A taste for it

'What do you want to be when you grow up?'
'A serial killer.'
He smiled. That smile was tantalising, thrilling, teasing.
'I am grown up. And I always get what I want.'
Cillian Falls laughed, and so did I.
I asked him, 'Is your ambition fulfilled?'
'Not yet, give me time.'
'Why a serial killer? I mean, don't you have to be a sociopath to do that?'
Cillian brushed his hair with his long fingers, his hair was pitch black. He looked at me, smiled, sneered. He spoke slowly, deliberately. 'I think, well you've got Gacey, Bundy, the Mansons, anyway, they've all got fucked up family backrounds.'
'So?'
'Well I reckon, you've got to be one serious mishapen, evil fuck to start killing around you, for no reason - just sheer interest. You have no reason, no history of abuse, sexual or any kind for that matter. No hormonal-fucking-imbalance.'
I lay back on the bed, my bed, in the middle of my room, and I looked at my black ceiling that I had painted two days before that. You could get locked into it. I could nearly smell it still, seeping through my nostrels, that black paint.
I took a slow drag from my cigarette, and exhaled. I finished for Cillian, 'You would then be the ultimate serial killer. Someone with a taste for it - just because you do.' I smiled, sneered, smiled.
'You think you could be that person? You even think it exists?'
'I'd be a legend.'
'You are a legend.'
'I know.'
I laughed and laughed. I couldn't stop. I don't like my laugh, it cuts through me sometimes, like a sharp, ice cold blade.
'What's so funny?'
Cillian wasn't looking at me, then he did, he kind of glared. He had dark eyes, not sharp, like a constant blunt ache. I stared at him - for effect, although I don't think I ever need to do that.
'You think you could do that, do you?'
'What?'
'Blood, pain, torture, lead, slicing flesh, eating flesh, ripping it, breaking bones and all at the same time, staring into their pleading eyes, their innocent, pitiful crying eyes. The eyes of a child that you stole, and then smiling at them, into them, before you gouge them out with you bare hands. Is that what you dream about at night?'
Silence.
Just us.
Cillian and I, gazing, leering nearly, at each other.
He broke it, he laughed.
Then I laughed.
He said, 'You're a sick fuck- but you don't want to know what I think about at night.'
'I know,' I pushed him, 'That you think about the northern parts of a girl's body, because we all know you havn't travelled south.'
'Do you ever stop talking shit.'
'Shit is the only thing anyone ever talks about, if you want to be different, unique, strange, why don't you stop talking shit about how you want to be the ultimate murder lover and do something about it.'
Cillian lit up a cigarette.
He exhaled.
'I have someone in mind already.'
I sat back up, quite abruptly for my liking, because I really did not believe he had it in him. A murder with no cause? I sifted through my brain, statistically impossible, I reaffirmed.
'Do tell.'
'You know that girl, that blond one...'
'The one that wouldn't put out for you?'
'Yes.'
'Cillian, if i were a girl I wouldn't put out for you. Don't hold it against her.'
'You wouldn't be able to resist me. What do you think?'
'No, you have a grudge, it has to be random.'
'Completely random?'
'Yes. Well maybe take a person's hair into account and see if you'd like to scalp it off.'
I grinned. So did Cillian.
Cillian said. 'Let's go then.'
'Outside?'
'Yes, let's make some random selection.'