D and I were sitting in bland TGI Friday’s-style restaurant when we started thinking about how often parents expect their children to carry on the family business, despite whether or not the kid is interested in it or good at it. What happens if more nefarious parents wanted their children to carry on the family “business” of some horrible crime? Might such a character dutifully try, fail, and eventually find his or her own path in life? We started listing all the ways the children of a serial killer might fail miserably. Thus, Bertrand was created.
Today I said, “I don’t know. Do you think my humorous story about a failed serial killer is offensive?”
“No,” said D. “I don’t think it’s offensive at all.”
Then we realized he was wearing a Johnny the Homicidal Maniac t-shirt (hilarious yet twisted graphic novel from Jhonen Vasquez). So perhaps he’s not the best judge of such things.
Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t post it here. I just know that if my nemesis tries to frame me for a heinous crime, the media will be crawling all over this blog (Ooh! Publicity!) screeching, “Look! Her blog has stories about serial killers!“ In which case I’ll have to wonder if this story will be more or less incriminating than satanic marsupials, death by fuzz fuschia bikini, and engaging in conversation with spambots.
At any rate, enjoy a little Halloween horror/humor, and know that it all ends well for everyone (well … the bugs might have something to say about that). It’s a bit long, so I gave it tiny little chapters.
BERTRAND THE SERIAL KILLER’S BAD DAY
“Killin’ ain’t easy,” Bertrand’s dad had said just before the execution. “It’s messy and it kinda smells bad, and your victims say some awful mean things to ya.” Strapped into the electric chair, he had locked eyes with his son and rasped, “But son, don’t forget your Daddy. Carry on my legacy!”
What do you say to a thing like that? If you were Bertrand, you said “Yes, sir!”, knowing that one must never disobey one’s parents. And that is why, eight months later, Bertrand carefully placed his Daddy’s old butcher knife in his knapsack, dressed in his best —and first — killing outfit like an uncomfortable schoolboy in his Sunday best. Trembling just a bit, he stepped onto the busy city sidewalk. He had worked on his plan, which he called “Operation Serendipity,” for weeks. He ducked into a phone booth, closed his eyes, and ruffled through the pages to choose the location of his first victim. He stopped on a whim and looked at the address under his finger. What luck! An address not ten blocks from home. “I can do this, Daddy!” he proclaimed as he dashed down the street towards destiny.
1. Thwarted by Suicidal Tendencies
The house was disappointingly easy to enter, and this dashed his hopes for a grand, door-kicking entrance worthy of the best action movie. The door was unlocked. “In this neighborhood?” he muttered. “Man, that’s suicidal.”
In the tiny bathroom, a thin man with a razor in hand sat by the bathtub. Bertrand took out his butcher knife and stood awkwardly for a moment. How did one begin a murder? He cleared his throat. “Uh …I’m here to kill you.”
The man jumped up. “You are? Oh, thank god! I’ve been trying to kill myself for two days now, and I keep losing my nerve. I just can’t deal with this cruel world anymore.”
Bertrand stared open-mouthed.
The man walked over and clasped Bertrand’s hand. “You are like an angel sent from heaven to help me leave this awful place.” He leaned over to kiss Bertrand’s cheek.
“Aggh! No kisses!” cried Bertrand, backing away. His father had always made serial killing sound so glamorous. Serial killers were supposed to enjoy killing their unwilling victims, and the victims were supposed to play their roles correctly. This guy was misbehaving and worse, he was affectionate!
Bertrand fled the way he came, disappointed that Operation Serendipity encountered a hitch already. He could hear the suicidal man calling him back, but he didn’t stop.
2. Defied by Inconvenient Expirations
Back in his own neighborhood, Bertrand stared at his reflection in a shop window and said, “Cheer up, old boy. Of course killing is hard for beginners. Chin up! Try again!” So Bertrand went back to the phone booth and chose another address. This address was farther away, and Bertrand was weary when he arrived. The door was locked, but his exhaustion prevented him from kicking in the door. Instead, he crawled through an open bathroom window. He landed in the toilet, soaking his new shoes. How upsetting! He had bought them especially for killing, and now they were ruined.
As he walked into the hall, squishing with each step, a woman standing at the kitchen counter looked up. “I am here to kill you!” said Bertrand. This time, he chose what he hoped was a more menacing manner. The woman screamed and looked frightened, but Bertrand’s success was short-lived. The woman clutched her chest and shouted, “My heart!” as she collapsed.
