Noumenon
21st Jan 2008, 12:32
I'm kicking my own backside up and down the "office" for not having a go at this. Amner is taking the opportunity seriously, but I think I would have liked to lock horns with Dan Brown and the rest of the jokers. I've been mildly re-obsessing over a serial killer thriller notion I came up with years ago, would make a great piece of holiday nonsense. For a lot of these submissions I think pulp success is the territory of wildest dreams, but I could be a real contender Charlie, if I switched off the logic side of my brain...I just wrote my first few chapters for fun, any takers?
SEE THE REAL
Chapter One
1 – Double Figures
Figano crept past another failed shape, no longer thinking about how familiar each one would be if it was only complete and how horrible they all were for being not so. Double Figures, he thought.
They were calling him The Freemason. Always with the nicknames. Sort of apt, though. Left eye closed (over an empty socket). Right breast bared (nipple removed, inserted into anus – sense of humour). Left trouser rolled up to knee (lower leg removed, whereabouts undetermined). Each one nailed upright by a raised right hand, with the ring finger pinned to the palm like a secret Masonic handshake. The Chief Commissioner had been having kittens for weeks, so either the killer was a member of the gang or had really done his homework. Four more in the nest to add to the six known victims. The press were going to love this. Assuming Figano didn’t end up a decorative statistic.
Except that would work too. Double Figures. Good thing he was armed.
The hex-shot was a marvel of ballistic technology. The magnetic chamber gave each of the needles a slight negative charge as they accelerated through their barrels, causing the seven outer ones to spread away from the central one. Fast and almost totally silent, each of the eight contained a dose of nerve agent that would only impede non-vital motor functions, so it didn’t matter how many hit the target or if an unfortunate bystander got in the way, and the super-low mass meant negligible damage to any potentially valuable material surroundings, like structurally significant walls or works of art. Figano was in a burnt out warehouse. He’d left the Hex in his armpit and drawn his Rosebud.
Figano ducked under a fallen beam and wondered what it would be like to have someone waiting back home for him and worrying about his welfare. Nice, probably. Better than having a partner along for the ride, worrying about both their welfares on the job and then getting violently perforated and entrusting last words to him in a blood-bubble. Again. That didn’t seem like much of a threat anymore though. No-one had volunteered after the last one... whatever his name was... went home in a cloud of smoke and a vase, and the Loot must have figured out that, a, Figano worked better alone and, b, there’d be more hands in the bull pen to do other vital police work if they all just left him to it.
He stopped moving at a sound from up ahead. It was dark; these things always seemed to go down after the sun does for some reason; dramatic effect most likely. The warehouse was partly open to the sky, little stars twinkling in the gaps gave away the bare ribs of the roof and shed just enough light to make out a smoke stained cluster of pre-fab office units along the far wall of the ruin. No movement though.
He eased up to the only obvious entrance and gingerly pushed the door open – it didn’t creak. Result. Halfway down the charcoaled corridor were two gaping doorways in each wall, plus what looked like a motivational chart stuck up on the dead end opposite, a pie chart over the word “excellence”. The top two had lights coming from them. Figano stepped over the jam and edged towards the doorways, careful not to drag his back against the wall, stretching palms and fingers against the Rosebud’s grip. He stopped with his shoulder against the first doorframe, able to see some way into the room opposite. The back wall and ceiling were burnt out, the floor a gritty looking lake that smelled of toilet. One down.
The noise was coming from the second door up on his side. Figano sighed. Sounds like dinner. He took a deep breath, then turned quickly into the doorway beside him, gun raised. Rosebud rounds come with a one-stop-shop guarantee – they look traditional, but each one is a precisely nested cluster of steel petals which spread open and break away on impact, shredding through the target like shrapnel. The perfect bullet: aim centre torso, the easiest shot, and just one will hollow your lucky winner out from front to back without seriously breaking the skin. Head shots and wings, though – messy. But impressive.
The room was empty, apart from another corporate poster. This one said “focus”. Assholes.
