Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Search and Destroy
Chapter 9: As I Lie
I stood in the cold lifeless hallway of the Cypress Hills Funeral Emporium. Yeah, feel free to poke fun at that but I’m in no laughing mood. Especially not while I’m with the guy standing across from me.
The guy with dark hair, hazel eyes that could be mistaken for green in a distance, and wearing dark clothes.
The guy who’s holding my girlfriend hostage and is threatening to kill her if I don’t follow his orders.
Dahlia. My beautiful Dahlia.
*
All this started last night. I finally came home from my usual Saturday night poker game. I went into the bedroom quietly so I wouldn’t wake Dahlia. But then again, I was gonna wake her up anyway because I wanted a little late-night boff.
Then again, I don’t know if she’ll want to because of our argument this morning. I wanted to marry her and she said that it isn’t the right time. I overreacted and told that if she didn’t, I’ll send her to a court-order therapy. Dahlia’s got a little trouble with the law. What it is, I don’t know. But I snap out of it and decide to use it again if she says no. after all, she kept quiet for a moment and said that she’ll consider it. It’s not exactly yes, but I’ll work her over.
You can imagine my shock when I look in the bed and found no Dahlia in the bed.
I turned on the light in our room and saw that her side was completely thrashed. Not only that, but her iPhone was still on her nightstand. Almost looking like…a struggle. I searched every corner, nook, cranny, and crack. No Dahlia.
I was about to call the police after ten minutes of panicking. Just then, Dahlia’s phone begins to ring. I rushed over and answered it, “Hello?”
“Is this Humbert Garrison?” a man’s voice asked on the line.
“Yeah”
“Okay. Listen and listen good. Don’t fucking interrupt me. You know by now that Dahlia isn’t there.”
“You’re the kidnapper!”
But why? She’s beautiful, but she’s not rich or anything.
I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask, “Why did you kidnap Dahlia?”
The man chuckled, “I think a better question is why not? Let’s be honest here Humbert Humbert.”
“Humbert Humbert?” I asked then realized that he was making fun of my name. Very clever. Like all the jocks in my high school years never used that line before.
“Your girlfriend’s a work of art, man,” he continued. “And when I want something or someone, I’m accustomed to getting what I want. And right now, it’s her.”
“Is she there?”
“Yes. I’ll put her on.”
I heard muffled voices and then Dahlia’s on the line, “Humbert?!”
“Dahlia! Are you okay?”
“Do I sound okay?!” she cried. “This guy broke into our apartment and kidnapped me! He dragged me out by my hair and he wants-“
She didn’t get the chance to finish talking. I heard her screaming and then a thudding sound. Oh God.
The man’s voice came back, “You wanna see her alive again?”
“What are you gonna to do to-?”
“ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION. DO. YOU. WANT. TO. SEE. HER. ALIVE AGAIN?”
“Y-Yes…”
“Good boy. Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re going go beddy-bye after this phone call and tomorrow morning, you will meet me at the Cypress Hills Funeral Emporium at exactly eleven. Near Cypress Hills Cemetery. Come alone or Dahlia’s blood becomes my canvas. Understand?”
I feel sick. So close to vomiting.
“UNDERSTAND?”
“Yes.”
No other comment after that. Just the sound of him hanging up and then the long drone of the dial tone.
*
I did exactly what he told me and met him here. He told to wait with him until the mortician shows up. So here we are.
I look over to him. Dahlia’s kidnapper. He doesn’t look no older then twenty-three years old. He’s wearing a red-checkered dress shirt, a black tie, a black sheepskin jacket, black skinny jeans, and black steel-toed boots. He looks like a magazine model compared to me.
He caught me staring at him, “See something you like, Humbert Humbert?”
“No and stop calling me that,” I retorted.
He smirked, “No, I don’t think I will. Man, you must want to kill your parents for naming you that. Which one of them named you that?”
“Shut it,” I warned him.
“I bet it was your mom,” he pretends to speculate. “She must’ve thought of that when your dad was busy licking her-“
“I’m gonna kick your ass!” I snapped.
He continues to smirk and he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a picture of Dahlia. Her senior class photo.
“Better watch your words, Humbert Humbert,” he says. “Or your pretty girlfriend won’t look like this anymore.” He looks at the picture, “Be such a waste to cut such a beauty.”
