Lonely Animals
My first murder was an utter mess.
Foggy by the New York riverside, dawdling along with a big piece of death in my hand.
I knew it was him before I saw anything other than his shape in the mist. Something about his walk said "Victim."
He had a woman with him. Probably paid for.
I moved through fog at him. No speed at all.
But he knew it was coming.
He had no life left in him.
Dead before he closed his front door for the evening, knowing the words had been spoken.
His skull moved, the way a boiled egg does when you strike it lightly with a spoon.
The next time, the top of his skull shoved over to the left, about six inches.
The white and yolk of him struck the sidewalk with a wet slap.
I kept going.
It was a cold night. When I opened his gut, a rush of steam momentarily blinded me.
When my eyes cleared, I saw the woman staring at me. I was distantly aware of a massive erection.
She went for me, red wound of a mouth on my lips, stabbing me with an angry tongue.
She was dripping wet, her breath coming in quick thin screams.
We fucked like lonely animals over his corpse.
What remains with me is the sight of a drop of my semen, running down the cheap black nylon of her thigh, down to her flexed knee --
-- and falling off, down, into the dead man's open mouth.
Never saw her again.
I didn't experience a murder erection like that again.
Oh, the hardness came, yes, but never in the same way, and less with each killing.
It's the body's instinct in the face of death. Make life, quickly; there is murder here.
Lonely animals.
(C) Warren Ellis 2004
(SCREAM TALKING. Fifty three-minute singles. A complete work. I'm getting six hours sleep a night if I'm lucky. Ton of work. Am posting girlfriend and child off on holiday next week. Time to start drinking heavily again, I feel.)
Foggy by the New York riverside, dawdling along with a big piece of death in my hand.
I knew it was him before I saw anything other than his shape in the mist. Something about his walk said "Victim."
He had a woman with him. Probably paid for.
I moved through fog at him. No speed at all.
But he knew it was coming.
He had no life left in him.
Dead before he closed his front door for the evening, knowing the words had been spoken.
His skull moved, the way a boiled egg does when you strike it lightly with a spoon.
The next time, the top of his skull shoved over to the left, about six inches.
The white and yolk of him struck the sidewalk with a wet slap.
I kept going.
It was a cold night. When I opened his gut, a rush of steam momentarily blinded me.
When my eyes cleared, I saw the woman staring at me. I was distantly aware of a massive erection.
She went for me, red wound of a mouth on my lips, stabbing me with an angry tongue.
She was dripping wet, her breath coming in quick thin screams.
We fucked like lonely animals over his corpse.
What remains with me is the sight of a drop of my semen, running down the cheap black nylon of her thigh, down to her flexed knee --
-- and falling off, down, into the dead man's open mouth.
Never saw her again.
I didn't experience a murder erection like that again.
Oh, the hardness came, yes, but never in the same way, and less with each killing.
It's the body's instinct in the face of death. Make life, quickly; there is murder here.
Lonely animals.
(C) Warren Ellis 2004
(SCREAM TALKING. Fifty three-minute singles. A complete work. I'm getting six hours sleep a night if I'm lucky. Ton of work. Am posting girlfriend and child off on holiday next week. Time to start drinking heavily again, I feel.)