I forget the internet isn't just for researching. Finding. Stalking.
I forgot you were here, little blog.
Oh, what can I say, I'm a busy guy. So many people. So little time.
Still, fun things have a way of finding me. I just came up for some fresh air to see Killcast, and some guy named Reaper, trading barbs. So I figured what the hell, why not join in? We'll see what the show's all about on the 27th, but till then maybe I'll just annoy the crap out of them till I decide if they're for real.
But shit, that's not why you came here, now is it? You came here for a story. Lemme tell you about another kill, hm?
This one was a few years ago. I was growing up, getting more inventive. And I was strolling around the early internet, when creeps were less careful and much easier to trap. Too easy, really, barely a challenge, but I was still growing, so I gave it a shot.
Only took a sec to write a profile. Sec after that, creeps were sending me messages. Picked one, ignored the rest, had him eating out of my little girly hands. Fucker wished!
Got him to an empty old house, way off the track near the woods. Told him I had a big bro that'd let him in, make sure he was harmless - you know, 'cept for wanting to fuck a little girl. Gave him a big smile, and a drink of scotch - laced with a little concoction of my own, of course.
Fucker went down like a sack of flour. Time he woke up, he was strapped to the floor - like Gulliver, and here I was a giant Liliputian.
Let him wake up - no fun if he can't scream and shit, right? Waited for him to quit yelling and begging and all, then I told him what I was gonna do. Told him each piece I was gonna take of,f and in what order.
Fucking creep screamed till his throat bled Thrashed till he was all bruises. Then he just lay there and looked at me.
Well, shit, he was waiting for me to begin - obviously. Wasn't gonna let him down, either. Had some of those knives that cut through bone. Nice and sharp. Caught the sun real nice too, through the window.
So I started at the bottom. Wanted to see how far up I could get before I lost him. Did it proper - cauterised everything so he didn't bleed out.
Got all the way up to his torso before his heart gave out. Had a nice little pile of pieces by then. Toes. Feet. Legs, all cut up in slices like a tree trunk.
Gotta be honest, didn't except him to last so long. Guy had some serious willpower.
So anyway, I buried the pieces all round the house in a circle and real carefully got the floorboards up to stick the rest of him underneath. Came prepared too - covered him in lime and a layer of cement, then put the boards back real neat. Painted the walls with blood - made up some stupid symbols so if anyone found 'em they'd think it was stupid teenage wannabe "satanists" doing vandalism. And if they found the body and bits, well, they'd be even further off track.
One other thing I did. Blocked everything so nobody would ever track me, and posted a picture in the chat I met the fucking creep on. Body and Bits, I called it. Scared some shit right out of those suck fuckers.
You know it.
Monday, 13 October 2014
Friday, 29 March 2013
Control
Can you tell me truly that you've never known someone, seen someone, met someone, whatever - and not thought, in some part of your brain, that here is a person who does not deserve to live? A person who hurts others - directly or indirectly?
A person who sucks some of the happiness from this world. One of the people who is slowly destroying it.
Can you tell me that you've never fought with the idea that removing one person will increase the happiness of others?
After I took revenge on my sister's muggers, I realised the power I had. I also realised that something wasn't right: I realised I enjoyed what I did. No, not in a sexual way, none of that shit, just...it was fun. Hurting them. Seeing them in pain. Being the one to make them die...
I realised that I could kill just for the sake of killing. Sometimes I think that would be easier.
Thankfully, everywhere I turn are people who deserve to die. I can always find one, when the violence begins to rise. I always have so far, anyway.
A person who sucks some of the happiness from this world. One of the people who is slowly destroying it.
Can you tell me that you've never fought with the idea that removing one person will increase the happiness of others?
After I took revenge on my sister's muggers, I realised the power I had. I also realised that something wasn't right: I realised I enjoyed what I did. No, not in a sexual way, none of that shit, just...it was fun. Hurting them. Seeing them in pain. Being the one to make them die...
I realised that I could kill just for the sake of killing. Sometimes I think that would be easier.
Thankfully, everywhere I turn are people who deserve to die. I can always find one, when the violence begins to rise. I always have so far, anyway.
Monday, 25 March 2013
First blood
My first kill was when I was 14.
It's probably none of the things you're thinking.
My sister and I were close, even though she was a few years older than me. She never treated me like an embarrassment, never pushed me away when friends her own age were around.
I got pushed around a lot at school, but she always stepped in against the assholes and stood up for me, even though she knew I could take care of myself. I suspect she did it because right form when I was a little kid, any time somebody pushed me and I pushed back, they got hurt. I suspect she was trying to protect me from myself the only way she knew how.
