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Invincible
Tom Conoboy
The thing about murder is, it’s much easier than everybody thinks. There’s this fucking mystery about it, like it’s something exotic and cruel, the greatest evil, and only serious mindfucks do it. And all the tame people, the ones who think about it, in their little beds with the lights out so even God can’t see their nasty thoughts, they all think it’s difficult, like they’re going to get caught by Plodder of the Yard because, stupid bastards, they left a vital clue behind, they said the wrong thing and caused lightbulbs to flash in the mind of the great detective.
It’s all shit, guys. It’s not like that at all.
Wanna kill someone? Okay, let’s do it. Here, now. I’m up for a bit of dusty.
First off, your prey. Absolutely do not CHOOSE your prey. Losers do that. Losers do time. Understand, it’s a simple fucking equation, right? If you’re gonna murder your missus, forget it. Get a hitman, it’s so much easier, a nice two-grand transaction done at the train station and she’s meat and you’re clean. Nobody you know, rule number one. The plods, that’s all they can think about: what’s the motive, why did nasty man A kill poor fucker B? What’s the connection?
If there ain’t a connection, where do they go then? Shitting round their sties in ever angrier circles, that's where. And you? You’re cruising down Buchanan Street, buddy boy, you earned that swagger with a one-armed thrust into the fuckwit’s heart.
Yeah, rule number two, know where the heart is. It’s not where most folks reckon. It ain’t on the left, not quite. Get a book out the library, that’ll show you. Rule number three, know where the kitchen is. What I mean is, no fancy fucking knives and shit. Nothing traceable. A nice carving knife from Poundstretchers does the job just as well, and there’s millions of them out there. And yours, once it’s in the river, isn’t yours any more.
No trophies. Remember that Cracker episode, the crazy scouse one? All those news reports on the wall, what the fuck for? Just draws attention. Trust me guys, you ain’t gonna need anything to remind you of it, you’ll be shitting that moment for months to come. Every time you turn a corner, look up on a bus, change channel on TV, every time there’s a flicker of change in reality, that’s when you see it, the shape coming towards you, the shine of your steel, the whip of your hand, that pitiful look on the dead fuck’s face as he looks at you and grabs his chest and falls to the ground.
Rule number…whatever. Don’t stay to gloat. The fucker’s dead, leave it at that, give him some dignity and get the fuck out of there. Don’t ditch the blade too soon, the plods check everywhere, seriously, everywhere, you’ve seen it on the telly, lines of them on their hands and knees. Don’t run. Don’t look back.
When they talk about it at work, join in. Say what they say. First few times you’ll be fighting the vomit every time it’s mentioned, but roll with it, guy, get over it. Okay, you’re shit scared, but he’s shit-stiffed, so who’s the lucky one here? Don’t get all pitying and start whining. If you feel sorry for yourself you may as well go down the station and hand yourself in because you’re as good as nailed anyway.
Get ready for the next time. Rule number last. Get ready for the next time, because there’s gonna be one. It’s a drug, man. Better than cocaine, and your nose don’t fall off, neither. Better than heroin, ecstacy. It’s a bit like speed, but rougher, more spaced, yeah?
The funny thing, right, it gets easier every time you do it. I’ve done six now, still get a buzz, but it gets easier. Here’s the thing though – the nightmares get worse. How is that? What’s the point of that?
I see these fuckers whirling round my head, all six of them, and they’re screaming like, chopping at me and I’ve got no hands or something because I can’t fight back and they keep chopping and chopping and eventually they start slicing into me, tearing at my flesh with their hands and their teeth and I feel every moment of it but it doesn’t affect me. It’s agony but I don’t feel the pain. I die, over and over, but I’m watching it every time, alive and laughing. I laugh at them. Middle of a fucking nightmare and I wake up laughing, don’t stop till there’s a half bottle of whisky in my gut. That’s it, you see. That’s the drug. It makes you invincible. That’s me…invincible.
Tom Conoboy lives in England, but was born in Scotland. He works in local government and relieves the boredom by creative writing. He has been published in a variety of journals and ezines, including Word Riot, Eclectica, The Harrow and Mad Hatter's Review.