Tuesday, June 07, 2005

F.A.D.D.

a short crime story by Dustin LindenSmith (1032 words)

This was my very first attempt at a piece of short crime fiction in November, 2004. I've since had it extensively critted and see a number of places where the story should be expanded and more detail added. But I also like it as it stands, as a short sketch and the inspiration for me to get something published in this genre.

Title suggestions are welcome, as well as other comments.



Killing appears to have come naturally to me. My first murder, if you could call it that, was executed without preparation. When I left the house that afternoon, I didn't know that I would end up killing someone so dispassionately by the end of the night. But when I returned to the house early the next morning, I wore my regular personality like a comfortable shirt. I spent the morning with my wife and our only son uneventfully: made them each their favourite breakfasts, sent them off to work and to school with their lunch bags. I even made love to my wife the next night to prove to myself that I could act normally after taking someone's life. Once the days turned into weeks without her suspecting that anything was different about me, I realized that I was prepared to do it again. And again, and again, and again. Like a good scotch, it's hard to stop at just one.

To be honest, I think what I do is practically a public service. I don't kill anyone who isn't already on the road to killing someone else at some point. Since these jerks seem incapable of preventing their actions ahead of time, I figure I need to do a pre-emptive defense strike, like what we did in Iraq. I need to do my part to remove these guys from circulation before they do some real harm to somebody innocent.

I own a bar on a secondary highway near the airport. I haven't had it for too long. It used to be part of a motel that catered to motorists passing through, but after they built a four-lane express highway that bypasses this road, the motel was foreclosed and I bought the place for a song. I had long been itching for a change of pace, uninspired to do very much since losing my daughter Amelia two years previous. The bar became a perfect place for me to pursue my new career goals. Plus, I've always been a night owl who enjoyed entertaining people. I was never interested in re-opening the motel.

Business is certainly not brisk -- downright dead, actually -- but my wife's income as a partner in a firm downtown helps considerably to offset my operating costs. Actually, I find it ironic that the place hasn't gone belly-up, since I've already killed several of my customers and I'm likely to kill several more.

Like any bar, mine has its regulars. In my case, mainly men who work on the ground and maintenance crews at the nearby airport. But I also get an assortment of plaid shirts from the country who don't appreciate the atmosphere of the bars downtown. The first one I killed was one of these. So was the second, and also the third.

The fourth one though, was different. He was a sales executive for the makers of Choco-Delite candy bars who really thought he was the cat's ass. He arrived just after I opened the bar at four o'clock one Tuesday, and by the time the six o'clock news was on he had already demonstrated his considerable prowess as a drinker and all-round bullshit artist. I was considering my options when he suddenly left for a dinner meeting. A part of me wondered if I’d ever see him again. A deeper part of me hoped that I would.

So I wasn't unpleasantly surprised when he returned around eleven o'clock that night to pick up where he had left off. Like the previous three customers I'd killed, this one was a career drinker who obviously felt that he couldn't function properly without several drinks on board. He carried himself a bit more carefully than the others, but every time he headed for the can I could detect the telltale signs. The stumble-and-recover, the too-loud and too-friendly greetings to the other customers. He was too impaired for most activities, including driving or carrying on an intelligent conversation. And while that latter impairment may not have been induced by alcohol, I was beginning to see clearly what would come later.

See, it's the thought of these guys driving away drunk that makes me do what I do. And it's not like I don't come by it honestly. Ever since that drunk driver Harold MacManus killed my Amanda two years ago on the freeway leading into town, I've never really given these killings a second thought. Except, perhaps, to savour them afterwards. And you know if anything, they make me feel a little better about myself each time.

Conveniently, the sales exec was my last customer as I prepared to close the bar at 1:00 AM. He was so impaired now that he swayed back and forth when he stood. I would have cut off many of my regulars long before they reached this stage, but I had let this guy continue drinking to see what his travel plans were at the end of the night. When he turned down my offer for a free taxi ride and assured me that he was fine to drive on his own, I felt a familiar shiver of excitement flutter through me. It intensified as I prepared what would be his very last, very poisonous, drink.

Just like the others, that shiver of excitement had almost completely worn off a couple hours later; especially once I’d lugged his dead body to the abandoned municipal airfield a few miles from the bar and dumped it in that swampy patch behind the second airstrip. Also like the others, a sense of calm pervaded my awareness as I drove home, thinking about my Amanda.

I slept dreamlessly with my arms around my wife until her alarm went off two hours later and I rose to prepare breakfast for her and my only son. In their lunch bags that day, they each found a Choco-Delite candy bar wrapped with a note telling them that I loved them. And then at four o'clock that afternoon, I opened the bar to receive my next customer. And of course, it was as usual my secret hope that one day Harold MacManus would grace me with his presence as a customer in my bar.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

i've been doing a bit of reading on psychopaths recently, and what they all have in common is an inability to feel empathy. not just for those they harm, but anyone. at all. ever. this is the sort of person implied by the intro "killing appears to come naturally to me," all was normal afterwards, etc.

i've found that the books "without conscience" by (robert?) hare, and "bad boys, bad men" (by someone else) are very good character descriptions, anecdotes, and diagnostic outlines. also, the DSM entry for antisocial personality disorder gives a fantastic outline of diagnostic criteria, which would function as a sort of checklist for your protaganist. unless he's just a narcissist at heart, in which case he might still kill specifically and methodically, but with a sense of entitlement. imo, the narcissistic characterization is more in alignment with the deepening of your character and his motivation.

conversely, numbness after a daughter's death and the need to do something creating an unresolved sense of offense that leads to a killing spree doesn't ring true with the psychology offered at the intro. i get the feeling that a pov of "he let me kill him, therefore he deserves to be killed, haha i won" would be more in line with someone who feels so little, when in a life that isn't obviously & violently pushing him towards callousness in order to survive (like, ie, a gang member). with the batman-type avenger killings sketched here, i think that there would be more inner struggle, more shock and turmoil.

...unless the bar-owner was already and always disturbed, in which case he'd have a whole history of aggression and impulsiveness, of glibly blaming others for his problems, etc, see books referenced above.

that's just my opinion. other than that, good writing, very dispassionate in just the right fascinated "i have to tell you about how cool and fucked up this is, wow look at me" way. i also like the repetition of accents (details) and theme (phrasing).

i'm not sure if i came across as too opinionated or too blunt. no offense intended, hope none was taken.

12:52 AM, August 25, 2005

 

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