He didn’t even have time to get out his butcher knife. “Oh no!” he groaned. “Don’t die, lady. You can’t die yet! I have to kill you!” He tried to recall his high school education in CPR, but could only watch the woman expire on the tiled floor. Bertrand sighed walked into the apartment lobby.
3. Rejected by Tiny Ruffians
Whatever should he do? It was no time to be gloomy, he decided – it was time for creativity and thinking outside the box!. He glanced around for inspiration and noticed group of children playing in the unattended lobby. Easy pickings, he thought. Maybe this was the perfect setup for his first murder. Perhaps he’d been too ambitious earlier.
He burst into the play circle and held up his butcher knife. “Gonna kill you!” he shrieked. The children looked at him in silent skepticism. “What?” he frowned.
“That ain’t a real knife,” one helpful rug rat said.
In horror, he looked at his treasured butcher knife. He had accidentally grabbed his favorite Halloween prop, the one that worked so well for his annual “Mad Serial Killer” Halloween costume. How humiliating! And to think that he’d already threatened two people with it this evening.
“Ah … uh … that’s right! I was going to …to… play with you.”
“We don’t wanna play with you,” the oldest kid snapped. “You got funny hair and you smell like pickles.”
He had, in fact, eaten pickles. It was a bad habit of his, eating an entire jar of Kosher Dill pickles for supper. However, he didn’t think there was anything wrong with his mullet. The kids picked up their marbles and left, muttering among themselves.
4. Bedeviled by Bullets
He trudged home to his room. He was having a decidedly bad night. Being a serial killer was so hard! Daddy had always made it seem graceful and easy. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” he thought and then corrected himself with, “No, I’m not a quitter. So what if I screwed up on the knife? I have a gun, too!” He rummaged through his closet until he found his father’s old gun gleaming cool and bright. He smiled. There was always another path to choose. And why the elaborate ritual of finding an address in the phone book? Why not just find the first house that called to him? He wandered until he found a townhouse on a quiet corner. Perfect. He strode confidently through the front door, surprising a young couple watching television. “KILL YOU!” he shrieked, pulling the trigger. Click. Furious, he pulled the trigger again and again, but only clicking ensued.
“I …” the young woman stammered, dropping her knitting needles. “I don’t think it’s loaded.”
A long silence filled the room, broken by the sounds of Star Trek on TV. “Most illogical,” commented Mr. Spock.
Bertrand hung his head, pressing his hands to his temples. How could he forget to load the gun? What kind of a crappy serial killer was he? Stunned by his own ineptness, he fled back into the night. He was so glad his Daddy couldn’t see his failure of a son.
5. Apprehended by Elderly Attitude
As he passed an old movie theater, he saw an advertisement for Friday the Thirteenth XXXII: No, We’ll Never Give Up. He paused. Was the universe encouraging him to not give up? He studied the poster. Maybe he needed to add more drama to his technique. He’d been taking the direct route, but people enjoyed costumes and special effects. Inspired, he dashed home and again rummaged around until he found an old catcher’s mask. It was a little small (he’d had it in Little League) and of course it wasn’t a hockey mask like in the Friday the Thirteenth movies, but it would do. And this time, he’d load the gun.
Pleased with himself, he walked back outside and scanned his neighborhood, hoping for a psychic “killer’s intuition” about the best victim. There! The last house on the left, that would do. He donned the mask, wincing at the tight fit, and burst into the house with gun held aloft. An old woman sat grooming a small dog, which began yapping immediately. Bertrand shouted threateningly, “I’m going to ki–” but he stopped, gagging as the catcher’s mask caught on his large, buckish teeth. He tried moving his jaw, but the mask was stuck good.
“Oh my, Muffin!” said the old lady in a tremulous voice. “I think that young man is trying to kill us! Oh! Oh!”
Bertrand dropped the gun and wrestled with the mask, which was quite painful against his teeth. The little dog launched itself at him, propelling Bertrand backwards into the open window. He crashed through the screen and the sash slammed shut on his ankle, leaving him dangling from the window as Muffin gnawed on his exposed leg. He twisted around, still struggling with the mask, and saw the old lady totter to her feet and shuffle to her walker. He heard the squeak and thump as she inched across the floor, out the door, and down the sidewalk. She paused underneath him and shook her fist while the little dog continued to bark. “You young hooligan!” she hollered in a reedy voice. “You get out of my window!” She watched him dangle for a moment or two, then said, “Come along, Muffin, we’ll get the police.”