I clamp my mouth shut. Hard.
The door opens and there’s a balding middle-aged man dressed in a black suit. He greets us with a warm smile, “Good morning gentlemen. I’m Peter Sandpiper. I’m the curator of the Cypress Hills Funeral Emporium. Please step into my office.”
We step inside his office and Mr. Sandpiper walks around us and to his desk. He sits down in his leather chair and folded his hands, “So, what can I do for you gentlemen today?”
“We’re here to deliver a body for burial,” the man answered him. “And the bereaved wishes for her lover’s body to be buried in Cypress Hills Cemetery. Tonight.”
Mr. Sandpiper nodded, “And you both are morticians?”
“The man beside me is a mortician,” he answers. “I’m a grave setter and a grave digger.”
“Well, you don’t have to pick a random place to bury the body,” Mr. Sandpiper said. “We have plenty of spaces for burial. In fact…”
Mr. Sandpiper reaches into a drawer and takes out a rolled up sheet of paper. He spreads it wide so we can all see it. It was the foreground blueprint of the cemetery.
“There’s one in the very back of the southeast. It’s private, quiet, and it’s right near where a rose bush is blooming right now. You know the saying? ‘A hope for spring is like a hope for Heaven’?”
“I never heard of that saying,” said the man. “But I understand the sentiment. We’ll take it.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Sandpiper and then he asked him, “But why must you do the burial tonight? Should you arrange a funeral first, Mr…?”
“Way,” the man said. “Gerard Way, and as I mentioned earlier, it was the deceased lover’s request. This man wasn’t very well known or even well liked. She thought it would be better to bury him and to say her own private good-bye.”
“Hmm,” Mr. Sandpiper said. “Sounds like a strange request, but it’s not uncommon. All right. Consider the space yours, gentlemen. When will you start the burial?”
“An hour after you close the gates. It’s better to do it without any on-lookers,” the man-Gerard-said.
“Well, we don’t normally do this but if you both would sign this document,” he produced a sheet of paper. “Saying we only spoke about a rapid burial but took no action, you can have your evening burial service and my company won’t know that I done this.”
“We’d be more than happy to sign it. Wouldn’t we?” Gerard asked me pleasantly.
“Yes,” I said sullen.
Mr. Sandpiper hands us the document and Gerard signed first and then me. I signed in a fake name. I hand it back to Mr. Sandpiper and then Gerard asks, “Do you also have pre-made headstones, by any chance?”
“Of course. We have a wide variety of headstones and plaques,” Mr. Sandpiper said proudly. “Kiowa Kessler is in charge of chiseling the name and dates.”
“Good,” said Gerard. “I want a headstone. Late Victorian Era. Decorated with flowers, drapery, fringes, and tassel cords. Homelike appearance, so the body could feel like it’s home. I would I like to tell Miss Kessler what I want chiseled though.”
I raised an eyebrow to him. Something tells me by he was speaking about headstones that he’s done this more than once.
“Perfect! We just got a whole new set of Late Victorian headstones just last month,” said Mr. Sandpiper. “And you would have to talk to her about the headstone arrangement anyway. Anything else?”
“No. We’ll just pay and be on our way for now,” Gerard rose and took out a checkbook and a pen. He scribbled in it and then tore it out. He hands it to Mr. Sandpiper, “I trust this would be sufficient for your services and troubles.”
Mr. Sandpiper took it looks at it. He gasps and the looks at Gerard in disbelief, “Sir, t-this is more than enough! How can a grave digger make this much money?”
Gerard smiles, “I recently inquired a very large sum of money in my business. I guess you can say that I make a killing in my business.”
After we left Mr. Sandpiper’s office, Gerard tells me to go home and make sure I come to Cypress Hills Cemetery at exactly ten at night. And to wear my best suit.
“Why?’ I asked about the suit thing.
“Don’t ask questions,” he said. “Just do it.”
Then he turns around and walks away.
“Wait!” I shouted at him.
He turns his head and has a Now what? look on his face.
“What’s with the burial arrangements?”
He smiles knowingly at me, “You’ll find out soon enough. See you tonight.”
Then he walks away again.
