Nature and
nurture, all the forces of the invisible but undeniable structure that supports
every silly little thing that seem very important before one looks death square
in the face and lets the illusion of sanity drain away. The illusions, the
mythologies, they still have power even after this encounter. They creep back
in and the false comforts are difficult to resist, especially in light of the
alternative. The upshot of all this bullshit is that there is no single moment
that defines any given human soul, just slow slides toward a direction that is
probably almost completely predetermined, broken up by occasional retreats or
halting inertia provided by moments of genuine happiness and connection to the
world. They’re fleeting and then the steady drift toward destiny resumes.
He was at a
bar, trying his best to both fit in and stand out all at the same time. Not
easy. Conflicting bits of advice from websites that taught “game” and polite
society that teaches everything but that swirled behind glazed eyes, the eyes
of a toad. The half empty scotch-n-soda was held at chest level, almost like a
holy cross to ward off the freaks that came out with the night, even in an
idealistic suburban bubble. It took tremendous force of will to force the prop
back down to waist level, where it would communicate the confidence of the pack
leader, according to some half-remembered website. A warm drop of sweat slid
down the side of his face. It was late summer, deep in the dog days. The press
of warm bodies and the stress of having to “assume the sale” within this meat
market was not helping.
Yeah,
genetics and conditioning. Add in existing societal structures and expectations
and you’ve got your holy trinity. The drink was back up in front of a
quivering, moist sternum. Thirty Five years old. Happy fucking birthday.
Thinning list of women who even acknowledge your existence, thinning patience,
thinning hair, widening midsection, all that shit. It was time to change it.
Three second approach, don’t want to be a coward or worse a beta. No turning
back now, target acquired. The glass flew back to the beltline with a spastic
jerk, spilling water and booze on his cool new shoes. A man sliding toward a
happier future might make some crack about the alligators being hungry and
giving them a drink, but he was nearly paralyzed by a combination of fear and
narrowed purpose.
“You ready
to get out of here?” It came out as a an awkward squawk. The female target
turned slightly toward the source of the unpleasant outburst, orange skin
crunching itself into exaggerated disapproval. That or a catcher’s mitt with
light blue eyes.
“What did
you say?” Just a small hint of carefree mirth peeked through the heavy weight
of social rejection and it was enough to encourage that this doomed mission to
pound crotch would continue to its inevitable crash and burn.
“I was
thinking we should get out of here.” He felt faint, light and dark and wacky
signs and beer ads and bottles of all shapes and colors swirled into a
hedonistic blur. Then everything focused in on that unnaturally tinted face,
the face of a tanning bed angel.
She
laughed, but the mirth was gone now, replaced by dismissive malice. “Get lost.”
A staggered retreat, more unpleasantly joyful braying as the only companion for
the promised activity of getting out of there.
You can’t
blame it on that one moment, or really any other. The first murder didn’t
happen for several days and was a random victim instead of the obvious choice. It
was the end of a long and lonesome road, not a sudden deviation caused by
failure in love. That’s not to say that the undrained testes don’t play a major
role in these sort of crimes, because they certainly do, but let’s not lose all
the other complexities to simple myopia. If you want to keep it simple just
blame crap nu-metal and the video game boogey man. It’s easy and no one with
any real power would ever call you out for it.
Days passed
after that failure to fire the love rocket and then there was that encounter
with the human road kill, another precious soul in GOD’s image whose own
pathetic path toward ruin was cut short by a merger with a tough as all Hell
truck. It probably had at least some impact on the decision to start
human-hunting, but it’s hard to say. Tuck that shit into a file, stamp “not
otherwise specified” on it and forget it, we don’t have much more time to spend
on this.
Then the
kill. Just a blur, spraying blood, knife reflecting the moonlight, muscles
aching from the effort. It might have been a minute, but it passed by in a few
seconds. Back to the hole in the wall, over the toilet, the yellow yawn.
Insides feeling like they’re being shredded, body shaking, consciousness lost
into a vanishing point. The “I’ll never do this again, ever” of a regretful
drunk, knowing full well that he inevitably would, that free will was nothing
but a cruel joke at this point, that something was broken in the mind. Not even
something large, not a universal joint or the like. Just one tiny part. But it
was enough to compromise the entire system.
Then
another and another. Bomb making materials. Auto-pilot. Hurt by so few, but
everyone has to pay. Humanity lost. Another interesting story for the back page
of the paper. We can all shake our heads and cluck and “there but by the grace
of god” and all that shit. Yeah, that’s you.