So when I was 14, she was 19, and dating some guy - don't remember his name. Walking home from seeing him, she got jumped. She fought back, they fought her and left her on the floor, head split open, brain getting aired by the breeze.
So we got a call from the hospital. Parents grabbed me and in we went. There she was, all bandaged up and unconscious, nobody sure whether she'd wake up or if her brain would still be intact.
Police, doctors, everything - I left my parents to it and stayed with her. When they tried to take me home I refused. The hospital let me stay, the nurses took pity on me and brought me extra food, and for 3 days I sat and slept on the chair by her bed, holding her hand, reading her books, talking to her.
On the 3rd day her hand gripped mine and I looked up to see her awake and looking at me. She croaked my name and I called for the nurses who did the things they had to do and called for the doctor, who came in. My sister refused to let him shoo me so I watched as he performed tests on her.
I saw that she could barely use words anymore, that her memories were faded - she remembered me, but only just, she could recall us growing up together but couldn't remember any of the things we'd done.
Doctor said it may improve, it may not, we'd just have to wait and see.
So we waited. And it became clear that not only was it not going to improve, it was worse than we thought. My sister was still there, but barely. Not just memories but personality, too, were faded. Something kept making her flash out and snap, insult, be mean. The doctor gave us all this jargon about head injuries but what it came down to was this: those muggers had removed my sister, they had removed who and what she was.
Sometimes when she was herself, she would look at me with such terror and sadness I couldn't bear it. When she told me she didn't want to keep being this person she couldn't control, I shook my head and fled.
But I came back. Because she was my sister, still, and I'd have done anything for her.
Understand me: she didn't wish bad on those who had hurt her. She just didn't want to keep hurting those around her. She knew what she was asking of me, and how big it was. She asked only once, telling me she'd do it herself but she didn't want to be alone, and that she would stay alive if that was my choice, and then she let me decide.
I know what you might be thinking, but no, she wasn't selfish. She was asking me to give her a way out - to end it, or to promise it would somehow get better - that somehow she would stop hurting people without meaning to or wanting to. The sister that had protected me from myself was asking me to protect others from herself, but willing to continue living with the things she couldn't keep herself from saying if that was what I asked her in return.
You'd be surprised how easy it can be to find the right drugs, if you're willing to put a bit of risk into finding them. I watched the pharmacy for days until I had a plan, a way in and out. I knocked out the security guard and disabled the cameras, broke in to the pharmacy - which was separate from the main building - took what I needed and as much else as I could carry in a backpack, so it looked like a robbery. I sold that stuff for a bunch later, gave it all away, but first I went back to my sister.
Keeping on the gloves I'd used for the robbery, I loaded up a syringe and, together, my sister and I injected it through the cannula. I held her hand while she closed her eyes and stopped breathing.
By this time she was off monitors, and I'd gone back to sleeping at home, so I made sure she looked comfortable, and that the syringe stayed in her hand, and said goodbye.
I'm pretty sure my parents always knew what I'd done. They could never quite reconcile themselves to hating me or loving me for it. I ran away from home a few months later - though only after I'd hunted down the muggers - to save them the trouble.
It's good they struggled. People should. What I did, it's not a thing to do lightly. It's not a thing that most people in the world should ever allow themselves to do.
Most people in the world, whatever they or you might think, don't have it in them to kill. Even in passion, there's still something in most of our heads which will stop us from going too far. To do so with thought and intent, but also love - that's a thing that, rightfully, very few people can reconcile within themselves.
It's a good thing. To take a life is not something to do lightly. But for the times it's necessary, for the people that need it or deserve it: that's what I do.
I don't enjoy what I did to my sister, but it was necessary, and done from love.
What I later did to the people who hurt her, well that was both necessary to the world, and a lot of fun.
Yes there is a sick, twisted, sadistic side to me. I'm aware of it. I accept it. In a perfect world where everyone was happy, I wouldn't exist - but then, I wouldn't need to.
I like torturing and fucking with evil people of this world before I kill them.
It's probably none of the things you're thinking.
My sister and I were close, even though she was a few years older than me. She never treated me like an embarrassment, never pushed me away when friends her own age were around.
I got pushed around a lot at school, but she always stepped in against the assholes and stood up for me, even though she knew I could take care of myself. I suspect she did it because right form when I was a little kid, any time somebody pushed me and I pushed back, they got hurt. I suspect she was trying to protect me from myself the only way she knew how.