I go back home and lay out my Sunday suit. A silk-tie dress shirt, a black button jacket, black button-tab pants, and a shiny pair of men’s floor-shines. I wait around until an hour before I have to leave and I got dressed. I left at nine-thirty.
I arrive at the cemetery at ten. Gerard was waiting for me by the gate.
“Glad you could make it, Humbert Humbert,” he said.
I don’t say anything in acknowledgment.
“Come on,” he insists and pushes the gate open.
He leads me down the trail and I think I’m walking through the Valley of Death (Well, technically, the Field of Death). I know where he’s taking me but I don’t know why he’s taking me there.
When we approached the southeast, we cut through the graves and tombstones and finally reach the grave. Freshly dug and lit by two glass gas lamps.
“Nice, huh?” said Gerard. He’s leaning over my shoulder, smiling. A smile I don’t like one bit. “That chiseler got it all done in a few hours! Wild, right?”
“Yeah. Wild,” I said simply.
He pats my shoulder, “This whole night gonna be full of surprises, Humbert Humbert.”
Oh joy.
Gerard then walks to the grave and stands beside it, “And here’s the first surprise.”
He bends down and grabs something. It’s Dahlia. Her long chestnut hair is tousled and kinda messy. Her mouth is gagged with a red bandana, muffling. She’s wearing the nightgown she bought from Victoria’s Secret, black denim shorts, and a pair of ankle boots that she didn’t own before. I guess he didn’t want her to come barefoot.
“See?” he said, planting a kiss in her hair. “Not a scratch on her. That’s because you obeyed. Here’s the next surprise.”
He motions me to come over to him. I walk over and he points to the gravestone, “Look at the craftsmanship on it. Brilliant. That girl is the Durer of gravestones. ‘Course you really have to take a closer look to really appreciate.”
He holds my shoulders and made me look closer at it, “Read the inscription.”
I look and get the shock of my life.
HERE LIES
HUMBERT PETER GARRISON
JULY 12 1978-MAY 23 2001
Winged creatures draped in white, carry me up to His heavenly Arms
This is my grave?! It even has today’s date! I turn to him, “What kind of sick joke are you playing at?!”
Then I hear a click of a gun being cocked and the next thing I know, Gerard was pointing a gun to the side of my head.
“This isn’t a joke,” he said in a voice colder than any other killer’s. “And I’m done playing.”
I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared.
Gerard snakes a arm around my shoulders, “I’ll be blunt, Humbert Humbert. I never intended to let your girlfriend go or let you live after tonight because you’ll go straight to the police. Maybe they won’t believe you, but I can’t take that chance. None of us can. So I decided to kill you with style, as a favor to my accomplice. Trust me, we’ll be a lot happier with you dead.”
“What accomplice?” I blubber. “All you have is Dahlia.”
I knew the last thing I’ll see is Gerard satanically grinning at me but I never thought the last words I’ll hear is this:
“Who’d you think called me and set you up, you stupid motherfucker?”
WHAT?!
I turn to Dahlia frantically, “Dahlia, what-“
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gerard’s POV:
I shot him three times. Once in the head and twice in the chest. Incredibly, he fell right into the open grave. Lucky for me.
I grab the shovel and right when I’m about to stab the mud-caked spade into the dirt, I hear “You don’t need to do that.”
I turn and Dahlia is standing behind me. A smile playing on her lips. I drop the shovel and ask why.
“Oh, I thought it would be more fun if the groundskeeper finds this in the morning,” she said with a soft giggle.
I smirk at her. and people say I have a sick sense of humor? Then I ask her, “Dahlia, I have to ask. Why didn’t you kill him yourself? You could’ve done this. You’ve been planning to kill him for months. Why me?”
“I told you already, Gerard. Because all signs would point to me if I did it,” she said. “You don’t have a criminal record or a plea of insanity on your public records. If the police found him dead in our apartment and I was the only one there, they’ll assume it’s me and I’ll be in the slammer again faster than you can cut a throat.”
I knew this to be true. Dahlia was arrested a few years back for killing a girl’s boyfriend because he was formally her boyfriend and he emptied her bank account. She jumped him and stabbed in the chest eighteen times like she was killing a vampire while the girlfriend watched in horror. She was sentenced for a two-year prison term instead of five because her lawyer managed to convince the judge that she wasn’t in the right state of mind when she did it. That she wasn’t herself. He fell for it hook, line, and sinker.
