— Posted in Always into Darkness, Gee Whiz!, Murder on Mars

Murder on Mars, Chapter 01

When the system fails you. You create your own system.


Neural implant. It resembles a spidery inoperative brain tumor. The early “models” had a 2-percent failure rate. For obvious safety reasons, when they malfunction they are supposed to shut down, but, when they don’t auto-shutoff the implantee exhibits the symptoms of someone who is suffering from a malignant brain tumor, which, in effect, is what they have.


He plunges the blade of his Liston [knife] into the side of her neck. Its point and a considerable hunk of its shiny exiting the opposite side of her throat— slicing through trachea and esophagus—lacerating but not severing her spine—killing her outright. Hazel Carter, the only daughter of a standing senator of the Martian Democratic Republic. The drunken junkie whore, who has been a constant source of embarrassment for her rich, politically-powerful father, is dead.

With a deft flick of his educated wrist, he slashes open the throat of the female Secret Service agent, before she can draw her sidearm. Again, slicing through a victim’s trachea and esophagus. Again, down to but not through a victim’s spine. Again, lacerating but not severing a victim’s spine.

His disembowels both of his victims, followed by some hasty [yet still intense and quite considerable] postmortem mutilation that would leave Jack [or Jane] the Ripper positively green with envy. By the time the rest of Hazel’s security detail breaches the ladies room, he’s long gone, leaving no trace of his route of egress.

Previously …

Simon in conversation with himself while simultaneously conversing with his past, present, and future victims from across the multiverse …

The politics of Angels is not unlike the politics of Men. It used to be about Saints and Sinners. Now it’s about endless shades of gray.

Good angel? Bad angel? Fallen Angel? So, which one are you?

It doesn’t matter. All angels are terrifying.

Things move in the shadows, just beyond the reach of the light. Then, just like that, they are gone.

Oh my God … What were those things?!

Echoes. Echoes of the past. You call them ghosts.

They are in point of fact, the haunts of my captive audience.

Captive audience?

That’s what I call my victims. They visit me in my waking hours. They visit me in my sleep. Then, there are the voices. I’m never alone.

I am a Nephilim – half Angel, half human. In spite of being half-Angel, I’m still a Monkey to an Angel. Monkey is the racial slur that Angels use when referring to humans.

The resiliency of an Angel. The cunning of a Monkey. The blood lust of The Fallen. Such is me. Talking to myself. I seem rather one dimensional, less human, and more like a killing machine. Standing over what’s left of one of my latest two victims. There were thirty-seven in Chicago. I plan for a much larger body count in Haven.

I have a given name Simon. I was named after my father. But, I prefer the one that the Chi-Town newspapers gave me. The papers dubbed me Bone Daddy. I am sick and twisted by nature. An Angel in a human body. There’s just too much to contain in a mortal body. Insanity is the norm, not the exception, for my kind.

Confused butcher wannabe doctor. You’re no Angel. Your name is Angel. Simon Angel. You’re sick in the head. You’ve just said as much. You’re a psychopath who thinks he’s a bloody Angel. What a laugh. You’re a loser. A joke. A bed wetter with a knife who’s incapable of getting it on with a woman like a real man. Impotent cur. Homicide is your Viagra. Without it you can’t get hard.

Stop listening to her. All she wants to do is to distract you from your Godly tasks with her pointless filibustering. Nagging you without end. Always belittling your work.

Trite expository dialogue. Not very literary of her. Never would guess that she was a librarian when she was alive. So was her dildo-strapping bitch ass whore.

Clearly … The prattle of a Protestant.

She deserved to die badly the way she did. And, you did such a proper job on her and her bulldyke significant other. Lesbian trash. Unfit for Heaven. Not good enough for Hell either.

Raised Lutheran. Grew up to live in sin as an atheist with another woman who herself was an agonistic.

Heathen scum.


I’m not a psychopath, I’m a high-functioning sociopath; do your research. My court-appointed shrink diagnosed me as a high-functioning …

You never had a court-appointed shrink.

Right. Right. That was Jacobs. He’s the one who got caught. Careless of him. He got the court-appointed shrink, with the fancy diagnosis, for all the good it did him. He still died in the gas chamber, pissing and shitting in his pants like an incontinent retard.

Oh that’s right. My bad. Sorry.

Remember … My sweet … sweet … baby … You were never caught.

Just like you said … They [the police] never got close.

Not even remotely.

I keep forgetting.

That’s okay, honey. I’m here to remind you. That’s what wives are for. We’re helpmates, just like it says in the Bible.

I don’t know what I would do without you.

And then there’s the question of my entitlement. It’s a bittersweet one. For half-breeds such as me, it is the politics of Heaven and Hell. Good/Bad Angels in Heaven. Fallen Angels in Hell. So, it boils down to the politics of Angels, once more.

He struggles against his restraints as if that is going to make a difference. Naked. He’s tied securely to that which I’m using in the service of a dissection table.

The long slender blade feels feather light in my hand. Shiny and deadly. Familiar. My deadly old friend. An oversized scalpel. Well suited for vivisection. Specific for surgical amputation. It’s overkill for my uses.

