A General Lack of Writing Ability

The Bluewater Butcher

It was about 2:00 in the afternoon when I woke up. It'd been a long night, and I wasn't super intent on giving myself an alarm the next morning. I had the day off work anyway, so it wasn't like I was letting anyone down. I took a groggy trip to the bathroom to brush my teeth and shower up for the afternoon. I picked up the paper, which was predictably covered in snow, and brought it back up for breakfast. I live in a pretty comfortable apartment. A little cozy, but more than enough for me. My girlfriend doesn't agree (thus she lives a few blocks away.) I keep trying to get her to move in with me, but she's scared of the neighborhood I guess. Picking up the paper gave me a pretty clear reminder why. "Bluewater butcher claims another victim." Bluewater Butcher always came off to me as a terrible name. I get the idea of giving catchy names to celebrities and stuff, but doing the same for serial killers seemed gratuitous at best, and encouraging at worst. I was finishing up my bowl of off-brand, 100% tasteless cereal, when I heard a knock at my door. I picked up the paper, folded it under my arm, and walked to the door. I took a second to look through the peephole. I saw a kid with a checkered flannel, and a freckled smile. He was holding a similar newspaper under his arm, and was tapping his foot against the hallway floor. I cracked open the door, letting the chain lock figure out exactly how open it should be. "Sorry kid," I said, squinting at the strange character, "Wrong house."

"Dennis Samson?" He replied, that annoying smile still ringing across his face.

"Yup," I replied, blowing air out of my nose.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"If it's a religious thing, pick another house. I'm not like that."

"Oh no, it's regarding your work."

My heart sunk for a second. I glanced around the apartment, then weakly coughed. I may have not originally had the day off, but I sure as hell wasn't going after the shit I'd pulled the night prior. "I'm... I'm sick," I said, giving another weak cough. I sighed, pretty certain I was in at least mild trouble. To my surprise, it was actually shit-storm level trouble.

"Course you're sick," The kid replied. "So am I!" He opened the newspaper to the Bluewater Butcher headline, and drew an even wider smile as he watched my face drop like a rock. "I know who you are, so let me in."

Now I've never had the 'pleasure' of meeting someone like myself, but I assure you, if I did, my initial plan would not be to knock on his door, walk into a private space with him, and let him in on his own secret. The kid was ballsy, there's no denying, but the guts-to-brains-ratio seemed a little off on him. I let him in though, in case I needed to quiet him down somehow. He walked into my apartment like he freaking owned the place. He strut right down my front hallway and into the main room.

"You were pretty awesome last night," the kid said, unfolding the newspaper. He began to read the article as he sat down on my sofa. "James Alvair, age 22, blah blah blah..." I watched his eyes drift across the paper for a few seconds, skimming through the details he knew I was aware of. He finally stopped about halfway down the page. "Here it is. 'He was found decapitated, with both arms pinned to the wall behind him with a nail gun. Early reports indicate the nail gun injuries were pre-mortem.' That's crazy! Tell me your secret."

I was running through possibilities in my head for a while. Maybe he thought I was a cop, got the wrong house looking for a relative, maybe he was just fucked in the head and didn't know what he was saying. But he knew. I realized then, he knew. I guess fucked in the head was right, but he sure as hell knew what he was saying. He saw I wasn't responding, and jumped on the opportunity. "I bet you're wondering how," he said, setting the newspaper next to my bowl of cereal. "Well, you've got a pattern, and I got kinda lucky. Looked out in the right places, talked to the right people, and, last night, tracked you home. I was too late to see the good stuff, but I was early enough to find you."