I met a few months ago at a coffee house. When she was in line with said hello, I caught the sense that she was a killer. I had to talk to her. So I sat with her and she told about her stupidly eternally horny boyfriend of hers that now wants her to marry him or he’ll ship her to a court therapist for threatening to kill him (she never did).
She sips her americano, “I told him that I’ll consider it, but decided to kill him. But if I do that, the police will know it was me.”
“So what will you do?” I ask.
Dahlia looks at me, her eyes pleading, “I need some help. I need him to think he’s trying to do something for me so I can get the right opportunity to kill him without actually killing him.”
She reaches to my hands and holds them, “Please, Gerard. You’re good at this killing-without-getting-caught stuff. Help me. I’ll make it worth your while”
This was the first time someone begged me to kill. Because I have this initial sense to make one of the most cleverly crafted murders I have ever done, I said yes and planned out everything.
So now comes my payment, “So, what’s my reward for wasting your boyfriend?”
Dahlia reaches into her pocket and takes out a checkbook, writes something on it, and hands it to me, “How’s this for a dead body?”
I take the check. I look on it and smile. $15, 243.78. I look at her, “Where did you get this?”
“It’s his bank account,” she explains. “He doesn’t need it anymore. Nor his unlimited gold Card.” She then hands the card to me. “There’s a lot more in there.”
I take the card and pocket it along with the check, “I thank you for the cash, but…” I step closer to her and snake my hand to the nape of her neck. “…I rather have my post-killing lust sated also, if you’re interested.”
“Maybe,” she said seductively. “Just one question. Are you as good as they say you are?”
I kiss her sensually and then said, “If you’re an atheist like you said you are, I’ll make you be a good little catholic girl every time I fuck you. Many, many times.”
Dahlia licked her lips, “Where do you want to go?”
I lead her out of the land of death and we headed into the lighted city of sin and pleasure. Many screams will reach up to Heaven tonight but at least one scream will be one of sexual thanks.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Whew! The last chapter is coming up! Sorry for the long delay. I named the chiseler after my best friend Kiowa Kessler. Rate and review, please.
I stood in the cold lifeless hallway of the Cypress Hills Funeral Emporium. Yeah, feel free to poke fun at that but I’m in no laughing mood. Especially not while I’m with the guy standing across from me.
The guy with dark hair, hazel eyes that could be mistaken for green in a distance, and wearing dark clothes.
The guy who’s holding my girlfriend hostage and is threatening to kill her if I don’t follow his orders.
Dahlia. My beautiful Dahlia.
*
All this started last night. I finally came home from my usual Saturday night poker game. I went into the bedroom quietly so I wouldn’t wake Dahlia. But then again, I was gonna wake her up anyway because I wanted a little late-night boff.
Then again, I don’t know if she’ll want to because of our argument this morning. I wanted to marry her and she said that it isn’t the right time. I overreacted and told that if she didn’t, I’ll send her to a court-order therapy. Dahlia’s got a little trouble with the law. What it is, I don’t know. But I snap out of it and decide to use it again if she says no. after all, she kept quiet for a moment and said that she’ll consider it. It’s not exactly yes, but I’ll work her over.
You can imagine my shock when I look in the bed and found no Dahlia in the bed.
I turned on the light in our room and saw that her side was completely thrashed. Not only that, but her iPhone was still on her nightstand. Almost looking like…a struggle. I searched every corner, nook, cranny, and crack. No Dahlia.
I was about to call the police after ten minutes of panicking. Just then, Dahlia’s phone begins to ring. I rushed over and answered it, “Hello?”
“Is this Humbert Garrison?” a man’s voice asked on the line.
“Yeah”
“Okay. Listen and listen good. Don’t fucking interrupt me. You know by now that Dahlia isn’t there.”
“You’re the kidnapper!”
But why? She’s beautiful, but she’s not rich or anything.
I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask, “Why did you kidnap Dahlia?”
The man chuckled, “I think a better question is why not? Let’s be honest here Humbert Humbert.”
“Humbert Humbert?” I asked then realized that he was making fun of my name. Very clever. Like all the jocks in my high school years never used that line before.
