By Mike Zakrajsek
My name is Arthur Vaughn, and I am a god. I’m not the “God” everyone prays to. I’m not delusional. Make no mistake, though, I am a god. I have the power. I control life and death. You might be wondering what I mean. I’ll tell you. To explain my transformation into a deity, I shall return to my childhood.
I never knew my father, for reasons which I still do not fully comprehend. My mother changed the story a few times. First she said he was dead, then she said they were divorced, then she said they were never married. My mother said a lot of crazy things when she was drunk, which was pretty much all the time. My theory is that my mother was a whore and probably didn’t even know the guy who knocked her up. All I know is that I was an unwelcome pregnancy. My mother made that explicitly clear to me. She reminded over and over again that I had fucked up her life. She stated on more than one occasion that she wished she had had the money to abort me. During one of her alcoholic rages she said, “I should have used a fucking hanger.” I know it is a cliché for someone like me, but I really do hate my mother. The one thing in my life that I regret is not killing her when I had the chance. She did the honors herself when she got pregnant again, but I was gone by then.
Maybe it was not having a father, but for some reason I was an effeminate child. Some would say I’m still effeminate. I’m not gay, though. I AM NOT GAY. Never have been, never will be.
As a boy, I was terrible at sports and preferred to play with dolls rather than toy trucks and ray guns. Needless to say, this made me a target of my peers. They would call me names like “fag” and “queer” all the time. The name that bothered me the most however was “Art Fart.” I was not a flatulent person, but I had the word “fart” attached to my name all through elementary school. It made absolutely no sense!
I eventually got used to being called names, but I never got used to being beat up. I never stared trouble with anyone, and when the name-calling started, I just ignored it. But all too often some bully would simply walk up to me and start pounding the shit out of me. For no reason at all! I never put up much of a fight, and usually went home crying and bleeding. My mother did not care, so I would just lock myself in my room and cry myself to sleep.
Everything changed when I was ten. I was walking home from school one day when I had the misfortune of encountering Billy Palmer. Billy had beaten me up several times, and I knew the odds for getting my ass kicked just depended on what kind of mood he was in. He must have been having a shitty day, because as soon as he saw me he picked up a stick and started chasing me towards my house. I ran as fast as I could.
My mother didn’t get home from work until late, which meant I had to open the door with my key. I dug the keys out of my pocket as I ran up the front steps and desperately tried to fit the right key into the lock. Just as my key slid home, Billy arrived at a gallop and whacked me in the arm with his stick. I immediately began to cry and Billy bludgeoned be again an again in my arms and legs. Despite the fusillade of blows I was receiving, I was able to turn the key and open the door. I ran into the house screaming. As I stood inside trying to calm down, I heard Billy Palmer roaring with laughter on my front porch. That’s when I decided I could not take this anymore.
I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could find. I came back to the door with the weapon concealed behind my back. Billy was standing in the doorway, giggling like he was stoned. When he saw me he stopped laughing and said, “Hey Artie-Fartie! Are you back for more, you crybaby fag?”
Billy brandished his stick as I stepped out the door. He took a swing as soon as I was in range. I caught the stick with my free hand and brought the butcher knife out from behind my back. I’m not sure whether the look on Billy’s face was surprise, fear, or amusement, but I know he only had that look for a second. I stepped forward and ran the butcher knife into his stomach. He tried to scream, but all he managed was a gasp and a gurgling moan, as if he were drowning. I twisted the knife around and he spit up thick blood. Then he collapsed, pulling the knife out of my slick, red hand.
I looked up the street and down the street and saw no one, so I grabbed Billy by the hands and dragged him into the house. He was gushing blood, and there were a few different organs protruding from the hole I had made in him. I wrapped him up in a blanket and dragged him into my bedroom. I was careful. I don’t think I spilled one drop of his blood on the carpet.
I knew I had to hide him somewhere, but the only place big enough was my closet. I couldn’t put him in there because my mother put my clean clothes in there every few days. (My mother was a drunk whore, but she did keep a clean house). I decided I would have to cut Billy into smaller pieces and hide him in my toy box and desk drawers. It was nasty work, but I got him diced up into ten pieces, including the head and torso. I put his arms and legs in my desk drawers and crammed his chest into my toy box. I buried the head in a pile of stuffed animals, just like in E.T.
Cleaning up was a bitch, but I was thorough. I was careful not to get blood anywhere except the blanket. The blanket was an absolute mess. It looked like a giant had blown his guts out through his nose into a tissue. I rolled up the blanket and stuffed it one of my desk drawers; the one with Billy’s forearm to be exact.
Apparently, no one had seen me skewer the bastard in broad daylight on my front porch, because the police never showed up. I went about my life as usual for almost two weeks. I went to school, I played with my toys, and I got beat by mother. Everything was normal, until my room started to stink. The stench came on fast and strong. Mother smelled it and that’s when she found Billy, scattered around my room. I remember opening the top drawer of my desk, expecting to find an old bologna sandwich or something. When she saw the severed lower leg, her eyes got about as big as soup plates and she screamed so loud I thought my windows were going to break. She ran out of my room and locked herself in her’s. I guess she called the police, because they showed up a few minutes later.
They took me away from my mother and my home. I didn’t care. I liked the fact that I was out of school and wouldn’t get picked on anymore. They obviously figured I was insane, or emotionally disturbed, or whatever they call it now. They blamed it on the physical and mental abuse my mother inflicted on me. Who knows, maybe they were right. They kept me locked up in a facility until I was eighteen. Then they let me go without a second thought.
That’s basically all there is to tell. I started killing as soon as I was out, and I haven’t let up since. I’m twenty-nine now, and I’ve killed thirty-seven people. Usually I kill children, but I also enjoy prostitutes. I’ve murdered five homeless men, and I think I might pursue that more. My trademark is that I always, when there is time, hack my victims into ten neat morsels and bury each piece separately in a shallow grave. I move around the country, rarely staying in the same town for more than a couple days. I sleep in car or stay at cheap motels. I live off money from odd jobs and petty theft. I also have several thousand dollars left over from my mother’s house. I can’t be sure, but I think I’ve got the police thoroughly baffled.
That is my life. I am a serial killer, and serial killers are gods.No tags for this post.