What kind of serial killer would I be?
People dream about all kinds of things – money, fame, sex – you name it! Me? I think about what kind of serial killer I would be. It seems morbid, but really, who doesn’t see serial killers for the innovative and misunderstood souls they are? Aileen Wournos had a refreshing white trash appeal, and Jeffrey Dahmer
did have some boyish good looks! Please, take a second to look past my bookish exterior to the raging degenerate within.
If I were a serial killer, I wouldn’t be slaying willy-nilly. I would be a totally methodical, clean killer. Like, classy – eating brains with three forks and never even reaching for a napkin to dab my blood-stained mouth. I’d be the seductive black widow, collecting and disposing of husbands with nary a care in the world. One week I’d be living the high life, eating Cinnabons by the box and living at the Regency, the next I’d be carting an oversized duffel bag while trolling around a truck stop. Being a serial killer means you never know what’s around the corner!
One example of my method: I would kill a guy and then stuff his body with clothes I’d been meaning to give to Goodwill. We’d sunbathe, brunch and hit the clubs Weekend at Bernie’s style (read: sunglasses and large, floppy hat) until I had a full-on man-harem. Whenever anyone questioned me about one of my entourage’s various stages of decomposition, I’d be all, “Jacque has a meth problem and a lazy eye, but does that mean he isn’t entitled to kick back on va-cay?” Problem solved!
And just think about the fashion options! Being a killer leaves a lot of pricey materials at your disposal. I could make snappy vest/pantaloon combos out of human skin and they’d always match. For accessories, I’d make elaborate belts out of braided hair or even a stylish pageboy wig for a change of pace. Hello, frugality! (In case you didn’t know, wigs are fucking expensive. This may seem like a more labor-intensive method, but trust me – you’re saving a lot of pennies out of this deal.)
Also, instead of buying one of those cheap-looking tooth necklaces in Chinatown, I could be wearing the real thing. I could even have a fancy umbrella or dandy cane with a shrunken head on the top. Seriously, you’ve got to use all the parts or you’re just being wasteful. Take it from the Indians on this one.
As for excuses, when anyone questions the stench coming from my apartment, I could totally play it off with my librarian-esque persona. “Little old me? Why, I’m too busy re-shelving soiled copies of
Sex for One to kill anybody!”
Of course, this is all before the getting caught part. But this is all hypothetical, right?
P.S. Please stay out of my crawl space. It’s…crowded.
