to young children, that it almost was a blessing they’d not have to live through the torment he’d placed upon them for the rest of their lives. The young girl was the next victim. He always used the same shtick: find a family that did business vacations, and left their children alone for hours at a time to plan in the grand luxury hotels. He’d say that he’s a professional caretaker hired to watch the child, and of course the child would believe them once the bastard gave the names of the parents. Pretty easy information to get on a hotel registry, and of course, he prayed don them young, and has been doing so for years. Now I don’t care much about what evil men do, I do not judge, but I get irksome when a child is harmed. I’m no avenger, I’ve never sought to harm a child, but I have killed for my own selfish needs. I bid her a good day, and wipe her chin with a paper napkin, as I finish off my cup of soft serve twist, and head away from the girl, as the pedophile of the alias “Mir. Felix” comes to her. He smiles candidly like a stalking buzzard, ready to rip into the fresh carrion. I knew it was him from that ridiculous glaze in his face, it was like that of a young boy at a candy store afterhours, and he just couldn’t wait to indulge in the spoils of his well-timed shenanigans. Despite what you ma think I never showed such callous behavior to any kill, I was always numb, doing it like a butcher cleavers a lamb with not a second thought of his slaughter. This beast was looking to degrade this pure chalice that has not the evil to even wrong a mosquito, for she of young wisdom knew that such things must exist, and be loved even if hated. Ignorant of youth, for some things should be hate Mr. Felix, or myself for that matter. After she finished the cone, he half-lead/half-dragged her to the men’s room to “Wash up”, and I knew that this monster was far too comfortable in his own skin now, this being the potential fifth victim. He would cover her mouth, rape her over the loudness of the festivities in the park, nobody would even flinch, and many people down here are used to adults taking young children to the bathroom, so it’s not even regarded as obscure. He would then place the victim over the toilet, and gut her from navel to groin, and let the blood flow down the drain, leaving little spillage, and no one none-the-wiser. Of course, today he made the fata error of coming back to the same park, at the exact same time, and I was luck enough to catch him first. I followed cautiously behind, not wanting Mr. Felix to know he was being tailed. Even if he had a one-track mind, he was not some pretentious killer, he knew exactly what he was doing, and was as calculated as he was cold-blooded. He would know if something was up, and walk off like nothing was out-of-the-ordinary, waiting until the next victim came into play. I was hunting the predator and I could feel my steady pulse rise only but a mere blip in my heart. Killing wasn’t about anything more than a process, and like watering the garden, or mowing the grass, it did not necessarily excite me, but I would become fulfilled by the deed. Luckily I was made, and off into the bathroom they went together. There was no door on the entrance to the bathroom, but that was common for most public outdoor restrooms. I was able to slip inside, and take up a stall several feet away. Judging by reports from forensics, he didn’t always kill immediately, and most of the time, it was well after-the fact that he eve started to begin his sick ritual. I heard the water turn on, and the young girl laugh “Stop it! That tickles! Hee hee! Oh the water’s so cold! Oh great! Now I got it on my shirt, I’m all wet!” “That’s okay, Suzy! Just let me take over here and dry you off with some paper towels, I’ll have to take off your shirt though, don’t want you to catch a death of cold! Don’ worry I’ll keep you warm, Suzy.” The bastard was moving too fast, much too fast, but I jumped out of the stall, only to see him slip in with a gullible, innocent Suzy laughing heartily at her predicament. I was not going to allow this pervert to have his way. I was a sinner, hell, a devil, but I wasn’t going to allow for some monster to take away the innocence of a frightened, defenseless girl. I listened as the joking laughter turned into queries of confusion, and then muffled screams of terror. Without hesitance, I busted into the stall, where young Suzy was half naked, fighting back Mr. Felix, his pants dragging onto the titled floor, among wads of tissue and piss puddles. With the fury of a demiurge, I pulled the makeshift creature off the young girl, who cowered in the corner, covering herself in a shivering mess on the floor. I tossed him into the mirror and broke open his nimble flesh on his forehead, and it bled prettily into the sink, and the glass. The moans began with psychotic laughter ass I pummeled and kicked him to the point that he was stupefied by the onslaught, unable to defend himself. Hastily, I puled out my curved blade almost like an eagle talon, and gashed his face until he could do noting but howl at the singing heat