Squeak, thump. Squeak, thump. He watched as she disappeared down the sidewalk. After an agonizing quarter of an hour, the windowsill gave way and he plummeted to the ground. The fall dislodged the mask, and he lay gasping for a moment.
6. Foiled by Fashion
He climbed to his battered feet, dusting off his newly-torn jacket, which had also been a special purchase for the purpose of killing. He sighed and once more began to trudge home. He could think of nothing but the evening’s mishaps. He passed bums and hookers who waved at him, but he didn’t wave back. He passed drug houses and parks filled with gang members. He saw two twelve year olds threatening each other with large semi-automatic weapons. A tear fell from his eye as he walked past. “Even kids can do better than I!”
Then a pale gleam caught his eye. A figure stood in a building, distracted and unmoving. Here was his chance –someone defenseless and unaware! He fumbled with the gun and loaded it, then took careful aim at the figure. He would be a stealth killer this time! The guy would never know what hit him! He let loose, screaming in relief. Daddy would be proud this time!
But as the dust cleared, Bertrand realized his mistake. The building front said “Macy’s.” The store mannequin’s trendy clothing was in tatters, and its head hung askew. It glared at him in seeming contempt.
As the sirens began blaring, Bertrand ran, cheeks blazing. “I give up, ok?” he shouted to the quiet residential neighborhood he ran through. “I give up! I’ll never be a serial killer!”
7. Pestered by the Paranormal
As he ran, he began to calm down. The problem, he realized, was the city with its cold bright lights, jaded people, and many distractions. What he needed was quiet and tranquility to clear his mind. It was foolish to start his career in an urban area. He slowed as he reached the outskirts of town, where large oak trees grew, a creek burbled, and city lights twinkled in the distance. As he walked deeper into the wilderness, he heard grunting and saw two large figures in a clearing.
“Oho! A lover’s lane and an amorous couple!” To cut is teeth on something so classic would be wonderful, but his gun was empty and he was without his knife. What to do, what to do?
“Be creative, Bertie!” he whispered. “What do you have in your knapsack?” Silently, he took it off and sorted through it. Playing cards. Peanut butter sandwich. Anatomy book. Michael Jackson CD. Rope.
Rope! He had learned how to tie a noose in the Boy Scouts when other kids struggled with simple nautical knots. This was his chance to shine! Any old serial killer could stab and shoot. It took real talent and creativity to use a noose.
Smiling, he approached the naughty couple. But as he approached, the man whirled around and Bertrand caught a glimpse in the moonlight.
It wasn’t a lovestruck couple … it was Sasquatch!
“OH SHIT!” screamed Bertrand. He turned on heel and fled through the forest. The creature’s breath was on his back! Could this night get any worse? “Oh my god, oh my god, it’s all true, Bigfoot is real!” The stench of the foul beast was unbearable. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he shouted as he stumbled over branches and shrubs in the darkness. Was this his punishment for attempting to kill? Could God have sent this thing to kill him, to show him what it was like to die? “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll give up killing, I didn’t want to do it, really, don’t eat me!”
8. Mentored by a Murderer
And magically, the roaring of the beast faded as it lost interest. Bertrand continued running until he collapsed near an isolated old cabin. Chest heaving, he looked around him. A pleasant glow came from the door and the gentle sounds of new age music drifted from the windows. He smelled bacon and beans cooking.
Bertrand relaxed. No Sasquatch here! He peeked beyond the gingham curtains. A grizzled old man sat reading a book by the light of a kerosene lamp. Bertrand wondered if this defenseless grandfather was his last chance to prove himself. He hesitated, fingers gripping the rope. Hadn’t he just sworn in front of God and Sasquatch that he would give up on killing? Wouldn’t it be good to put this failure behind him and just read a book like this old man?
But his father’s words echoed in his ears, and he knew he must honor his father’s memory. He steeled himself to garrote the man. He crept in through the shack’s back door, holding out the rope with trembling hands. Sweat dripped from his brow.
