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Twins in Death: Chapter Four – Part Four

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay



Chapter Four: The Red Twin



October 23rd, 2002

6:11 p.m.


            The father had been done quickly, a clean cut across the throat as he approached the invader. The blood sprayed into the attacker’s face, bits of gore landing on his tongue. The endorphins exploded in his brain at that moment, adrenaline began to rush, and the amygdala began to work full force. He continued to move into the kitchen, his eyes caught by the curly blonde hair mommy had. He’d grabbed the mother by her hair and threw a plate at the eldest of the two children. She dodged, but a piece of the broken plate cut a piece of her cheek.


            “Now you watch this.” He lifted the mother by the hair and threw her bodily across the table.


            “Oh god no!” The woman screamed as his hand tore her skirt away.


            “Oh yes darling.” He said as he began to violate her.



October 23rd, 2002

6:12 p.m.


            “Where did he go?” Max asked after looking up from a magazine rack where there was still a copy of the Death of Omega special of Time. A current copy of Newsweek had a picture of The Blue Ray and caption asking if superheroes were the wave of the future.


            “Hmm?” Tommy said as he looked around.


            They saw The Weirdo already beginning to cross the street, towards the five young men and the single old man. The two of them watched as he walked towards the group, moving with the sort of arrogance only a top predator can manage.


            “Shit.” Tommy sighed and made a motion with his entire body that stated he was too tired for this.



October 23rd, 2002

6:13 p.m.


            Mother had struggled, and they had ended up on the floor. He had smacked her head on the floor to try and keep her from fighting until he was finished with her, but she was making it so difficult. He had slipped out of her twice and was about ready to leave her for the little girl curled up on the floor when he felt the end coming.


            He yanked the phone cord from the wall and looped it twice around her neck, and he yanked. Some small sound escaped her as he pulled on the cord. Her tears were cut off suddenly as the cord went taut. Her face turned a bright red and veins appeared all over her face. Her two children looked into her eyes as her tongue began to protrude from her mouth and the life left her face. She fell limp long before he stopped strangling her. He felt himself going limp while still inside her and tried to thrust himself more forcefully to get his member into the spirit again.


            She hadn’t been able to finish him, and now he was standing with his dick shriveling up in her. He wanted to keep at her but it was no longer working. In a final moment of frustration with her, he pulled the carving knife from the leg of lamb they’d been having for dinner and hacked and slashed at her neck. The head wouldn’t come off though, not in the quick fashion he had expected. He cut and cut but it was not the easy thing movies made it look like. He took hold of the head, twisted and finally ripped it from the neck, throwing it across the room.


            “Now.” He said panting, closing his trousers. “For you two.”



October 23rd, 2002

6:14 p.m.


            There were five of them. They were young, agile, strong, and white. He was one bent old Korean man. They were trying to block his way, insulting him, and soon they would get to the shoves. They were just a pack of small-minded bullies, trying to make themselves feel big. Their victim was nothing more to them than an instrument to tell them they weren’t the lowest rungs on the ladder. The Weirdo had been a small child, always the runt. One does not forget the image of all the bigger stronger kids deciding to beat up on the runt. Of course bullies rarely forgot him after he was done, so it was an even trade.


            Jack was following at a discreet distance, his hand read to go for the Browning pistol he was still sporting in those days. This handgun was a remnant from the days before he began buying all his firearms from Heckler and Koch. His left hand sank into his back pocket and touched the extra clip of ammunition just to be sure it was there. He looked behind him and Tommy and Max put the groceries in the trunk of the car, trying to be nonchalant. You’d have to have been as close as Jack was to see Tommy hand Max the small MP5 machine gun. It was easier to see Tommy pull out the large shape of the Thompson sub machine gun, but he knew what he was looking for. It might not come to that, but best to be prepared.


            The Weirdo didn’t have any weapons in his hand, but they would be there when he needed them. There wasn’t a lot of natural light left, not at this time of year, the sun had already slunk most of the way to the west and in the city darkness descends faster any way. The street lights had not yet started to flicker on, so there was a line of sight down this street to where the sun was though, an a few red streaks of light slashed across the pavement. The Weirdo walked deliberately around the light, as if he had decided to walk in shadow as penance for some crime. The light did shine on one of the young men, and The Weirdo decided to talk to him.


            “Excuse me.” The Weirdo said approaching them.


            He took his sunglasses off, folded them, and slipped them into a pocket. He moved with the sort of grace that can only be achieved after a lifetime of learning how to look cool. The light helped, the way it shone down on him, it was dramatic. One could say he looked like a knight of old, or a gun fighter, or a superhero, it was that kind of light. It was hard for people not to get impressed when the setting sun is at your back.


            “What the fuck is this?” One of them who was harder to impress asked.


            “Profanity.” The Weirdo said, shaking his head sadly. “Bad way to start.”


            “Fuck you.” The talkative one amongst them said.


            “You know, I could ask what exactly you think you’re doing.” He said, walking slowly towards them. His voice sounded friendly, like a friend trying to teach something.


            “Go mind your own fucking business.” Another of the group, this one a dark haired genius, said getting very close to The Weirdo. “This is private business.”


            “No.” The Weirdo said his voice so cold that it could induce mist. “Why don’t you boys go away? Before something bad happens to you?”



October 23rd, 2002

6:15 p.m.


            “You’re next you little shit!” The still unnamed villain said as he grabbed for the six-year-old. 


            His older sister already lay dead on the floor; a large lamp had smashed the small body. He watched as the man frustratedly mounted his dead sister, as he had his mother. Blood was already congealing into patterns on the hardwood floor that would be snapped later by a crime scene technician. Something was clearly wrong with the man. He looked like he couldn’t make something work. The blood had soaked into the carpet as well and oddly enough, the killer noted, had made the shape of Nevada. The lamp lay on the floor, bits of hair and brain still sticking to the side of it. The man picked the lamp up and smashed it again and again across the girl’s buttocks, ripping the flesh away in large gashes. The narrator wishes to point this out because it is important to understand that this was a brutal and terrible crime, and thus was not pretty.


            “I’ll get you anyway.” The killer said grabbing at the boy.


            “Help!” The six-year-old screamed.


            “No help for you.” He finally grabbed the boy and smashed his head against an end piece for the large banister on the stairs. The small head split open, the man let the child’s body slide down the banister, head first. “No help for anyone.”


            He sat back against the blood-splattered banister and drew a design in the blood. It wasn’t any particular design, just something to do. Had he known about profiling, or hypno-therapy or post-hypnotic suggestion, he might know why he did this. It felt random to him, and he would forget that he’d done it right after doing it, but it was carefully planned. Without becoming too paranoid, it can be revealed that someone was tracking him through actions like this.




© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

September 8, 2012 Posted by | Fiction, Photo | , , | Leave a comment

Somedays, the work goes slowly.

I was going to write something, but it fought me.

The problem is that there are things you can say in person over coffee, that don’t want to take to print.

Even granting that I should be able to produce something, it just didn’t want to work.

Hours of typing, retyping, playing Age of Mythology, typing again… all I have accomplished is another step in the inevitable heat-death of the universe.

So instead, let’s look at two pictures and think about how a change of focus can affect the image….


September 8, 2012 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment