The Morality of Serial Killing through the Ages

This is another of those pieces for the ACRE Forethought blog, this time about serial killing. Here's the stupid shit I wrote.

*****

Suffice to say that the morality of serial killing hasn't changed too drastically through the ages. It is bad. It is a very bad thing to do. However, the scope of what counts as serial killing has certainly changed over the course of many thousands of years, and there continues to be a discrepancy even from place to place geographically in one time frame.

According to Wikipedia:

A serial killer is typically defined as an individual who has murdered three or more people[1][2] over a period of more than a month, with down time (a "cooling off period") between the murders, and whose motivation for killing is usually based on psychological gratification.

This definition is, of course, nonsense. If this definition were accurate then you or I might be considered serial killers, which is clearly unworkable, because we are not bad people. I certainly am not.

Now, just over three months ago I killed a ticket inspector on a train, because I didn't have a ticket. Clearly, this was an action based not in psychological gratification, but in simple practicality. Ticket prices nowadays are ludicrously expensive, and I felt utterly justified in killing the man. In fact, I consider his checking me for a ticket an act of suicide.

A few weeks later, I was watching a national-level sporting event in a public house, and was distressed to discover that I had been surrounded by other viewers who were far more demonstratively approaching the game than was I. One fellow shouted at a sportsman in quite an alarming way, and I, not expecting the yell, was quite startled. Well, of course it is quite rude to startle a gentleman who you are watching the game with, and so I was quite forced to mash his fizzog into a mushed pulp of skinflakes, bone fragments and gore. Thankfully, his yelling quickly abated. I can be uncharacteristically merciless in the doling of justice. It is just rude to shout out; be quiet for goodness' sake.

For another fortnight I saw no wrong in the world that needed my direct intervention. Just as I crested the event horizon of that fortnight, I was confronted with what I must consider the nadir of human decorum. Having travelled to the Capital of the fair nation which has the honour of housing me, I entered a restaurant, nothing too fancy, just some common place where the common people may go to partake of their common fare. I sauntered up to the bar, for there is no waiting staff in these types of places, no one comes to take your order, you have to go up and actually order it yourself. It's a clever system. The very fabric of the place is designed to erode your dignity. Hungry as I was, I forced myself to the bar, hence my sauntering, and locked the serving wench with the iron glare of an angry eagle who has spotted something annoying and is trying to stare it out because he is an hard bastard. The wench, a veteran of this workplace, was unfazed, and spat right in my eye. I was impressed, and suddenly I felt all my anxiety melt away. The spittle, sinking in the cleft between my eye and my nose, ploughed by endless years of sleep deprivation, tricked my body into believing I was crying, and as such things always do, this belief cyclically perpetuated itself, and I began to weep. The serving wench, regaining her balance after her colossal spit, knew exactly what I was about. With a cry of "Blood alive, man! To a seat with you!" she swandived over the counter and, driving her head into the very top of my skull with the entire weight of her body behind her, we crumpled to the floor in a fallen mess. I was a little disturbed by this, but not knowing the ways of the peasant folk I kept schtum so as not to conduct any undesirable faux pas.

Groggily regaining my feet, I whipped around to face the also recovering wench, and landed a solid haymaker on her collarbone. Hearing it snap and pop, I smiled, and she led me to a nearby table and promised me that a plate of cod and chips, with mushy peas, would arrive within 10 minutes. It did, and it was piping hot and looked all set to be delicious. I arose from my chair to peruse the condiments, and alongside the vinegar, the salt, mayo and tartare sauce stood an overlarge bowl that was almost sarcastically empty. It might not be normal to have with fish dishes, but I need tomato sauce. I fucking lost it at that point. Leaping onto a nearby table, I lashed my foot out in a vicious 180° arc which caught three diners; one in the nose, another in the ear, and the third was entirely decapitated, spraying viscous red fluid into the empty tomato sauce bowl, the irony of which enraged me further. Rising unsteady on his or her feet, the diner that I'd punted in the ear made a clumsy attempt at my legs, which I'd foolishly left on top of the table; a rather perilous position. Due to my acrobatic background, I was able to avoid such a clumsy attempt with complete ease. Slipping nimbly off the table, I planted myself firmly and pushed against my clueless combatant. The force of my push sent the diner careening limply into the air, where an acquaintance was made with an adjoining window, but was short-lived. With this troublesome individual dispatched, I turned to the fellow I'd kicked in the nose. Looking down upon his crumpled remains, I discovered I'd killed him with the blow. I can be very deadly when I've been wronged.

