Within the Folds of Cold Flesh (Graphic)

"Go ahead,” the older man said as he placed a tape recorder on the table between us. “Tell us how you could commit such heinous crimes and be so calm about it afterward,” he finished as he pushed the record button.



I watch his every movement, he is afraid of me, as well he should be. He wants me to tell them why I killed forty-three people, mostly women, in such a sadistic way. The truth should be known, don’t you think?



Every great author has a autobiography. Every great artist has a self portrait. I will give you both. I will give my autobiography in such a way he sees my murders as I saw them. He will know the thrill I felt as their lives bled out all red and sticky.



I bite my lip to keep from laughing as I watch him fumbling with a plastic cup of water. No glass here, the maniac might cut your throat with it. I reach over and steady it for him. He looks up at me, a look of complete revulsion in his eyes. He is afraid of me, as I said, but he loathes me more.



I speak slowly so that no words are missed by the recorder. That would not do at all. The beauty of my life’s work must be preserved for posterity. Few will ever actually hear it. I do wish I could see the horror on their faces as they do.



“I am Mikhail Romanovich, they call me The Night Ripper, a media moniker I do not particularly care for. It does not suit my crimes at all. I am a philanthropist. I do humanity a service by ridding it of certain scum. Do you understand me?  By eliminating that so hated I am doing the world a favor, therefore showing a great love for it.



I am a misogynist, did I not mention that? I despise women completely. My weak, demanding, drama ensnared mother made sure of this. She moved from one man to another like a whore to her johns. No pauses, no breaks in between, one man after another passed through my life. At least the whore gets compensation for her services; my mother I think paid them. She paid them with a place to live and provided them with basic needs. Occasionally one was decent enough, but most of the time they were inbred morons.



As a child I exhibited a textbook case of the MacDonald triad. When I was nine the neighbor's cat wandered into our backyard. I called him over and picked him up. He purred and meowed softly; delighted he had found a friend. A sharpened stick lay nearby. I reached for it before I knew exactly what I was going to do.



The cat screamed, scratched, and bit so that blood welled up in many places on my arms and face. I did not let it deter me. I pushed the stick further. Blood poured freely and the viscera protruded through the hole. It would be several killings later before I learned the best penetration is quickly and mercilessly.



The cat's screaming protests brought my mother. Never have I heard such a sound of anguish. My mother drowned out anything that cat could have done. I flinched, she sounded so inhuman. I think that day I stripped away a large part of her sanity. For years she had stripped away mine. Now it was her turn.



A year before my mother brought Phil home for Christmas dinner. After dinner he introduced me to the pain of anal invasion. I repaid him with a butcher knife. He will not rape another child, male or female. I do not know what happened to him. Mother drove him to the hospital. I have no idea what they said. I'm sure they did not tell them I did it. Then they would have to admit to the rape of an eight year old boy. I never saw Phil again.



Mother allowed him to commit such a heinous indignation. That night as I sat in the bath, the water turning a pale pink from the blood, I realized despite the pain, there had been an extremely pleasurable sensation. I dirtied my bath water more just thinking of it. I had to repeat this pleasure. Impaling the cat on the stick had done it. My pants were now filled with a whitish fluid, the same fluid I had excreted a year before, in the bath. I knew this was the way to that pleasure, and I could have it anytime I wanted as long as I was careful.



I had been careless with the cat, but again my mother did not report it. There were too many things I could tell them about her. Things she would rather keep quiet. Enough about her.



I killed my first human when I was 12. It was a six year old that lived four houses down from us. Her name was Laila Mitchell. She disappeared one day while riding her bike. Everyone thought some monster had kidnapped and killed her. Everyone assumed it was a child predator. It never occurred to them sometimes the child predator, the monster, is a child as well.



I had a steak knife this time. I lured her into the woods near the creek, then made her take off her clothes. She did as I asked, tears streaming down her dirty, smudged cheeks. I see her vividly, even now. I tied her to a tree with some rope I had stolen from a neighbor's tool shed. As soon as I touched her I knew I would have to gag her. She was hitching short hiccupping breaths. She was preparing to let out a shriek. I pushed her panties deep into her throat. It stopped her screaming, but it also suffocated her. I was deprived of the pleasure of killing her as I had planned.



Undaunted I removed strips of skin from her legs, peeling her like a piece of fruit. I had not realized how many layers of skin a person, even such a small child, has. It was tedious and eventually I gave up. I succeeded only in stripping away all her skin from the waist down. I have since perfected the art of skinning them. Have you ever seen a person completely skinned? It is a thing of beauty. It takes time to create such a masterpiece. With Laila my time was running out. I knew they would be looking for her soon. I raised the knife and drove it completely to the hilt into her heart. I heard an audible pop as the life sustaining muscle was invaded.



Pleasure exploded within my own chest as I brought the knife down again and again. Soon I stiffened and needed to relieve myself. I ran quickly toward my home and upstairs before my mother noticed me. I hurried into the bathroom to relieve myself hastily. I moaned softly as the semen passed from me and into the toilet bowl. The door opened, and there stood my mother, looking horrified. If she was that shaken by my ejaculating; what would she have done if she had known the truth behind my actions? If she had known the source of my pleasure?



