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Flash Friday 04/04/2014: Murder Matters

April 4, 2014

“I told you once, and I shan’t tell you again.” Rose Thorn drew a rose from his suit pocket, peering at it through his opera mask. “This house is, strictly speaking, under my turf as an established serial killer in this area. Please, do your ‘business’ elsewhere.”

“Whaddya mean, ‘business’?” The Lumberjack hefted the chainsaw off of his freakishly well-built, shirtless back, staring at Rose Thorn over a bushy, unkempt ginger beard. “This is a good a business as yours, laddie. We’re both in it for the killin’.”

“Excuse me.” Janet raised a hand, catching both of their attentions. “I’d really rather prefer if both of you just got out of my house and, you know…didn’t bother with this murdering thing.”

“Please, take your presence out of this debate.” Rose Thorn wafted a dismissing hand. “This is purely a discussion between professionals. Between the two of us, I’m sure we can strike an agreement as to how you will be best murdered. Or, rather, how best you’d be murdered by me, and have a total hackjob done to you by the Lumberjack here.”

“Oh! I suppose that’s what you’re calling me, eh? A hackjob. Well, I’ll tell you one thing, big girl. A lot more blood, sweat and tears goes into my style than yours will ever do.”

“My style is perfection.” With a flick of the twist, a fan of knives appeared in Rose Thorn’s hand. He turned them in the light, admiring their shine. “I make a work of art out of my corpses. I take the pure irony from their daily lives and careers and bring it forth in their final testament to the world. A butcher found dead with marks over his body, highlighting the best meat cuts for a prime steak. A trapper found by the police in the woods, with every trap he used against the animal used against himself. You do not get this level of detail from any other serial killer. Especially not you. If I was a man who could appreciate a fine meal, you’d be the child in the high chair flinging pudding at the walls.”

“I’ll have you know that a lot of work goes into what I do. I don’t screw about with that namby-pamby irony or destiny bollocks. I have a big old arsenal of weapons at my disposal.”

“Oh?” Rose Thorn smirked. “And what might those be?”

“Chainsaw. Oh, and an axe.” The Lumberjack drew a crude wood-cutting axe from a holder on his back, showing the weapons on either hand. “Mostly the chainsaw, though.”

Rose Thorn snorted. “Impressive.”

“I’ll tell you what’s impressive, sonny-jim. The amount of pure skill I can do with my chainsaw deserves a place in a gallery somewhere.”

“All you do is cut them into tiny pieces and throw the bits around.”

“Well, of course you’d say that. Someone like you won’t appreciate the finer details of an honest-to-God chainsaw massacre. Where do you think the bloody message would go, eh? On the walls? On the floor? And what would the message say? Go on, what do you think it’d say?”

Rose Thorn shrugged, looking away. “I-I have no idea. ‘Help me’, perhaps?”

“‘Help me’. Ha! What a stupid suggestion. Maybe if you were framing someone for a murder, that would help. But no — you are the murderer, so you get to write stuff like ‘I WILL STRIKE AGAIN’ or ‘THIS WON’T BE THE LAST’ or ‘VISIT MY LINKEDIN PROFILE FOR COMPETITIVE RATES’ or something. And then — and then! — there’s the matter of blood-to-room coverage to take into account.”

“Oh, I know this one. You just throw it about willy-nilly.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. There’s a surprisingly little amount of blood in the body, so you’ve got to really make the most out of what you get, you know? You have to really be efficient with how much of the floor and the walls you paint red, or else you’re going to be caught short with half of your murder scene done. That’s really embarrassing, seeing your work in the paper where only one of the two walls you were hoping to get is blood-stained. Makes me want to hide forever.”

“It’s still barbaric. My way is better.”

“Nope.” The Lumberjack shook his heavy head. “Mine is.”

Rose Thorn sighed. “At this rate, nobody’s going to get anyone murdered.”

“Well…” The Lumberjack stroked his beard. “We could always go halves. Like, if I split her down the middle, then you can do your pansy art stuff with your half, and I can do my craft with my own.”

“Why do you split her in half?”

“You what?”

“I said, why do you get to do the honours of splitting her in half?”

“It’s because I have the chainsaw, don’t I? Look, alright, I’ll lop off the head, and you can have that. The head really is the best bit. Then, I cut her down the middle. Okay?”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“Glad we could come to an agreement.”

The two serial killers shook hands.

“Right,” The Lumberjack said, turning to the lady. “What we’re going to need you to do is bow down with your neck stuck out and scream as loud as you ca–”

The Lumberjack, however, was not speaking to anyone. Where a lady once was, there was now an open window, the wind from outside tossing the curtains around. A note left on the windowsill read ‘IOU one murder’.

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” the Lumberjack said, putting a hand on the shoulder of the defeated-looking Rose Thorn. “Let’s just go down the pub and murder a few beers.”

“Oh, go on then. But if they don’t serve cocktails, then I’m leaving.”

954 words

Inspired by this comment thread!

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6 Comments
  1. Hah!

    I’m a bit nervous at how easily you came up with this… but I’m sure you’re nervous about me for pushing the idea in front of you in the first place. LOL!

    Good one!

  2. anglynnofnano permalink

    Ah, love it!

  3. I;m with the post-modern irony approach to serial killing. It;s all about the messaging! Good fun story

  4. LOL Grey. This is great!

  5. LOL This is perfect. Just perfect.

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