INternet CELebrity
A taste of evil, just before the end of part I.
“News about Claire lingered, unavoidable even when I tried to escape it. But all the momentum her story had in the media was killed stone dead by Adam Gilroy. Another American mass shooter. A seventeen-year-old pimple-faced scumbag who took his father's AR-15 and massacred 17 people at a mall. After the carnage, he ran into the elevator, pressed up, and blew his head off before the doors could again open. A psychiatrist would probably say Adam Gilroy and I have a lot in common. I’d take great offense to that. I have no respect, no sympathy for mass shooters. I’m not saying I had total mercy on the innocent either, it wasn’t. It’s not. I knew the day would come when I would have to kill an innocent person, male or female, young or old, to get away, to continue purifying the world. And in the moment, I’m sure it would be worth it, sure I wouldn’t hesitate. But I am nothing, nothing like Adam Gilroy! I'm sure he had sexual demons, some kind of deeply embedded misogyny he’d use to justify this incoherent terror. Whether it was incurable psychosis, personal grievance, religious radicalization, or an uncle who diddled him—it doesn’t matter. There’s no excuse for that kind of misguided, unfocused mayhem against innocent people. The goal is to purify, not eliminate at random. I’m bringing order to the world; Gilroy wasn't. The me without medicine might’ve had a twisted sympathy, but no longer. And the thing is, someone will shoot up a mall again tomorrow, and the day after that. In America, this we know. This lust for the camera they all seem to have, to be remembered, doesn’t work anymore because there are so many mass shootings. In one news cycle, aside from those directly affected, nobody will remember the name Adam Gilroy. What a waste of good ammo. Although it makes for a great national distraction, diverting attention away from the adequate killers. Although, there’s someone, somewhere, still working on the murders. They just have nothing on me. I don’t care about being remembered. Which is why I very well might be.
Aside from needing to have their victims, serial killers fall into other pitfalls that get them caught. One of the big mistakes? They never murder across racial lines. For some reason, serial murderers just never do it. They become obsessed with a certain look, usually fair skin and blue eyes, a sense of wholesomeness they can get off on snuffing out. They only kill and keep women they fantasize about falling in love with. Girls they would dream of normal relations with, marriage and whatnot, if they weren’t hapless inadequate psychopaths. Simple minded folks prone to tunnel vision, trapping themselves in their own obsessions. Race didn’t factor into my criteria, nor did a demented love for my victims. Well, the former did, this time, simply to throw a wrinkle in the established profile. Fine by me. Who am I to discriminate? Black whores lying and stealing on OnlyFans were guilty, just like Natalie, just like Claire…
Proximity was another pitfall, they always killed in some semblance of a traceable pattern. And they always use a car, more specifically a van. I’d break the mold. The medicine makes it so fixation doesn’t dictate my movements.
I was willing to adapt, to evolve. So, I set my sights on the West Coast, where I’d rent a Nissan Sentra. Get some sun in the meantime. Marjorie had a ton of flier miles she sat on, and she was paying me plenty. I’ll book an anonymous hotel, I thought. An off-brand Marriott, not too expensive, but not cheap. No Airbnb’s. Too many nanny cams. I compiled a list of all the black girls on OnlyFans in the area, and then checked to see which did the most lying, and which whores best fit my criteria. One of the girls matched my specifications so perfectly he beckoned, just a bit, beneath my boxers. She was hot too; God was she sexy. He was still alive, down but not out. I took a gulp of water, nervous to see him.
I wasted no time. Part of me wanted to take a month off the meds to play with myself silly, pleasuring myself to her. But I didn’t. I was afraid I'd never get this momentum back, never again harbor such power, such control. This girl lied so much about the content of her content, it felt like she was robbing the pockets of God himself for making man in his image. She needed to go. I injected myself with a firm dose that night, waited two weeks for the medicine to seep deep into my bones, caught Marjorie up on her needs, and jumped on a plane to LAX. California air. California love. Once refreshing, now putrid, soon to be clean again…”
INternet CELebrity is a 34k word novella and manuscript editions are for sale in the shop for 15.99
