Fantasies of murder

Since I quit smoking I had a few spontaneous fantasies of murdering some anonymous people in the street. In the first instance, I walked past a couple which I often walk past on my way home from work. It consists of a slacker-type white trash hip-hop fan bent on proving to the world that he doesn’t give a shit, and an obviously sex-oriented blonde without other outstanding characteristics.

I said to them, “I can see that you are both very beautiful, however, what interests me more is, where are you always going?”

And he said, “Where do you think?”

“Ah, so! I must admit, I underestimated your style! Nevertheless, I will have to KILL you!”

And instantly I did a trick with my hand in front of his face, flipping a miniature string lasso into his brain, twisted it around for a better grip, and pulled the life from his brain! The beauty of this murder lies in the fact that he died before he became scared, which would jeopardize his composure and detract from the tragic aesthetic. Her fright, on the other hand, has much aesthetic value in itself, which could be further stimulated with maniacal laughter on my part!

The second instance was the following day in the parking lot of my office building. There were many people smoking and talking in their routine way when in the distance I saw a woman, standing with her back to me, who reminded me of Skylaire, an old friend. Instantly, I wanted to kill her, not because I had something against Skylaire, but in fact because she was not Skylaire, but someone who pretended to be her! Right then I threw the water bottle which was in my hand in a long arc so that it would hit her over the head from a great height; meanwhile a drew a gun, cursing loudly, dashing in her direction, shooting bullets at her. From this point in time there are two parallel universes in which the following events unfold. In the first case, I come running up to her body on the ground, confirm that she is in fact dead, curse loudly and stand there in determined anger and frustration, not knowing what to do next. In the second, I run up to her while she is still writhing in her blood, and say to myself, “Quickly, you must extract the stone from her brain before she is dead!”, which I proceed to do hastily with a pocket knife, before she is dead. The beauty of this murder is in the practical mystique of the operationm, and the shocking effect it would have on the public if in fact I managed to extract a stone from her brain. The stone in the brain, of course, is necessary for my alchemical operations; the death of the host would corrupt the qualities of the stone (everyone knows this).