of the razor-sharp cuts. It was beautiful, the most epic art to come from uniformed colors since Picasso’s Blue Period. It was magnificent, and it felt like another day at the office; but this one came with a bonus check for being such a steadfast employee. He was still breathing, surprisingly, when they pulled me off his bloated brutality. A vestige of gashes and wounds made their way to where his private parts once reigned, now nothing short of a pitiful shadow of their former selves. I left not even enough for a graft, He’d be a eunuch if he lived to se tomorrow. I knew I was done for, they could easily link these brutal slashes to the ones I left on former victims, and so, I knew it was the need for me. Let me remind you all: I’m not some anti-heroic saint, I don’t believe in some misinterpreted form of justice. There is only the wild, and some times, a larger predator has to keep the other predators in line. Mr. Felix would know his rank; he would become the Omega he always had been. Only alphas like myself cut and cleaned our knives in the unwashed backs around here, and I would not allow for his form of vigilant slaughter to go unpunished. Suzy was able to return to normal life, her helicopter parents grew spines, and allowed for their daughter to be loved and cared for b them, not letting some corporate asshole dictate the importance of their child’s life. I was sentenced to death for crimes against humanity, and scheduled to be fried that upcoming week. This was the dirt south, they didn’t fuck around, you go in, and you come out deep-fried the next day. It was the Christian way of justice, and I respected it, ironically so, because it was a just as anything I’ve done Mr. Felix, real name Earl Myers, was let go, and now lives in a nursing home where he is recuperating, but I left him damaged to the point that if he even dared to try and hurt a child again, he’d know my vengeful spirit would end him where it nearly succeed the first time. Suzy’s parents came to visit me a day before my execution. The were mixed in their feelings towards me. They asked the same pseudo=psychoanalytical questions ever other crackpot did to try and decipher my brain: “Why do I do what I do?” What’s the point of killing? Why did I save their daughter? Did I know I was going to Hell?” you know, al those normal questions they try to pose to you because they want to analyze you like a robot, a malfunctioning piece of hardware, and wonder why I don’t act like the rest f the robots should I laugh at the sheer iron of their reasoning, for it is the same questions I ask them that the also can not validate. Don’t they see they are the ones that allow for people like Mr. Felix to go free? And lest you think I am justifying my own actions, know that I am devil, and deserve whatever horrors come after this life is through, but it is not that I am some malfunctioning equipment, but a creature on a level that few understand, and the man that tries to reason it out, will never be able to quite pinpoint down. Suzy’s parent’s prayed for me, ensured that even monsters like me can be redeemed by his guiding light, and I was redeem able for saving their precious daughter. I felt I owed them something, and didn’t mention to them that if the opportunity came, I’d have just broke Suzy’s neck if the feeling came upon me. So instead, I let them walk away thinking that a monster was saved b their precious little girl, and the following morning, after digesting a lovely bowl of gumbo shrimp, I was lead down the last mile I’d ever walk, some priest reading me last rites, as though I were to be welcomed into the kingdom of the saved, however asinine it seven sound coming from his own lips. I was strapped to the oldest working electric chair I the state, and asked to say my last words. I wasn’t much for ambiguous quotes that would lead to double entendre after the heighted emotions were laid to rest, and years after it would be funny written in some hipster book on world-renowned serial killers. Instead I kept it simple. “Sure, I’d like to say just one thing: I had a lust for life that preceded the eons o time, and the fulcrum of gravity. I loved everyone and everything, and I will forever be indebted to this world for the pain ‘ve caused so man, but I promise you: even now your lives are dwindling into dust, and the too will soon be joined p next to my bones. Kill me if you must, but leave here knowing that you too will die, and life is not some linear amalgamation! Life is chaotic and spontaneous! Keep living, or kill yourself now, for you are halfway dead as we speak!” With that, the mask went on, the juice went off, and I was dead within minutes, bleeding from almost every orifice, and the stuffing the shoved up my ass didn’t stop the blast into my pants of shit, blood, and fried intestine meat It was gruesome, but it was legal, and I could almost hear the gurgling laughter coming from the lipless Mr. Felix in his lofty room, all cozied up for the rest of his pitiful life. I took away everything he ever loved, I couldn’t be more happier, and death was my reward. A quiet peace.