Figano moved up to the last two doorways. Closer now, he could hear another sound. An electric hum, coming from behind Non-Existent Door Four. Okay Barry, you grinning mother-fucker, Figano thought to himself in the cheerily psychotic voice-over voice of everyone’s favourite show, what have I won? He took the final step up to the second doorframe and the view into the lit room opposite. He stared at the mini-generator and the tasty selection slowly turning on the rotary roaster plugged in beside it. He’s a fucking Eater, Figano thought, almost disappointed. If it wasn’t for the glass cover on the damn thing he’d have known the minute he’d stuck his nose in the pre-fabs. Tip-toeing about, what a waste of time.
“Okay, fuck it!” he said, and stepped into the last room. The guy inside looked up in surprise, caught with the crispy skin of a shin pulled tight between his teeth, delicately holding the bare knee knuckle in one hand and a flaking black wingtip in the other. He jumped up with a snarl and came out around his desk, tossing his snack down on the pile of napkins and little sauce sachets under the angle poise.
Figano pulled the trigger and the Rosebud went boom. It hit “The Freemason” in the neck and blew his head off like a popped cork. It landed on its stump with an outraged look on his face, then to add insult to injury the decapitated body toppled forward and landed on it like a touchdown tackle.
Figano re-holstered the Rosebud in the small of his back. Easy pickings, yes, but it left a bad taste in the mouth. Eaters hardly register as human; no guile, just a straight line of mean. Odd that this one would go to so much trouble with the leftovers. He pulled his cam-phone and took a few evidential snaps prior to calling in, wandering back over to the “kitchen” for a better look while he waited to be connected – which is when he spotted the bonus prize, against the wall where he couldn’t be seen from the corridor.
The room was surprisingly well decorated, nice wall paper, expensive carpet showing thick muddy tracks from when the generator and cooker had been recently wheeled in, a display cabinet full of eyeballs in little glass jars – and a well-dressed corpse with a well-chewed throat, propped up on the comfortable sofa. None of The Freemason’s flashy trademarks, this was just meat waiting to be eaten. Figano shook his head, looking at what he felt confident was the real Freemason and feeling vaguely cheated.
“Looks like you picked the wrong one for number eleven, pal,” he muttered. Still. Double Figures.2 – THE BRONX CHEER – Fanning The Flames Since 1985VAMPIRE STAKED OUT
Double Play Cop Makes It 10 For 10
By Antonio Scrofa
USPD Special Detective Libero Figano came home in style last night after taking down the tenth confirmed serial killer of his career – but not the one he was expecting. Local troublemaker The Vampire, with five heavy neckings to his own gristly credit, lucked onto the trail of Society Serial The Freemason and had himself an impromptu buffet bar at the expense of the novelty murderer’s trophy collection - but the killer-times-two evidently bit off more than he could chew when Det. Figano routed the square at The Freemason’s hideout in Mott Haven’s abandoned industrial district.
Foot Patrol
The Freemason, now identified as Arthur James Ronaldson, 46, a former resident of Fieldston, Riverdale, was discovered partially cannibalised by Det. Figano following a bloody showdown with the killer’s killer. Noted for his more elitist ritualistic stylings, The Freemason’s most high profile victim was City Councillor Jack Petrenac who was discovered in the now familiar one-legged pose four days ago, prompting long-overdue special attention from local authorities.
Love Bites
Not known for his dancing, The Freemason’s ten left feet – including Petrenac’s remaining remains – were found in sit-chew with The Vampire, AKA Marcus Burrham, recently of Locust Point. A repeated internee of the State’s underfunded Forced Medical Facilities, Burrham was noted as “a great success” in doctor’s reports prior to his last release in 2012 and re-filed as “cured” after the 30-day non-readmission period. Demands for system review by victim families and support groups have been taken “under serious consideration” according to an FMF spokesperson.