“Your girlfriend’s a work of art, man,” he continued. “And when I want something or someone, I’m accustomed to getting what I want. And right now, it’s her.”
“Is she there?”
“Yes. I’ll put her on.”
I heard muffled voices and then Dahlia’s on the line, “Humbert?!”
“Dahlia! Are you okay?”
“Do I sound okay?!” she cried. “This guy broke into our apartment and kidnapped me! He dragged me out by my hair and he wants-“
She didn’t get the chance to finish talking. I heard her screaming and then a thudding sound. Oh God.
The man’s voice came back, “You wanna see her alive again?”
“What are you gonna to do to-?”
“ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION. DO. YOU. WANT. TO. SEE. HER. ALIVE AGAIN?”
“Y-Yes…”
“Good boy. Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re going go beddy-bye after this phone call and tomorrow morning, you will meet me at the Cypress Hills Funeral Emporium at exactly eleven. Near Cypress Hills Cemetery. Come alone or Dahlia’s blood becomes my canvas. Understand?”
I feel sick. So close to vomiting.
“UNDERSTAND?”
“Yes.”
No other comment after that. Just the sound of him hanging up and then the long drone of the dial tone.
*
I did exactly what he told me and met him here. He told to wait with him until the mortician shows up. So here we are.
I look over to him. Dahlia’s kidnapper. He doesn’t look no older then twenty-three years old. He’s wearing a red-checkered dress shirt, a black tie, a black sheepskin jacket, black skinny jeans, and black steel-toed boots. He looks like a magazine model compared to me.
He caught me staring at him, “See something you like, Humbert Humbert?”
“No and stop calling me that,” I retorted.
He smirked, “No, I don’t think I will. Man, you must want to kill your parents for naming you that. Which one of them named you that?”
“Shut it,” I warned him.
“I bet it was your mom,” he pretends to speculate. “She must’ve thought of that when your dad was busy licking her-“
“I’m gonna kick your ass!” I snapped.
He continues to smirk and he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a picture of Dahlia. Her senior class photo.
“Better watch your words, Humbert Humbert,” he says. “Or your pretty girlfriend won’t look like this anymore.” He looks at the picture, “Be such a waste to cut such a beauty.”
I clamp my mouth shut. Hard.
The door opens and there’s a balding middle-aged man dressed in a black suit. He greets us with a warm smile, “Good morning gentlemen. I’m Peter Sandpiper. I’m the curator of the Cypress Hills Funeral Emporium. Please step into my office.”
We step inside his office and Mr. Sandpiper walks around us and to his desk. He sits down in his leather chair and folded his hands, “So, what can I do for you gentlemen today?”
“We’re here to deliver a body for burial,” the man answered him. “And the bereaved wishes for her lover’s body to be buried in Cypress Hills Cemetery. Tonight.”
Mr. Sandpiper nodded, “And you both are morticians?”
“The man beside me is a mortician,” he answers. “I’m a grave setter and a grave digger.”
“Well, you don’t have to pick a random place to bury the body,” Mr. Sandpiper said. “We have plenty of spaces for burial. In fact…”
Mr. Sandpiper reaches into a drawer and takes out a rolled up sheet of paper. He spreads it wide so we can all see it. It was the foreground blueprint of the cemetery.
“There’s one in the very back of the southeast. It’s private, quiet, and it’s right near where a rose bush is blooming right now. You know the saying? ‘A hope for spring is like a hope for Heaven’?”
“I never heard of that saying,” said the man. “But I understand the sentiment. We’ll take it.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Sandpiper and then he asked him, “But why must you do the burial tonight? Should you arrange a funeral first, Mr…?”
“Way,” the man said. “Gerard Way, and as I mentioned earlier, it was the deceased lover’s request. This man wasn’t very well known or even well liked. She thought it would be better to bury him and to say her own private good-bye.”
“Hmm,” Mr. Sandpiper said. “Sounds like a strange request, but it’s not uncommon. All right. Consider the space yours, gentlemen. When will you start the burial?”
“An hour after you close the gates. It’s better to do it without any on-lookers,” the man-Gerard-said.
“Well, we don’t normally do this but if you both would sign this document,” he produced a sheet of paper. “Saying we only spoke about a rapid burial but took no action, you can have your evening burial service and my company won’t know that I done this.”