Bracing myself back a step, I made a quick dash and with an effortless handspring, leapt into a series of cartwheels and somersaults which took me across the length of the room, the last of which raised me high into the air and, sailing over the bar, my legs, acting as fleshy javelins, speared the barmaid, with precision, through the sternum. My fish and chips remained uneaten.

I'm in jail now, because I've been "caught", apparently. What I did wrong I'll never know. One man's anecdote is another man's horrendous crime. The occasion on which I was detained involved self-defence on my part. My flatmate was trying his level best to watch a program I believe is called 'The Goblin People Argue over their Goblin Children', and for the entire half hour of the show I found it necessary to dry my hair using the most powerful setting on my hair drier. Of course, he complained because he couldn't hear the show, which was the entire reason I did it. I hadn't even been in the shower, or moistened my hair even slightly. He came at me with his fists, but using my deft fingers I was able to unzip his jeans, forcibly insert the blow drier where the dry does not blow, which caused him some measure of discomfort, and eventually butchered him thoroughly, due to a power malfunction with the device.

The police have no sense of humour, which is why they end up in fights so often.

*****

Garden the Past

I was told last night that the man two doors down from me is dead. That is to say, he has died, and he no longer lives there, because he is dead. I'm not suggesting that he is inhabiting the house in an undead capacity. Because he isn't, he is dead.

I didn't know him at all really, I only ever saw him sat on his doorstep as I walked or drove past, and he always seemed happy enough. That is pretty much the extent of my knowledge of him. Strange to think that with the huge size of the earth and the multitude of people upon it, that even people who must have spent years and years within 40 foot of me can be completely outside my sphere of experience.

My bedroom window looks out onto his back garden, which, since we live on the side of a hill, stretches upwards quite steeply. For this reason, a number of the back gardens in my street are untended, covered with sprawling brambles and weeds. Some people are more resilient in their garden-tending habits, however, and so precarious sheds, flowerbeds and decking adorns certain plots, looking like a collaboratory project between Kevin McCloud and Tim Burton.

The back garden of the house two doors down was rigorously tended. It didn't have the new shininess of the garden that, at great effort, had gravity-defying decking installed, nor the simplicity of the plots where it is merely grass, cut short. It doesn't have the collected order of my grandparents old garden did, which, since it was further up the street, was subject to a less extreme incline, and was larger, allowing for spacing out of the glasshouse and the shed, with a small patio area and a stretch of grass.

The garden is busy and full, with any likely bit of turf used to a definite purpose, to make the most of the small, difficult terrain. There are a patch of flowers, I am not able to give much more information on them, if I was ever described as having green fingers then it would definitely be in connection to a medical mishap. They are purple, with long stems. They look slightly overgrown now, looking more like wildflowers than I assume they must have done when they had someone to tend to them. I can't be certain of that though, since I never paid the garden any attention whatsoever until this afternoon. The garden has been partitioned into levels, with the flower level being the lowest I can see from my oblique angle, it is likely raised from the ground level by a wall. The level above the flowers is still covered in growth, though I make a distinction because they are plants rather than flowers. I'm not overly sure whether that is a distinction botanists/biologists would make, the chasm is my own knowledge is becoming clearer with every entry of this I write. These plants aren't bearing any sort of fruit, and it is only because of the strips of bamboo that are holding them straight that I assume they are in fact, plants. There's a small wooden construction holding these bamboo strips upright, it's odd that nature gets anything done considering how much needs to be done to make even a tiny garden grow to specifications. Upturned cans of Fosters adorn the top of the bamboo, though I needed to strain my eyes to make out the brand as the cans have faded due to the sun. Considering how little sun we get in these parts, the cans must have been there for quite some time.

On the level above that, the highest level, is a sturdy old shed, which, if it bears any resemblance to the one which used to stand in my grandfather's garden, I would not enjoy being inside. The rust and the mustiness of old tools and compost, hollow watering cans and a coating of spider's webs, it is that kind of shed in my speculations. The sort of spiders that would inhabit such an outdoor indoors would be the fat, strong kind which fill me with the same kind of revulsion, and trigger the gag reflex upon seeing them, in the same way I get when George Osborne is on the TV. It is the sort of shed that is filled with functions that I do not understand, and have no interest, currently, of involving myself with.

Some of the windows of the shed are open, and I feel disquieted looking at them, because I don't know whether or not they should be open or not. Are they always left open to air the shed, or were they left open the one specific time? And now the person who knows whether they should be open or not is unable to affect their positioning.