So when I was 14, she was 19, and dating some guy - don't remember his name. Walking home from seeing him, she got jumped. She fought back, they fought her and left her on the floor, head split open, brain getting aired by the breeze.
So we got a call from the hospital. Parents grabbed me and in we went. There she was, all bandaged up and unconscious, nobody sure whether she'd wake up or if her brain would still be intact.
Police, doctors, everything - I left my parents to it and stayed with her. When they tried to take me home I refused. The hospital let me stay, the nurses took pity on me and brought me extra food, and for 3 days I sat and slept on the chair by her bed, holding her hand, reading her books, talking to her.
On the 3rd day her hand gripped mine and I looked up to see her awake and looking at me. She croaked my name and I called for the nurses who did the things they had to do and called for the doctor, who came in. My sister refused to let him shoo me so I watched as he performed tests on her.
I saw that she could barely use words anymore, that her memories were faded - she remembered me, but only just, she could recall us growing up together but couldn't remember any of the things we'd done.
Doctor said it may improve, it may not, we'd just have to wait and see.
So we waited. And it became clear that not only was it not going to improve, it was worse than we thought. My sister was still there, but barely. Not just memories but personality, too, were faded. Something kept making her flash out and snap, insult, be mean. The doctor gave us all this jargon about head injuries but what it came down to was this: those muggers had removed my sister, they had removed who and what she was.
Sometimes when she was herself, she would look at me with such terror and sadness I couldn't bear it. When she told me she didn't want to keep being this person she couldn't control, I shook my head and fled.
But I came back. Because she was my sister, still, and I'd have done anything for her.
Understand me: she didn't wish bad on those who had hurt her. She just didn't want to keep hurting those around her. She knew what she was asking of me, and how big it was. She asked only once, telling me she'd do it herself but she didn't want to be alone, and that she would stay alive if that was my choice, and then she let me decide.
I know what you might be thinking, but no, she wasn't selfish. She was asking me to give her a way out - to end it, or to promise it would somehow get better - that somehow she would stop hurting people without meaning to or wanting to. The sister that had protected me from myself was asking me to protect others from herself, but willing to continue living with the things she couldn't keep herself from saying if that was what I asked her in return.
You'd be surprised how easy it can be to find the right drugs, if you're willing to put a bit of risk into finding them. I watched the pharmacy for days until I had a plan, a way in and out. I knocked out the security guard and disabled the cameras, broke in to the pharmacy - which was separate from the main building - took what I needed and as much else as I could carry in a backpack, so it looked like a robbery. I sold that stuff for a bunch later, gave it all away, but first I went back to my sister.
Keeping on the gloves I'd used for the robbery, I loaded up a syringe and, together, my sister and I injected it through the cannula. I held her hand while she closed her eyes and stopped breathing.
By this time she was off monitors, and I'd gone back to sleeping at home, so I made sure she looked comfortable, and that the syringe stayed in her hand, and said goodbye.
I'm pretty sure my parents always knew what I'd done. They could never quite reconcile themselves to hating me or loving me for it. I ran away from home a few months later - though only after I'd hunted down the muggers - to save them the trouble.
It's good they struggled. People should. What I did, it's not a thing to do lightly. It's not a thing that most people in the world should ever allow themselves to do.
Most people in the world, whatever they or you might think, don't have it in them to kill. Even in passion, there's still something in most of our heads which will stop us from going too far. To do so with thought and intent, but also love - that's a thing that, rightfully, very few people can reconcile within themselves.
It's a good thing. To take a life is not something to do lightly. But for the times it's necessary, for the people that need it or deserve it: that's what I do.
I don't enjoy what I did to my sister, but it was necessary, and done from love.
What I later did to the people who hurt her, well that was both necessary to the world, and a lot of fun.
Yes there is a sick, twisted, sadistic side to me. I'm aware of it. I accept it. In a perfect world where everyone was happy, I wouldn't exist - but then, I wouldn't need to.
I like torturing and fucking with evil people of this world before I kill them.
My story
Do you want my story? Do you want to know how I got here? Why I hunt down evil people and end them? Why, if I see someone whose unhappiness is too much, I give them peace?
Does my story matter? If I give you reason and rhyme, will it make a difference?
What if I told you stories of the things I've done? Would that change anything?
Perhaps telling those things will help me. Perhaps they will help you understand me. Perhaps they will help someone else understand how I see the world.
My story has no great meaning in the universe, but I do know why I do what I do.
Does my story matter? If I give you reason and rhyme, will it make a difference?
What if I told you stories of the things I've done? Would that change anything?