Serial Pillar of the Community
Figano, who is to be decorated by Mayor Greg Spiggert later in the week, sprang from The Bronx’s Italian community and joined the former NYPD in the late 90s, but postings around the nation have since kept him away from home. Being granted the freedom of the city hopes are high we will see much more of him in action at the nation’s number one hotspot for serial slayings. Spiggert recently attempted to deflect attention from local occurrences, referring to the national epidemic as “America’s new hobby”, while President Samson allegedly “will be praying to God for an end to the madness”. (Editorial Pg 2)
SEE THE REAL
Chapter One
1 – Double Figures
Figano crept past another failed shape, no longer thinking about how familiar each one would be if it was only complete and how horrible they all were for being not so. Double Figures, he thought.
They were calling him The Freemason. Always with the nicknames. Sort of apt, though. Left eye closed (over an empty socket). Right breast bared (nipple removed, inserted into anus – sense of humour). Left trouser rolled up to knee (lower leg removed, whereabouts undetermined). Each one nailed upright by a raised right hand, with the ring finger pinned to the palm like a secret Masonic handshake. The Chief Commissioner had been having kittens for weeks, so either the killer was a member of the gang or had really done his homework. Four more in the nest to add to the six known victims. The press were going to love this. Assuming Figano didn’t end up a decorative statistic.
Except that would work too. Double Figures. Good thing he was armed.
The hex-shot was a marvel of ballistic technology. The magnetic chamber gave each of the needles a slight negative charge as they accelerated through their barrels, causing the seven outer ones to spread away from the central one. Fast and almost totally silent, each of the eight contained a dose of nerve agent that would only impede non-vital motor functions, so it didn’t matter how many hit the target or if an unfortunate bystander got in the way, and the super-low mass meant negligible damage to any potentially valuable material surroundings, like structurally significant walls or works of art. Figano was in a burnt out warehouse. He’d left the Hex in his armpit and drawn his Rosebud.
Figano ducked under a fallen beam and wondered what it would be like to have someone waiting back home for him and worrying about his welfare. Nice, probably. Better than having a partner along for the ride, worrying about both their welfares on the job and then getting violently perforated and entrusting last words to him in a blood-bubble. Again. That didn’t seem like much of a threat anymore though. No-one had volunteered after the last one... whatever his name was... went home in a cloud of smoke and a vase, and the Loot must have figured out that, a, Figano worked better alone and, b, there’d be more hands in the bull pen to do other vital police work if they all just left him to it.
He stopped moving at a sound from up ahead. It was dark; these things always seemed to go down after the sun does for some reason; dramatic effect most likely. The warehouse was partly open to the sky, little stars twinkling in the gaps gave away the bare ribs of the roof and shed just enough light to make out a smoke stained cluster of pre-fab office units along the far wall of the ruin. No movement though.
He eased up to the only obvious entrance and gingerly pushed the door open – it didn’t creak. Result. Halfway down the charcoaled corridor were two gaping doorways in each wall, plus what looked like a motivational chart stuck up on the dead end opposite, a pie chart over the word “excellence”. The top two had lights coming from them. Figano stepped over the jam and edged towards the doorways, careful not to drag his back against the wall, stretching palms and fingers against the Rosebud’s grip. He stopped with his shoulder against the first doorframe, able to see some way into the room opposite. The back wall and ceiling were burnt out, the floor a gritty looking lake that smelled of toilet. One down.
The noise was coming from the second door up on his side. Figano sighed. Sounds like dinner. He took a deep breath, then turned quickly into the doorway beside him, gun raised. Rosebud rounds come with a one-stop-shop guarantee – they look traditional, but each one is a precisely nested cluster of steel petals which spread open and break away on impact, shredding through the target like shrapnel. The perfect bullet: aim centre torso, the easiest shot, and just one will hollow your lucky winner out from front to back without seriously breaking the skin. Head shots and wings, though – messy. But impressive.
The room was empty, apart from another corporate poster. This one said “focus”. Assholes.
Figano moved up to the last two doorways. Closer now, he could hear another sound. An electric hum, coming from behind Non-Existent Door Four. Okay Barry, you grinning mother-fucker, Figano thought to himself in the cheerily psychotic voice-over voice of everyone’s favourite show, what have I won? He took the final step up to the second doorframe and the view into the lit room opposite. He stared at the mini-generator and the tasty selection slowly turning on the rotary roaster plugged in beside it. He’s a fucking Eater, Figano thought, almost disappointed. If it wasn’t for the glass cover on the damn thing he’d have known the minute he’d stuck his nose in the pre-fabs. Tip-toeing about, what a waste of time.