The garden is, perhaps, sadder to see than the insides of the house (not that I did or will see that). The garden was working towards a purpose. It was a cyclical beast, an organism that was growing and being replanted, growing and being replanted. It was the culmination of the plans of one man, and with that planning force removed, the garden will eventually leave the cyclical path it was meant to be following, eventually growing unmanageable or having a new vision imposed upon it. Perhaps it will be utterly scrapped, and a completely new cycle will be established, an utterly different organism in the exact same geographical location. Perhaps some of the garden will be salvaged, and incorporated into a Frankenstein's garden type creature.

I didn't realise when I woke up this morning that I would actually be interested in the fate of a garden. Perhaps I'm being possessed.

I hope that when new people eventually move into the house I remember this line of thought and watch the garden cycle.

I could also stop being so lazy and actually sort out the garden behind my own house, which is insanely overgrown with pickies. Although that would require that I become the sort of person who goes inside sheds and knows what is in there, and not only that, knows what those things are for. I already know what's inside sheds; rust, must, tools, compost, cans and webs.

I'll stick to watching through the window.

Ashes to Ashes, Moth to Moth

I'm not really sure how to contextualise this story. It is another tick in the 'for' column of my 'for or against thinking kids are evil' tally. As you'll be aware if you read this regularly, I work around children and so I am surprised that I am not handed more occasions to put a tick in said box. Saying that, I have just illuminated my own prejudice and bias, therefore outing this as an unreliable study.

The annoyances that come my way from children are generally of a low level; the volume of their conversation or the frenzied nature of their incessantly running around perhaps. Or maybe their ignorance, stupidity, lack of respect, stupid hair, high pitched voices, idiotic questions etc. I am about as child-friendly as a wall of sweets armed with child-seeking circular saws. But I make more of an effort, at least.

So when a situation comes around that genuinely informs my intolerant 'argh! children!' attitude, I am delighted. Although in this case, also shocked by the child's actions.

It is spring here in the fair land of Walisich, and this means that the weather lapses incoherently between nippy winds and rain to days where the we may all feel the soft palm of summer stroking down upon us. It is on the latter days whence the various buzzing nuisances descend upon us, managing even to make their inconvenient ways indoors, or more accurately, inwindows. So it came to pass that the Moth found his way into the cafe. Such an event, is it, that it will be hereafter remembered as the Great Mothcoming of '10. Or not.

It wasn't a particularly large moth, such as the corpulent terrors which sometimes breach indoors and lunge at your face, causing unparalleled fright. A moth mid face-swoop is a terror unmatched in all the time of Man. Nay, twere not such a creature. Twere but an injured lil moth, the sort of moth that would be amiably rendered in a pixar production, say in, The Adventures of Mothy McMoth; the Injured Moth. I clearly have no real knowledge of pixar. I didn't even capitalise the 'P'. Shame on me.

Unfortunately, this moth had the poor luck of landing near a demonchild. That is perhaps a bit strong, but I am taking creative licence. If hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, then hell hath no evil like a child bored. While most children, I imagine, would freak out and break into a psychedelic frenzied dance of disgust should a moth land on them (I still would), this child reacted with the composed nature of the Spanish inquisition.

I am unable to directly deal with the details of the event, so I have rendered the crux of this tale in verse.

*****
Sadism in Children

"I am unable to fly", quoth the moth.
For him, the wortht pothible lohth.
In the hands of a child about to serve hell up,
For his empathy is underdeveloped.

He put-th the moth in thome thquath,
Then drownth him in froth,
To show him who'th bohth.

There'd have been an experiment,
Had I not arrived;
Could a moth have survived,
Insertion into a CD-Rom drive?

*****

I've had a mixed reaction retelling this tale to people. All find the actual thought of a child holding a computer-based cd-tray moth-execution quite a disturbing and grim thing, though some are significantly more appalled. There was conjecture in a seminar about challenging behaviour, which I attended awhile back, where some posited that cruelty to animals is sometimes a precursor for more seriously harmful behaviour in the future. If this is founded with any accuracy then his neighbours should be concerned, for the uncaring coldness with which he undertook the grim preparation was unsettling.

We may in the future be searching frantically for a technologically-advanced futuristic Jigsaw character, who will be attempting to slice humans in half using a giant, purpose-built, cd-tray.
Luckily the child didn't mumble "Do you want to play a game?" as his hand hovered over the button which would retract the tray, so perhaps we'll be fine.

As the poem describes, I managed to stop him completing the garish procedure on Mothy Antoinette, but I was slightly boggled as to what I should have him do with the moth. Eventually I told him to put it out the window, having decided that putting him in the bin would be equally unethical, if lacking the I AM THE DEATHBRINGER feel of the cd-tray fate.

The child later asked to be allowed onto the computers, and I had to say "no". When he, inevitably, asked "Why?", I had the joy of replying; "because you tried to shut a moth in the cd drive".

Case closed.