And then the old man said without turning around, “Look around you, son. You might reconsider.”
Bertrand froze. Upon closer inspection he saw the man was reading a book titled The Lives of Famous Murderers. One wall of the little cabin was covered with newspaper clippings, the most prominent reading, “Serial Killer claims hundreds of lives!” It was directly under a scribbled sticky note that said, “That’s me!!!” The opposite wall displayed a shelf of human skulls, and on the kitchen counter lay a handwritten recipe that read, “Long Pig with Lentils and Basil.”
Bertrand gulped and realized that yes, the night could get worse, and it had. The man turned around and smiled, pulling a chair out from the table. ‘Sit down, sit down,” he said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“N-no thanks,” said Bertrand, sitting down. It would never do to accept a drink from a serial killer. He admired the man, he had to admit. He had never considered poisoning. How subtle and sophisticated! He felt ashamed of his youthful blunders, kicking in doors and screaming. How very childish.
The old man settled back in his chair. “Now son,” he said earnestly, “why did you come in here to kill me?”
Bertrand looked down at the worn floorboards. “I was going to be a serial killer,” he mumbled.
“Really?” asked the old man. “Now why would you want to do that? Being a serial killer is hard work. You’re always on the run, always searching for that perfect victim.” He paused, then leaned forward. “The perfect victim never came, did he?” he said softly.
Sniffling, Bertrand shook his head. “I … I’m a failure. Daddy would be so ashamed of me if he could see me now.”
“So your daddy was a serial killer, was he?” Bertrand nodded. “Oh, now don’t say that you’re a failure, young man. You’re not a failure. You’re just trying to live up to an ideal, trying to make your daddy proud. But you know what?”
Bertrand looked into the man’s wizened old face. “What?”
“Serial killin’ ain’t for everyone. Hell, if every Tom, Dick, and Harry did it, there’d be no one left to kill! It’s hard work, and to tell you the truth, I gave it up myself. Just ain’t worth the trouble and after awhile you start regrettin’ it all.” He smiled. “Tell you what, son, you need to channel that killin’ energy into something productive. I mean, serial killin’ ain’t exactly lucrative.” He gestured to his meager cabin. “You ever thought of a career in pest control?”
Bertrand frowned. “Pest … what?”
The man slapped the table enthusiastically. “You know who needs to die? Now it ain’t poor widows, high school lovers, or random people on the street. It’s roaches!”
“Roaches?”
“Roaches. Think about it. Goddamned bugs all over the place. No respect for humanity, always crawling wherever they damned please, spreading disease. Give ‘em even a little slack and the next thing you know, they’re in your bed!”
Bertrand considered it. Roaches were disgusting creatures indeed. In fact, the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Roaches crawling around like they owned the world, congregating in the night like vampires! Why, THEY were the ones who needed to die! Whatever made him think that innocent people needed to die when the real jerks were swarming around on floors across the country?
The old man nodded. “That’s right, son. You start thinking for yourself, and let your Daddy’s memory rest. He’ll be proud of you so long as you’re killing something. Do some good in the world.”
Bertrand leaped to his feet and shook the old man’s hand. “Thank you, mister! I can’t tell you how grateful I am! I … I never wanted to be a serial killer, not really, and now you’ve given me a new path!”
The old man walked Bertrand to the door. Bertrand, who was busily planning his new business and dazzled by visions of gas masks and roach motels, did not hear the old man murmur, “Kid’s too skinny to make good stew anyway.”
And from then on, Bertrand no longer aspired to kill fellow human beings. He became a passionate exterminator and the sole proprietor of “Bert’s Bug Killing.” He loved the sight of dead roaches, and the relieved smiles of his customers. He killed every day, and enjoyed every moment of his life, which was tragically cut short by all the chemicals he inadvertently inhaled daily. However, Bertrand died happy and in service to the good of mankind, and that is a life worth living.
Hilariously weird cartoon from the Environmental Health Watch (http://www.ehw.org) about how roach motels work . Click the picture to read the whole thing. However, in my experience, roach motels don't really work. Borax sprinkled in the roach-prone areas works much better.
Tags: Extreme Optimism, Mythological Mishaps, Rampaging by splarks
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I found this weird little poem in my 2007 writing archives. It popped into my head unbidden during a lakeside walk, and it had a vaguely 
