10:00 PM
This was ridiculous. Roxanne had received an email from the Director of the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America). What the fuck? Since when was there a guild? And what kind of stupid, fucking name...
Dear Roxanne (aka Cherry Lips, the Bloody, Booby Killer),
My name is Samuel Stysick and I am the current Director of the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America). I am writing to inform you that the guild is considering you for automatic representation due to your outstanding reputation as a serial killer. All you will need to do to complete the application process, is make a novel kill in the name of the guild. This payment will constitute your first year of guild dues. Should this invitation interest you, as I imagine it might, you need not respond. Simply make your kill on behalf of the guild. We will know.
Yours Sincerely,
Samuel Stysick
the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America)
Roxanne was furious. Who the fuck thought that she wanted anything to do with their little club? She wasn't an idiot. She knew what collated meant. She also knew that an organized union of serial killers was a bloody terrible idea. She hadn't built an outstanding reputation by working in a group. How did they even know her name? Suddenly she had a worrying thought.
Was this a trap? Perhaps some kind of a sting? Was the government trying to collect serial killers? To exterminate them? To employ them in some kind of Suicide Squad? Enough.
The fact that the email may have been a trap or a genuine offer was irrelevant. Somebody knew the true identity of Cherry Lips, the Bloody, Booby Killer. That would never do. There was only one thing to do, a response that would end this conversation for good, regardless of whomever was running the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America). It was time for Cherry Lips to get ready.
3:00 AM
Samuel Stysick should have been fast asleep. He had a meeting with the board of directors at eight o'clock, but his insomnia had gotten the better of him. He walked from his bed to his office, it was a combination study / laboratory. A large metal table sat at the center of the room in front of his library and mahogany desk. On the metal table was Samuel Stysick's last boyfriend, naked and bound, a large incision that started from his chest and ended at his navel was spread open with metal pliers. The naked man was attached to an electronic blood pump that was keeping him alive. Often, when Samuel Stysick couldn't sleep, he would come to his office and simply admire his work, or talk to his boyfriend... or in this case, both. His boyfriend could not speak, however, because his mouth had been shut with surgical tape. Samuel Stysick really only liked the sound of his own voice, anyway. However, before he could regale his captive audience with stories of grim horror, the fluorescent bulbs overhead flickered and burst. In fact, all the lights in his penthouse apartment seemed to have gone out simultaneously. Stysick walked to the living room window. The lights were still on in the street and the buildings opposite him. It must be a localized issue. Stysick didn't know a thing about circuit breakers. He turned back toward his study just as a delicate hand inserted a syringe into his neck.
Roxanne was thrilled by the Director's penthouse. His penchant for vivisection meant he had all the equipment Roxanne would need for her next great work of art. She was a professional, and of course had her own equipment but it was superfluous in the face of all the glorious metal tools that Stysick kept in his office. The anesthetic was quick to work on the Director. He had collapsed before losing consciousness. Roxanne dragged his body to the center of the study, where she wheeled a second metal table up next to the Director's boyfriend. She was a strong woman, who had been in the game for a while, and was therefore able to muscle the Director onto the second table. She took his hand and the hand of the Director's boyfriend and clasped them together, romantically. Using fabric shears provided by the Director himself, Roxanne cut through Samuel Stysick's shirt. With an open canvas in front of her, the real work could finally begin.
Samuel Stysick died at some point during the procedure. Roxanne's victims always did. However the goal had been the procedure itself, the artistry it employed. The demise of the patient was usually irrelevant, though in this case, utilitarian. And although the Director's boyfriend had never been a target, Roxanne couldn't pass up the opportunity that had presented itself, to create a brand new work of art, one that incorporated two bodies, joined at the hands like lovers. It was downright poetic. Roxanne stepped back from the table to admire her work. Both men had been given gorgeous breast implants. C cups were given to the boyfriend, while the Director now sported beautiful, perky, D cup breasts. Her work was so flawless, the incisions could not even be seen, and she had masked the residual bruising with makeup. Both men's lips had been painted a gorgeous Cherry Red.
Roxanne was beside herself with happiness, it was her best work yet. Her response to the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America) would go down in history as two of the most artistic kills in a generation... and with such an action, Cherry Lips, the Bloody, Booby Killer became the New Acting Director of the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America).
