Your Friend, Alex

Your Friend, Alex: Part 8

January 2nd, 2031. "Crash Out", was released to critical acclaim. No one expected my foray into such a dark and sinister feeling movie, and the lead performance from Willem Dafoe got us nominated for an Academy Award. We didn't win it though. Micheal Bay released a blockbuster piece of shit from an already dead franchise, which took the award home. I won't say the name of the movie, but you can probably guess which one. Regardless of our loss, My career was reaching new heights. I had an apartment in New York, a home in LA, and a quiet cabin deep in Montana, where I was currently holed up writing. After "Crash Out", I decided to take some time off to write, but I kept tossing scripts. My third film was supposed to be a mafia epic, something in vein of Martin Scorsese's, "Goodfellas" or Brian De Palma's, "Scarface", but the further I got into the script, the more I realized that these mafia movies are played out. Everyone knows how they end. Plus, De Niro and Pacino had a corner on that market, and with Joe Pesci dying in 2029, It just wasn't the right time. I decided to hold on to the project, but to wait until De Niro and Pacino died so that I could usher in a new era of gangsters, and give the people something they hadn't seen before. My next idea was to create my own franchise. A world that was mine alone to shape and create with its own rules and societal norms. This way I could not only create a masterpiece, but gather myself a loyal horde of die-hard fans, ensuring that the next entries in the series would pay for themselves. I began writing about a God who was trying to create a new universe as the book of Genesis from the Bible was quite inspiring to me, and the basis of this film was the creation of this God's new world. The film began with the destruction of the previous universe which was much similar to our own, except that there was no conflict in this world. God had felt that the world was too boring as society had progressed beyond the need for war, and lived in a perfect socialist state, where each human helped others with whatever they needed, be it healthcare, food, shelter, and so on and so forth. I abandoned the project after the exposition was completed. I wasn't sure how to create such a large and vast universe and realized that my visions were too ambitious. Writer's block had taken its hold, and so I decided to take a year off. I traveled to Amsterdam, taking advantage of the legality of many drugs that are hard to find in America, where I fell in love with my newest muse, hash. Make no mistake, I still loved my cocaine, and I had smoked weed before my trip, but hash was on a whole different level. I usually took mine in oil form and just added it to whatever I was eating at the time. It got me higher than high, and usually mellowed me out after a night of heavy cocaine binging. To be honest, hash had replaced my anxiety pills which I no longer felt I needed, as hash calmed me far more than they ever did. A typical morning would often start with adding hash oil to my breakfast, usually two eggs, sunny side up, 4 pieces of bacon, and a bagel with cream cheese, and then a meditation session for an hour. I'd let the hash do its magic while I meditated, opening my mind to clear my thoughts, hoping that this practice would finally release the writer's block that held me in its clutches. It never worked but I didn't give a shit, I loved hash. After my meditation, I would grab my toiletries and walk from my cabin through the nearby woods in my backyard. It was a twisting, winding path, and it usually took me about 20 minutes to get to the other side, where in a clearing, I would make my way to the lake. I would strip naked, and bathe, preferring the natural lake water to that of my shower, as the water was heated naturally by the sun and always the perfect temperature. After my trek home, I would get dressed and attempt to write, and usually, after 4 hours of staring at my laptop, I would give up. I would still watch classic films in the evenings but I had developed a love for a new kind of cinema, one that I couldn't really share with the public. Snuff films. For those of you who don't know what snuff films are, congratulations, you have a moral high ground over me, where you may sit on your high horse and thumb your nose at me. But for fellow enjoyers of snuff films, you can attest to the inspiring and beautiful nature of these films, and how they show the realness of the world for how it is. Snuff films are usually home movies shot on a shitty camcorder, then uploaded to the internet of real-life torture and murder being committed, usually being tied into a sexual aspect of the killer's psyche. After my last ritual, I felt so alive, but I don't want to be unoriginal. A lot of people who kill have what's called an MO, or a Modus Operandi, meaning they often commit their murders in the same way, every time. Fuck that. Those guys are hacks, no pun intended for all you ax murderers out there. Anyway, it started when I dove deep into horror movies and discovered the August Underground series, directed by Fred Vogel. This was a movie made to look like a real life snuff film. No plot at all, just home video footage of two men torturing and killing various victims. I fell in love with it. It was vile, grotesque, and the practical effects looked just like the real thing. After all, I would know right? It got me thinking. Why settle for movie magic when I could have the real thing? Thus began my late night dives into the internet, combing through message boards for links and redirects to the real thing. After a while, I just began to download the videos. Why search and search when I could have them on demand? These could serve well as inspirations for my on screen killings of characters, as well as my real life sacrifices, so I chalk this up to research. Vital research at that. On this particular evening I decided that I would go out, as I hadn't in a long while and felt in desperate need of a release form the constant failures I was encountering every day at my work desk. I chopped up a line on my kitchen table, snorted it, and walked out the front door. I lit a Leaf Line on the porch, climbed into my car, a cherry red, 1980 Ford