It slices open his left leg lengthwise along the shinbone from just below the knee to just above the ankle. As if it was filleting a tender cutlet. A splay … also [known as] an old-fashioned … the preferred blade of a Ripperphile. Formally the Liston.

The Liston knife is a type of knife used in surgical amputation. The knife was named after Robert Liston a Scottish surgeon noted for his skill and speed in an era prior to anesthetics, when speed made a difference in terms of pain and survival. The knife was made out of high-quality metal and had a typical blade length of 6-8 inches. Surgical amputation knives came in many styles and changed very much between 1840 and the American Civil War. These changes reflect changes in techniques used by the surgeons and makers of surgical knives during the period.

Amputation blades from the 18th century–1840s are generally known for their distinctive “down” curving blades. By 1870, amputation blades had become straighter, and more closely resembled the “Liston” European style. Since the Crimean war ended in 1856, it is likely the American Civil War that had a greater impact on the long slender blade style than the actual Dr. Liston. The dedicated task of amputation may be more responsible for the Liston title than any specific design.

It is noted by collectors that the handles on earlier knives (pre-1850) are of a much bigger and heavier construction.

The majority of the history of amputation blade evolution is referenced from the medical textbook “Handbook of Surgical Operations”, U. S. A. Medical Department, 1863, written during the Civil War by Stephen Smith, M.D., with various drawings from the medical literature credited to Bourgery & Jocob.

Ripperphile? Ouch. A dangerous term, prone to severe misunderstandings. Wasn’t Robin Odell’s meta-analysis volume “Ripperology: A study of the world’s first serial killer and a literary phenomenon” published in 2006?

There used to be also a very entertaining old casebook thread called “You’re a Ripperologist if …” which contained criteria like
– You think SPE is God
– You meet someone named Hutchinson and can’t refrain from asking about their ancestors
– You get in days-long debates about where Hanbury Street 29 was in relation to today
– You venomously fight against someone on the boards and in the next Whitechapel conference run to them and hug them like a long lost brother.

Blood. So much blood. His screams fill the room. No one can hear him but me though. I get hard. I jism in my pants. I get all warm and sticky down there. Tibias. Tibias. I love tibias.

Make the Monkey suffer. Make the Monkey scream.

The drugs I’ve pumped him full of will prevent him from going into shock and dying on me prematurely. Other drugs he’s being infused with will keep away infection. Not that he will last that long. They never do. Nifty cocktail he’s been given by yours truly.

Resection? I always start with the left leg. Then, the right foot. The skull is last. They never get to die until I say so.

Too bad the fun must end when they perish.

Nope. It doesn’t. I fuck ‘em when they’re dead. Over and over again. Until I tire of doing so. The fun ends when I say so. That’s when the fat lady sings.

I unzip my pants and masturbate on him. Rubbing my dick in his wound. I will fuck him in the ass later after the Monkey bitch has sucked me off and gotten me hard again. I love fucking a virgin anus. It’s so very tight and unknown.

The Monkey bitch is his wife, of course. I took them both. Two for the price of one. In the next room. Door shut. Out of sight, but not out of mind … She is naked and similarly trussed up and drugged up like he is on a “makeshift” that’s been pressed into service as a dissection table. Sound familiar?

I’ve only had a little time with her. I might as well rape her too since I’m in the mood for backdoor. She’s no backend virgin though. Too bad.

After I’ve iced him, she’ll get my undivided attention. She’ll pay in spades for being one of those haughty career women, just like he [the stay-at-home dad Mr. Mom] paid for supporting her. I’m gonna make sure that she gets what’s coming to her. She should have stayed at home and had babies just like women are supposed to. Barefoot. Pregnant. And, fixed.

I’m naked from the waist up. Old scars and fresh open wounds of my own doing crisscross my back. I engage in self-flagellation. Underneath my trousers, my thighs are likewise “marked”, the handiwork of the small, light, metal chain with little barbed prongs which is worn around each thigh. Corporal mortification. The atonement for sins through self-flagellation and the cilice.

You see … I’m not a Cafeteria Catholic. I don’t pick and choose which rules I wish to follow. I’m a true Believer. As such, I follow Doctrine rigorously. Ignoring any and all of the so-called Reforms of the traitor [what Opus Dei calls the Pope]. Reforms which taint my once-beloved Church. A Church I now despise. A Church I’m duty-bound to save.

Soon, the whores will come.

The killer elite that you’ve so oft spoken of?

A  Monkey-spawned she-demon. A born-Saved she-demon. You must not allow either of them to distract you from your holy mission. You are the Righteous. See how you have your way so freely with this Monkey couple. Have your way with these the gun-toting faerie harlots. Remember … You must never forget the endgame where your numerous enemies get their comeuppance and your Church is saved to once again become your beloved.

Soon, Mr. Mufwic will come.



Maybe, you should run away?

It would be a waste of time.


Because … Everybody gets found, no matter how well they hide.

Maybe the assassin’s creed applies?

Maybe even …

The last lullaby?


I smile to myself.

Bring it!