This was ridiculous. Roxanne had received an email from the Director of the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America). What the fuck? Since when was there a guild? And what kind of stupid, fucking name...
Dear Roxanne (aka Cherry Lips, the Bloody, Booby Killer),
My name is Samuel Stysick and I am the current Director of the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America). I am writing to inform you that the guild is considering you for automatic representation due to your outstanding reputation as a serial killer. All you will need to do to complete the application process, is make a novel kill in the name of the guild. This payment will constitute your first year of guild dues. Should this invitation interest you, as I imagine it might, you need not respond. Simply make your kill on behalf of the guild. We will know.
Yours Sincerely,
Samuel Stysick
the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America)
Roxanne was furious. Who the fuck thought that she wanted anything to do with their little club? She wasn't an idiot. She knew what collated meant. She also knew that an organized union of serial killers was a bloody terrible idea. She hadn't built an outstanding reputation by working in a group. How did they even know her name? Suddenly she had a worrying thought.
Was this a trap? Perhaps some kind of a sting? Was the government trying to collect serial killers? To exterminate them? To employ them in some kind of Suicide Squad? Enough.
The fact that the email may have been a trap or a genuine offer was irrelevant. Somebody knew the true identity of Cherry Lips, the Bloody, Booby Killer. That would never do. There was only one thing to do, a response that would end this conversation for good, regardless of whomever was running the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America). It was time for Cherry Lips to get ready.
3:00 AM
Samuel Stysick should have been fast asleep. He had a meeting with the board of directors at eight o'clock, but his insomnia had gotten the better of him. He walked from his bed to his office, it was a combination study / laboratory. A large metal table sat at the center of the room in front of his library and mahogany desk. On the metal table was Samuel Stysick's last boyfriend, naked and bound, a large incision that started from his chest and ended at his navel was spread open with metal pliers. The naked man was attached to an electronic blood pump that was keeping him alive. Often, when Samuel Stysick couldn't sleep, he would come to his office and simply admire his work, or talk to his boyfriend... or in this case, both. His boyfriend could not speak, however, because his mouth had been shut with surgical tape. Samuel Stysick really only liked the sound of his own voice, anyway. However, before he could regale his captive audience with stories of grim horror, the fluorescent bulbs overhead flickered and burst. In fact, all the lights in his penthouse apartment seemed to have gone out simultaneously. Stysick walked to the living room window. The lights were still on in the street and the buildings opposite him. It must be a localized issue. Stysick didn't know a thing about circuit breakers. He turned back toward his study just as a delicate hand inserted a syringe into his neck.
Roxanne was thrilled by the Director's penthouse. His penchant for vivisection meant he had all the equipment Roxanne would need for her next great work of art. She was a professional, and of course had her own equipment but it was superfluous in the face of all the glorious metal tools that Stysick kept in his office. The anesthetic was quick to work on the Director. He had collapsed before losing consciousness. Roxanne dragged his body to the center of the study, where she wheeled a second metal table up next to the Director's boyfriend. She was a strong woman, who had been in the game for a while, and was therefore able to muscle the Director onto the second table. She took his hand and the hand of the Director's boyfriend and clasped them together, romantically. Using fabric shears provided by the Director himself, Roxanne cut through Samuel Stysick's shirt. With an open canvas in front of her, the real work could finally begin.
Samuel Stysick died at some point during the procedure. Roxanne's victims always did. However the goal had been the procedure itself, the artistry it employed. The demise of the patient was usually irrelevant, though in this case, utilitarian. And although the Director's boyfriend had never been a target, Roxanne couldn't pass up the opportunity that had presented itself, to create a brand new work of art, one that incorporated two bodies, joined at the hands like lovers. It was downright poetic. Roxanne stepped back from the table to admire her work. Both men had been given gorgeous breast implants. C cups were given to the boyfriend, while the Director now sported beautiful, perky, D cup breasts. Her work was so flawless, the incisions could not even be seen, and she had masked the residual bruising with makeup. Both men's lips had been painted a gorgeous Cherry Red.
Roxanne was beside herself with happiness, it was her best work yet. Her response to the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America) would go down in history as two of the most artistic kills in a generation... and with such an action, Cherry Lips, the Bloody, Booby Killer became the New Acting Director of the Collated Guild of Serial Killers (of America).