“We’d be more than happy to sign it. Wouldn’t we?” Gerard asked me pleasantly.
“Yes,” I said sullen.
Mr. Sandpiper hands us the document and Gerard signed first and then me. I signed in a fake name. I hand it back to Mr. Sandpiper and then Gerard asks, “Do you also have pre-made headstones, by any chance?”
“Of course. We have a wide variety of headstones and plaques,” Mr. Sandpiper said proudly. “Kiowa Kessler is in charge of chiseling the name and dates.”
“Good,” said Gerard. “I want a headstone. Late Victorian Era. Decorated with flowers, drapery, fringes, and tassel cords. Homelike appearance, so the body could feel like it’s home. I would I like to tell Miss Kessler what I want chiseled though.”
I raised an eyebrow to him. Something tells me by he was speaking about headstones that he’s done this more than once.
“Perfect! We just got a whole new set of Late Victorian headstones just last month,” said Mr. Sandpiper. “And you would have to talk to her about the headstone arrangement anyway. Anything else?”
“No. We’ll just pay and be on our way for now,” Gerard rose and took out a checkbook and a pen. He scribbled in it and then tore it out. He hands it to Mr. Sandpiper, “I trust this would be sufficient for your services and troubles.”
Mr. Sandpiper took it looks at it. He gasps and the looks at Gerard in disbelief, “Sir, t-this is more than enough! How can a grave digger make this much money?”
Gerard smiles, “I recently inquired a very large sum of money in my business. I guess you can say that I make a killing in my business.”
After we left Mr. Sandpiper’s office, Gerard tells me to go home and make sure I come to Cypress Hills Cemetery at exactly ten at night. And to wear my best suit.
“Why?’ I asked about the suit thing.
“Don’t ask questions,” he said. “Just do it.”
Then he turns around and walks away.
“Wait!” I shouted at him.
He turns his head and has a Now what? look on his face.
“What’s with the burial arrangements?”
He smiles knowingly at me, “You’ll find out soon enough. See you tonight.”
Then he walks away again.
I go back home and lay out my Sunday suit. A silk-tie dress shirt, a black button jacket, black button-tab pants, and a shiny pair of men’s floor-shines. I wait around until an hour before I have to leave and I got dressed. I left at nine-thirty.
I arrive at the cemetery at ten. Gerard was waiting for me by the gate.
“Glad you could make it, Humbert Humbert,” he said.
I don’t say anything in acknowledgment.
“Come on,” he insists and pushes the gate open.
He leads me down the trail and I think I’m walking through the Valley of Death (Well, technically, the Field of Death). I know where he’s taking me but I don’t know why he’s taking me there.
When we approached the southeast, we cut through the graves and tombstones and finally reach the grave. Freshly dug and lit by two glass gas lamps.
“Nice, huh?” said Gerard. He’s leaning over my shoulder, smiling. A smile I don’t like one bit. “That chiseler got it all done in a few hours! Wild, right?”
“Yeah. Wild,” I said simply.
He pats my shoulder, “This whole night gonna be full of surprises, Humbert Humbert.”
Oh joy.
Gerard then walks to the grave and stands beside it, “And here’s the first surprise.”
He bends down and grabs something. It’s Dahlia. Her long chestnut hair is tousled and kinda messy. Her mouth is gagged with a red bandana, muffling. She’s wearing the nightgown she bought from Victoria’s Secret, black denim shorts, and a pair of ankle boots that she didn’t own before. I guess he didn’t want her to come barefoot.
“See?” he said, planting a kiss in her hair. “Not a scratch on her. That’s because you obeyed. Here’s the next surprise.”
He motions me to come over to him. I walk over and he points to the gravestone, “Look at the craftsmanship on it. Brilliant. That girl is the Durer of gravestones. ‘Course you really have to take a closer look to really appreciate.”
He holds my shoulders and made me look closer at it, “Read the inscription.”
I look and get the shock of my life.
HERE LIES
HUMBERT PETER GARRISON
JULY 12 1978-MAY 23 2001
Winged creatures draped in white, carry me up to His heavenly Arms
This is my grave?! It even has today’s date! I turn to him, “What kind of sick joke are you playing at?!”
Then I hear a click of a gun being cocked and the next thing I know, Gerard was pointing a gun to the side of my head.
