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| Birdman's Black Notebook: American Psycho | Started by: Harvey_Birdman on Dec 23, '08 15:27 |
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A lone figure walks through rows of books, countless volumes of information, each a tome of knowledge. At the end of the isle, he comes to a large portrait of himself. For a moment, he makes eye contact with his likeness, then he raises his hand and pokes his first and second fingers into the eyes of the portrait, Three Stooges style. The portrait, along with the wall behind it, slides into the floor below, revealing a downward spiraling staircase. He walks down the staircase to a small landing, upon which is a small table and a black phone. He picks up the phone and dials a number. The table and the wall behind it turn 180 degrees, taking the man with them. A dim light reveals a tunnel, which the man follows to a small canal. Beside the canal lies a number of wooden planks, a hammer, and some nails. The man builds a raft, places it upon the water, and using another plank as an oar, travels down the canal. The canal ends at a wall. The man steps off his raft onto another landing, seemingly a dead end. A rusty hammer lays on the ground. He picks it up and begins to chip away at one of the stone walls. Hours later, he uncovers another staircase, this one spiraling upward. He takes the staircase, which ends in a door. He passes through the door, into a large bedroom, which, while luxurious, has obviously been abandoned for years. He walks to the bed, reaches under, and pulls out a shoebox. Inside the shoebox is a black notebook. This is the fabled BLACK NOTEBOOK OF BIRDMAN!!! He begins to read. Throughout my career as an attorney, I have seen many things which cannot be explained by conventional wisdom. These experiences I have recorded here, in this Black Notebook. To you who have found this notebook, realize that the events herein are true, witnessed by my own eye. Case #47: American Psycho Every organization has one guy that's just a little over the line. I'm not sure why they're kept around, but, for some reason, every boss, at some point, decides to keep one of these psychotic murders within their organization. I suppose that each leader thinks that they can control him, like a weapon, but I've found that these guys are rather a blunt, uncontrollable weapon that quite often turns upon it's wielder. This is one such case. Don Azuela had a problem. He had hired Timmy, an old friend of the family, as muscle. Timmy, however, soon made his bones as a hitman of sorts. Azuela gave him some simple jobs, taking out some street gangs, just enough to let him think he was really getting his hands dirty. Then, one day, Timmy went off on his own. It was a small slip and Azuela covered it up. Timmy was sent to rough up a shop owner. Not kill him, mind you, just rough him up a bit. Instead, Timmy smashed his skull with a baseball bat in front of his wife and kids. Then he panicked and shot the wife and kids. "Didn't want to leave witnesses," he told Azuela. Bullshit. That bastard enjoyed every second of it. He was a good earner, so Azuela made it all disappear. Looking back, I realize that mistakes were made. We should have taken him out then. But, we didn't. Instead, we sent him to Vegas on some business. Three days later, several of our contacts in Vegas turned up dead. It looked as if we were at war, so Azuela sent me to check things out. Timmy picked me up at the airport. I knew instantly that something was wrong. His car had a metallic odor, like blood. As we drove away from the airport, I asked to stop at a gas station to take a leak. I got the key from the attendant, took a leak inside dirty little bathroom, then took the key back. The attendant was gone and Timmy was arranging things in the trunk of the sedan we were driving. It was then that I was positive Timmy had lost his mind. But I wasn't going to say anything until I had assessed the situation. Again, in hindsight, this was a mistake. We got to his penthouse apartment, just off the strip and I sat on the couch. He promised to update me on the situation shortly, after we had time to rest. He excused himself to his bedroom and left me to nap on the couch. I waited a moment, then began to explore. I went the opposite direction, into what I assumed was a spare bedroom. Inside the plush bedroom was a canopy bed, nightstands, and a stainless steel table, with leather restraints. Surgical instruments lined the nightstands and the dresser. A dismembered corpse lay on the bed. Looking closer, I realized that there were several pieces from several different people, arranged back into a single body. I pulled the gun out of my jacket and screwed the silencer on the barrel. I closed the door quietly behind me. I crossed the expansive living room, into a galley style kitchen. I opened the fridge, found several jars of body parts, and closed the door. I heard a sound coming from his bedroom, and I quietly crossed the living room again, stopping at his door. I hesitated, then slammed into the door, bursting into the room. Even after the carnage I had seen, I wasn't ready for this. Dead women lined his walls, nailed there like artwork in a museum. Blood was spattered everywhere. Another woman was strapped to his bed, bound and gagged. He had begun to work on her, flaying the skin off her abdomen as she strained against her bonds. There were body parts everywhere. Hands, feet, hands, torsos. Scattered about like blocks in a child's room. He spun around as I hit the door, throwing the scalpel at me in the same motion. It hit me in the shoulder, but it didn't stop me from shooting him twice in the chest. He fell, apparently dead. I put another round in his head to make sure. The woman on the bed was screaming against the gag as I tried to calm her down. I got her to stop for a bit and I removed the gag. "It's going to be okay now," I told her. "I'll get you to a hospital." I didn't need any publicity, and neither did Azuela, but this was definitely big news. The woman finally managed to whisper something I could understand. It was "where are my kids?" Shit. I knew we should have taken Timmy out the first time he killed a kid. Professionals don't kill children. Only psychos kill kids. I pulled out my gun again and she started to panic. I unscrewed the silencer, then untied her arms and legs. I shot Timmy three more times, loudly expending the bullets, then handed her the gun. "I can't be here. You got loose, you killed him. Come on, let's get you to the hallway. There's no way the neighbors missed hearing those shots. so the cops should be on their way. " I helped her to the front door, we walked out of the penthouse, and I helped her sit on the floor. Then, I got out. In a hurry. The next morning, in the Vegas paper, they would report that at least fifteen bodies were found, with assorted pieces from at least ten more. The gas station attendant, or at least, body, sans head, was found in the trunk of Timmy's car. Azuela never kept another psycho on board. From then on, only professionals. The man closes the notebook, places it in the shoebox, then slides it back under the bed. He walks to another door in the bedroom, opens it, and steps out onto the sidewalk, next to his car. He gets in and drives away, only to return the next time he wishes to read a tale from BIRDMAN'S BLACK NOTEBOOK!" |
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