Perhaps telling those things will help me. Perhaps they will help you understand me. Perhaps they will help someone else understand how I see the world.
My story has no great meaning in the universe, but I do know why I do what I do.
To enjoy or not
Is it wrong that I find enjoyment in what I do?
Is it wrong that I take pleasure in slowly killing those who deserve it? Not those who can't help it, but those who knowingly and ruthlessly cause misery?
Of course it is.
I am not a good man.
I am not a righteous man.
What I do is no holy mission.
What I do cannot be done without enjoyment - my sanity would never hold long enough
Is it wrong that I enjoy finding ways to hurt those who have hurt others?
Sure.
Does it matter, when weighed against their removal?
No.
Intent is all-encompassing. If I did it solely because I enjoy it - if I chose to do this to people who hadn't earned it - then I would be wrong.
I repeat: I am not a good man.
But what I do does not pass me by without effect.
I cry for those whose pain I stop.
I enjoy repaying and ending those who choose to do evil.
I enjoy causing pain, but only to those who have intentionally caused it to others.
See? Intent. Theirs as much as mine.
Is it wrong that I take pleasure in slowly killing those who deserve it? Not those who can't help it, but those who knowingly and ruthlessly cause misery?
Of course it is.
I am not a good man.
I am not a righteous man.
What I do is no holy mission.
What I do cannot be done without enjoyment - my sanity would never hold long enough
Is it wrong that I enjoy finding ways to hurt those who have hurt others?
Sure.
Does it matter, when weighed against their removal?
No.
Intent is all-encompassing. If I did it solely because I enjoy it - if I chose to do this to people who hadn't earned it - then I would be wrong.
I repeat: I am not a good man.
But what I do does not pass me by without effect.
I cry for those whose pain I stop.
I enjoy repaying and ending those who choose to do evil.
I enjoy causing pain, but only to those who have intentionally caused it to others.
See? Intent. Theirs as much as mine.
Lies
What lies do you tell yourself,
what secrets conceal,
in the dead of the night
while the day congeals
in your shielded mind?
When the daylight sears
away the shadows
do you remember the fear
of the dark?
Never stopping
never thinking
slowly sinking
something pulling
underneath
but you can't look.
Drowning and dying
too scared to fight back.
What is the thing that follows you?
You catch a glimpse
You turn away.
Too much to face.
Wordlessly crying
shouting
screaming
for release
for the fear
for the pain
for the things you feel
but refuse
to end
to be ended.
what secrets conceal,
in the dead of the night
while the day congeals
in your shielded mind?
When the daylight sears
away the shadows
do you remember the fear
of the dark?
Never stopping
never thinking
slowly sinking
something pulling
underneath
but you can't look.
Drowning and dying
too scared to fight back.
What is the thing that follows you?
You catch a glimpse
You turn away.
Too much to face.
Wordlessly crying
shouting
screaming
for release
for the fear
for the pain
for the things you feel
but refuse
to end
to be ended.
Are you happy?
Tell me really.
Are you happy?
Do you even know what happy is?
So few do.
The world's a mess, you can't deny that. Not because we made it that way, not because we're all inherently evil and selfish. The world's a mess because we're all so busy trying to pretend we're happy and tell each other the things which we need to do and have and buy to make us happy that we don't even realise how fucking empty we all are.
Your life is a shell. It has no purpose. You will trundle through this world, crashing into things along the way, never looking up, never seeking truth. Never being happy.
It's just too fucking painful to admit, to accept, to open your eyes and look, and see. So you don't. Or if you catch a glimpse, you go buy smoething shiny to distract yourself so you never have to think about it.
The few that face the pain of seeing, the even fewer that try and explain, or act to change things - the world you live in things they're insane.
The world you live in thinks I'm insane. And that's cool, you know, I probably am. What I do makes me that way, but being that way doesn't make me do what I do.
The worst, the most unhappy, those who make others more unhappy - even without meaning to - I help them.
You? You probably won't be able to make sense of this. That's cool too, it's probably good for you that you can't.
Until now, your world hasn't noticed me, and that's good. But what I do has a purpose. The only way to fix the world is to make it happier. The only way to do that is to put to rest those people that add to the unhappiness.
I'm one man. I can't do it all. But when I see someone whose pain is too great, I do my best to end it for the sake of everyone else.
Not everyone deserves life. I end those too. The cruel, the evil, the ones who do great wrong and remain untouched.
You can call me Garrett.
No that's not my real name.
No you'll never see my face.
Yes I'm using every trick I know of to stop this blog being traced.
And yes, every story here is true.
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