“This isn’t a joke,” he said in a voice colder than any other killer’s. “And I’m done playing.”
I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared.
Gerard snakes a arm around my shoulders, “I’ll be blunt, Humbert Humbert. I never intended to let your girlfriend go or let you live after tonight because you’ll go straight to the police. Maybe they won’t believe you, but I can’t take that chance. None of us can. So I decided to kill you with style, as a favor to my accomplice. Trust me, we’ll be a lot happier with you dead.”
“What accomplice?” I blubber. “All you have is Dahlia.”
I knew the last thing I’ll see is Gerard satanically grinning at me but I never thought the last words I’ll hear is this:
“Who’d you think called me and set you up, you stupid motherfucker?”
WHAT?!
I turn to Dahlia frantically, “Dahlia, what-“
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gerard’s POV:
I shot him three times. Once in the head and twice in the chest. Incredibly, he fell right into the open grave. Lucky for me.
I grab the shovel and right when I’m about to stab the mud-caked spade into the dirt, I hear “You don’t need to do that.”
I turn and Dahlia is standing behind me. A smile playing on her lips. I drop the shovel and ask why.
“Oh, I thought it would be more fun if the groundskeeper finds this in the morning,” she said with a soft giggle.
I smirk at her. and people say I have a sick sense of humor? Then I ask her, “Dahlia, I have to ask. Why didn’t you kill him yourself? You could’ve done this. You’ve been planning to kill him for months. Why me?”
“I told you already, Gerard. Because all signs would point to me if I did it,” she said. “You don’t have a criminal record or a plea of insanity on your public records. If the police found him dead in our apartment and I was the only one there, they’ll assume it’s me and I’ll be in the slammer again faster than you can cut a throat.”
I knew this to be true. Dahlia was arrested a few years back for killing a girl’s boyfriend because he was formally her boyfriend and he emptied her bank account. She jumped him and stabbed in the chest eighteen times like she was killing a vampire while the girlfriend watched in horror. She was sentenced for a two-year prison term instead of five because her lawyer managed to convince the judge that she wasn’t in the right state of mind when she did it. That she wasn’t herself. He fell for it hook, line, and sinker.
I met a few months ago at a coffee house. When she was in line with said hello, I caught the sense that she was a killer. I had to talk to her. So I sat with her and she told about her stupidly eternally horny boyfriend of hers that now wants her to marry him or he’ll ship her to a court therapist for threatening to kill him (she never did).
She sips her americano, “I told him that I’ll consider it, but decided to kill him. But if I do that, the police will know it was me.”
“So what will you do?” I ask.
Dahlia looks at me, her eyes pleading, “I need some help. I need him to think he’s trying to do something for me so I can get the right opportunity to kill him without actually killing him.”
She reaches to my hands and holds them, “Please, Gerard. You’re good at this killing-without-getting-caught stuff. Help me. I’ll make it worth your while”
This was the first time someone begged me to kill. Because I have this initial sense to make one of the most cleverly crafted murders I have ever done, I said yes and planned out everything.
So now comes my payment, “So, what’s my reward for wasting your boyfriend?”
Dahlia reaches into her pocket and takes out a checkbook, writes something on it, and hands it to me, “How’s this for a dead body?”
I take the check. I look on it and smile. $15, 243.78. I look at her, “Where did you get this?”
“It’s his bank account,” she explains. “He doesn’t need it anymore. Nor his unlimited gold Card.” She then hands the card to me. “There’s a lot more in there.”
I take the card and pocket it along with the check, “I thank you for the cash, but…” I step closer to her and snake my hand to the nape of her neck. “…I rather have my post-killing lust sated also, if you’re interested.”
“Maybe,” she said seductively. “Just one question. Are you as good as they say you are?”
I kiss her sensually and then said, “If you’re an atheist like you said you are, I’ll make you be a good little catholic girl every time I fuck you. Many, many times.”
Dahlia licked her lips, “Where do you want to go?”
I lead her out of the land of death and we headed into the lighted city of sin and pleasure. Many screams will reach up to Heaven tonight but at least one scream will be one of sexual thanks.
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Whew! The last chapter is coming up! Sorry for the long delay. I named the chiseler after my best friend Kiowa Kessler. Rate and review, please.
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