“Okay, fuck it!” he said, and stepped into the last room. The guy inside looked up in surprise, caught with the crispy skin of a shin pulled tight between his teeth, delicately holding the bare knee knuckle in one hand and a flaking black wingtip in the other. He jumped up with a snarl and came out around his desk, tossing his snack down on the pile of napkins and little sauce sachets under the angle poise.
Figano pulled the trigger and the Rosebud went boom. It hit “The Freemason” in the neck and blew his head off like a popped cork. It landed on its stump with an outraged look on his face, then to add insult to injury the decapitated body toppled forward and landed on it like a touchdown tackle.
Figano re-holstered the Rosebud in the small of his back. Easy pickings, yes, but it left a bad taste in the mouth. Eaters hardly register as human; no guile, just a straight line of mean. Odd that this one would go to so much trouble with the leftovers. He pulled his cam-phone and took a few evidential snaps prior to calling in, wandering back over to the “kitchen” for a better look while he waited to be connected – which is when he spotted the bonus prize, against the wall where he couldn’t be seen from the corridor.
The room was surprisingly well decorated, nice wall paper, expensive carpet showing thick muddy tracks from when the generator and cooker had been recently wheeled in, a display cabinet full of eyeballs in little glass jars – and a well-dressed corpse with a well-chewed throat, propped up on the comfortable sofa. None of The Freemason’s flashy trademarks, this was just meat waiting to be eaten. Figano shook his head, looking at what he felt confident was the real Freemason and feeling vaguely cheated.
“Looks like you picked the wrong one for number eleven, pal,” he muttered. Still. Double Figures.2 – THE BRONX CHEER – Fanning The Flames Since 1985VAMPIRE STAKED OUT
Double Play Cop Makes It 10 For 10
By Antonio Scrofa
USPD Special Detective Libero Figano came home in style last night after taking down the tenth confirmed serial killer of his career – but not the one he was expecting. Local troublemaker The Vampire, with five heavy neckings to his own gristly credit, lucked onto the trail of Society Serial The Freemason and had himself an impromptu buffet bar at the expense of the novelty murderer’s trophy collection - but the killer-times-two evidently bit off more than he could chew when Det. Figano routed the square at The Freemason’s hideout in Mott Haven’s abandoned industrial district.
Foot Patrol
The Freemason, now identified as Arthur James Ronaldson, 46, a former resident of Fieldston, Riverdale, was discovered partially cannibalised by Det. Figano following a bloody showdown with the killer’s killer. Noted for his more elitist ritualistic stylings, The Freemason’s most high profile victim was City Councillor Jack Petrenac who was discovered in the now familiar one-legged pose four days ago, prompting long-overdue special attention from local authorities.
Love Bites
Not known for his dancing, The Freemason’s ten left feet – including Petrenac’s remaining remains – were found in sit-chew with The Vampire, AKA Marcus Burrham, recently of Locust Point. A repeated internee of the State’s underfunded Forced Medical Facilities, Burrham was noted as “a great success” in doctor’s reports prior to his last release in 2012 and re-filed as “cured” after the 30-day non-readmission period. Demands for system review by victim families and support groups have been taken “under serious consideration” according to an FMF spokesperson.
Serial Pillar of the Community
Figano, who is to be decorated by Mayor Greg Spiggert later in the week, sprang from The Bronx’s Italian community and joined the former NYPD in the late 90s, but postings around the nation have since kept him away from home. Being granted the freedom of the city hopes are high we will see much more of him in action at the nation’s number one hotspot for serial slayings. Spiggert recently attempted to deflect attention from local occurrences, referring to the national epidemic as “America’s new hobby”, while President Samson allegedly “will be praying to God for an end to the madness”. (Editorial Pg 2)