Mustang, and drove down the long dirt driveway heading for the local bar, Dirt Harry's. Lewistown, Montana was a very small town, and Dirty Harry's was about the only place I knew to get a drink, plus it allowed smoking indoors. It was only about a 5 minute drive from my place and the beer was cheap, not that it mattered. I puff my cigarette letting smoke billow out of the window as I pulled into the parking lot. When I walked inside I surveyed the area, there were only two others in the bar at the time, a woman, who had to be in her late 30s, wearing a green top and a pair of black jeans, sitting on the far end of the bar drinking what appeared to be a mojito, and a man who looked to be in his early 60s. He sat toward the middle of the bar, wearing a pair of thin, wire glasses, a white tee shirt, and blue jeans. I mean this guy looked like a Bruce Springsteen cosplayer. Perfect. As you know, I like to get my deal with Satanas out of the way quickly in the year that it's due, but I swore I would never force the issue. If the conditions aren't right, I'd rather wait than potentially fuck up my deal and lose my life. Aside from the bartender, these two were the only two in the bar, and seeing as it was about 11:00pm, I don't think anyone else is coming tonight. After all it's a Thursday night, most people have to work tomorrow. I strolled up to the bar and pulled out a stool, sitting down between the man and woman and pulled another Leaf Line from its pack. The sounds of Billy Joel's, "The Stranger", played lightly from the jukebox and the old man hummed softly. "What can I get for you?", said the bartender Isaac, a man in his late 50's with an uneven white beard, a jean jacket he never took off, and a US Navy cap that he'd worn since the day we met. "Rum and Coke on the rocks.", I said, lighting the Leaf Line. Isaac got to work on my drink and I glanced at the woman to my right. She sat, eyes sunken into her face, looking tired and weak for being in her 30s. She stared into oblivion, not even reacting to the sound of the door opening when I walked in, and it was clear that this was not her first mojito of the evening. Isaac brought my drink to me and I nodded in appreciation. I always liked Isaac. On late nights when I had no inspiration, I'd come down to the bar for some drinks and we would always chat about his life. His service in the military, how his kids were doing, the death of his wife, and whatever else was on his mind at that moment. I honestly became something of a therapist to Isaac, who usually opened up to me in the wee hours of the morning, when his clientele was gone and he could drink freely with me. It's a shame that he happened to be right in the middle of a future murder scene but it made no difference to me. I was only supposed to kill two, but being locked up would hurt my deal, and a broken deal means death for me, so unfortunately, Isaac was on his way out this evening. I decided that I better get to work and arose from my seat, I strode over to the woman at the end of the bar, and slid into the stool next to her. "How ya doin, I'm Alex.", I said softly. The woman looked at me taking a sip of her mojito, obviously skeptical of me. "Judith.", she replied plainly, turning again to stare into nothingness. "You look like you're not having the best day Judith, could I buy you a drink?", I asked sweetly. "Try the worst month.", she replied, "And sure, why the hell not." "Whatcha drinkin'?" "Pineapple Mojito. But don't try nothing Alex, I'm not in the mood to be propositioned. You men are all the same." I chuckled softly, "I wouldn't dream of it Judith. Guy trouble? Let's hear it." She told me her story. Married too young at 21 to her high school sweetheart, 2 kids by the time she was 26, a shitty job as a receptionist in a dentist's office, and now, a gut wrenching divorce when her 39 year old husband decided that Judith had lost her charm, and that he preferred an 18 year old just out of high school instead. At 36 years old, she once dreamed of becoming a successful author, writing the next great American novel, but with marriage, came kids, kids came, responsibility, and after all was said and done, she hadn't written a word. Judith's life is shown on her in the form of age lines forming over a face that was once young and optimistic, now oppressed by the reality that her hopes and dreams will never be achieved. As we talked, I bought her drink after drink, slowly sipping away at my rum and coke, playing the sympathetic listener to a woman in pain, all the while knowing that her situation was about to get much, much worse. My situation on the other hand would get much better. Judith had just given me my next film. I just had to come up with the ending. By the time she had finished,, "25 or 4 to 6", by Chicago began playing softly over the bar loudspeakers. God I hate Chicago. I find them cheesy and just downright offensive. "Judith, you look a bit drunk, if you live close-by I could drive you home.", I offered, picking up my drink and walking over to the jukebox. "Are you sure? I don't wanna keep taking your time, you practically listened to my whole life story already. I really needed to get that out, I couldn't possibly bore you any longer.", she said apologetically. I slid a quarter into the machine, flipping through songs and artists for something to put me in the mood. I finally settled on "Sunshine Of Your Love", by Cream, and set it to play after Chicago. This left me about 4ish minutes. "I insist, it's really no trouble at all." "Thank you Alex.", she smiled. As we got up to leave, I let her lead the way to the door, noticing that the man at the bar was still present, and that Isaac was as well, watching, "The Late Show with Jimmy Fallon", on the small bar TV. Everything was going perfectly to plan. She turned back a moment, "Why did you pick a song on the jukebox if you're going to drive me home? Don't you wanna wait for it to play before we leave?" I smiled following Judith out the door, "I just want to save Isaac from listening to a never ending loop of this garbage. It's fine, we can go." As we walked for the door, I reached for my back waistband, my right hand gripping the handle of my Glock 17, pulling it into my right hand, preparing for my second ritual.