Murder is what clouds my rampant thoughts. Demented is my state of mind so don’t be judgy about this but rather retrospective. Everything can be an art form even the coldness that murder may seem to give may not at all be cold depending on how you look at it. Hasn’t the world produced enough murderers who never seem to be of little production; serial killers who come to find murder is sweet.
Don’t get me wrong about it but rather perceive it as the art of taking a soul, the thrill the screams of my victims would give me and as the world spins on its own axis the contemplative stench that fresh blood on my hands would give me would ever be so ecstatic, need I say more? Sit down and relax as I try to open a gateway to your mind about this inductive testimonial of a murderer wanna be but not as much as self control I have not to start with the worthless human beings who every day shutter my heart in different ways and they masquerade as friends and helpful members of the society. From the tools of trade that one would pick from. A gun, maybe but not so intuitive on the kind of pleasure death may actually give as you play god to mindless hooligans or rather innocent souls or at times not so innocent. Screaming from the top of their lungs as you hack them again and again with a blunt machete as chopping of their limbs slowly but sweetly. Their pain your ever present drive to kill even more.
Feeling the cold hold of my blade as it slowly plunges into my victim as it becomes blissful and as it disappears slowly into the body of my victim I feel free and at times doing it so repeatedly just slings the expectations or is it the fulfillment of this vile nature of a retard may not so much be a lost soul but a person who has learned to rediscover their sole purpose in this world as to form art and thus the birth of a criminal mastermind.
The thrill of the chase ever so twisting the concheleons of my mind. Descriptive as a samurai blade slashes the body of a 22 year old blonde or is it a brunette or maybe even a grotesque man with an enormous figure. The harder it is to catch the prey the more exciting it is to formulate a full proof plan to corner them into a place where they are scared beyond their wits. The fear that climbs and claws their spine as they become even more aware of the environment they are to lose themselves to my not so clean hands. Drip drip drip drip drip…as their blood runs down my wrists not because they killed a fellow human being be but because I enjoy the whole ordeal.
A chain saw or power drill, hacking through the bones with their screams mixed with the loud sounds of my paintbrush of choice; the blood spilling all over left, right and centre with some on my face and as I wipe it down with the very hands that are a creative tool to the society not spreading words of reason but an instinctive nature to kill first ask questions later. To evade the police making them look like fools when I am the 48 year old college professor with a dire taste for human sacrifice not per say but rather an infinite taste for embracing the angel of death. Just to add the salt on the fries would be the incredible injection of washing it all away with long cold or maybe hot showers as my tools get cleaned and also do I become reborn an inch close to being an emotionless animal. A brute who finds sentimentality in brutality with every death a mere line to a poem that never ends.
A proficient killer I would be, with the gentleman touch written all over maybe with a signature assassin creed’s touch of using feathers as souvenirs rather than proof of their deaths.Lost to the ghouls, demons and monsters of my own imprisoned mind. Weapons well named; a Kenshai sword called Lucy, a 44 revolver named Bree, a power saw called Margret and a dagger called Joy just for the joy left on my visage for seeing the lifeless body of a victim well punctured and all it seems as a reverie of an understood enigma. As the world looks to judge but not really looking and instead of joining my communal understanding of the religion of death they rather not appreciate the art it gives. Subdued thoughts of ladies running for their lives but rather to their deaths as you follow them step for step dragging Janice – the axe on the hard floor slowly just for them to find themselves cornered at the basement of an abundant house. Hack! One mighty blow so does their heads sprawl to the side as it flys with the same oh my gosh expression still left on them but aren’t we all murders when we justify ourselves for ending the lifespans and dynasties of vermins. Stepping on cockroaches, snapping flies with profound pressure and swatting mosquitoes for following protocol of finding food just so we can be acclaimed innocent in the eyes of man. The brutal slaughter of livestock with families to fill our never ending stomachs that run as far as the ocean all for thanks giving or for the sweetness of their meat; yet again never forgetting that I am yet to find a hen that has died of old age or natural causes. Poachers scaring away rhinos for prized collections that generate wealth but I would do it for free because its forgiving. As I take a life I leave a story untold, screams unheard and fears ever on the rising tide to the extent of making love to them but skipping the actual sex and in its place use a hammer to plunge into them like a monster truck or a bull on rampage.
If I am to be judged then judge the raging bull who is forced in an el matador arena as it protects itself as it knows best only for crowds to cheer on and on, aren’t they encouraging death. Yes people paying a lot to years later of recorded history of a mass murderer’s museum because he sort to kill and accept that it is only part of them. Why so easy to accept a liar for whom they are but not me the simple addictive killer who sees death as another puff of weed or shot of whisky. Sharing a last meal with them and hearing their bitter sides of the story of lives they never cherished always blaming karma for what she cannot be blamed for. Have I even got to the torture that awaits these poor souls, sometimes unlimited pain the forms an unprofaned settling den in my own body a place for it to grow like an acorn seed but nooo!! I am to be executed for such ‘bad’ habits they would call it. And I would so initiate other members of the society as I get them to enjoy the same indistictive pleasure I get in thrusting a 6 inch nail into my victims palms and breath a sigh of a drug addict who finally gets a hit of the crack he has been suching for the whole week.
Demented I am, scary it is but art is all it has become. A habit that never dies. Aren’t you all lucky that I have never at once been brain washed to such a fete but if I was to start then I doubt I wouldn’t kill all 7 billion of you in different sarcastic manipulative ways just to go down as the best artist who ever lived ranked high with the likes of Shihan the spoken word master, Leonardo Da Vinci the painter or is it Edgar Allan Poe himself the king of poetry. Think about it, are we well justified to condemn murders for an art well forgotten or is it a particular game as simple as chess where all moves matter with a self contained castle in the basement where all souvenirs are kept.
Baba Mboga dies.