I graced her with a smug look of satisfaction as I washed my hands. I went into the backyard to get away from her. The steak knife lay on the stoop; I had not realized I dropped it. I picked it up and buried it at the base of a large oak. To my knowledge it is still there.



I think you understand me by now. My victims, most so young, so pretty, so incredibly wrapped up in herself. The warmth of her blood as it is sprayed onto my skin. The crimson mingling with the pale of her skin, paling more as the blood drains and staining pink as the blood runs over it. Look into her eyes and see the life that lingers there. Know you are in control of that life. That you will be the one to decide when to extinguish it. You will watch as the life fades and the eyes glaze sealing forever your image within them. You will feel the smile creeping across your face as you acknowledge you are the only one who can see it.



You are stealth and you are invisible. You do not exist because people assure themselves it will not happen to them. It happens to someone else. It is exciting to know your art is featured daily in the newspapers.  Reporters cringe as they give scant details of your work to the masses. They see these reports and the experience dread. It is not yet fear. Dread defines anticipation, fear defines the confrontation.



You will place the knife against her skin and hold it, reveling in that fear. It radiates from her, it leaks from every pore in her skin. You smell it, and so does she. It is exciting and exhilarating to bring forth such a scent. To know the control is yours so completely. Drive the knife in, deeply, again and again. Penetrate her, degrade her, dehumanize her, and kill her.



I stabbed my last victim 47 times. I saw on the television police think that was because of rage. They are foolish. It is for the penetration, for the sexual gratification. Despite my loathing for women I suffer satyriasis and must adhere to my urges.



Unfortunately my urges tend toward a more, inactive, nature. I cannot have sex with a woman who is able to respond. I do not care for their pleasure, nor do I want them to have any. Pleasure is mine alone. Pain is the essence of their world, of course by the time I take them they are beyond even pain. I am driven to kill more often as of late. I must have that pleasure.



I tried sex with a living woman once, her name was Claire Manste. I seduced her and lured her to a rented room. She was soft and eager, still I hated her. I mounted her cautiously, she moaned with pleasure and something within me snapped. I placed my hands about her throat and began to squeeze. She did nothing at first. I suspect she thought it was erotic asphyxiation. I squeezed tighter; I could feel her pulse under my fingertips. I could feel it increase as she realized her situation and fear set in. Her lips began to take on a bluish tint. She tried to scream so I tightened my grip again. I could not allow her to call out. It was not fear of getting caught, I was afraid she would get away without being punished for feeling pleasure.



I watched that light fade from her eyes. I sat watching as they slowly glazed and the color faded. I kissed her lips; they were already starting to cool. I felt myself almost as aroused as I had been when I killed Laila. I knew then they had to be dead first.



They had to be dead first,” I repeated, as I looked at the doctor who watched me, I waited for the spark of recognition, then that revulsion that would follow. Ah, there it is, now I may continue.



“My first victim as an adult set the pretense for all those who followed, how many were there? Fifty-four, doctor, wasn’t that the final tally?” I asked, a knowing smile pulling at the corners of my lips. I bit roughly at the inside of my cheek. Blood seeped into my mouth; the taste of it set my senses alight with a fresh need.



“Those women in the basement. You are waiting to hear about them, aren't you? The first victim was a young woman about 24, medium length blond hair, blue eyes, short in stature, small in the waist, maybe a 23 or 24 inches. It does not matter though does it? You want details on what I did to her. You await those details as eagerly as I awaited that moment of murder, don’t you?"



He does not answer me. Do not fuel the fire within the maniac. No matter. I know what he wants. I always know what they want.



"I kept her in the basement, chained and gagged. I stabbed her with a blunt end stick. There is nothing like the popping sound of the taunt flesh as it burst open. I poured alcohol into the wound to keep it from infection. It burned like hell and she screamed as though I had actually set her on fire. The sound was nothing short of musical.



The next day I added another young woman. This one was unplanned; she had knocked on my door. She was looking for a relative a few houses away. She wanted to know if I knew them. I invited her in on false pretenses. When she turned her back to admire the décor of the house I hit her hard enough to bring unconsciousness. She awoke in the basement.



They were the first to succumb to my experiments. I found out from the television reports on her disappearance the second woman was Susan Folson, an attorney. By then I already ascertained she was an intellect.



She tried all the old psychological games with me. I blocked her out with screams. Every time she would begin talking I would use hot pliers on the other woman. I tore large portions of flesh from the bone. She screamed in agony and Susan would shut up. A very smart woman, I suppose.



On the third day, the first woman, Carol, died. I assume it was shock. I had removed another portion of her flesh, her screams melodious to my senses. Susan remained silent but struggled against her bonds. I held the flesh up, making her struggle harder. She knew eventually she would become the tortured. The blood dripped onto my hand and my curiosity was raised.



I licked it expecting a salty or coppery taste. Instead it was sour and disgusting. I spat it in her face and went upstairs with the flesh. I decided I would cook it first. Since you have my file you can conclude, doctor, I found it delicious. I retrieved the rest of the corpse and after, defiling her, I cut it up. The next night Susan and I had her for dinner. Susan had not eaten in four days; she had no qualms about eating her former cellmate. It is amazing how quickly people will turn primordial. I set the plate in front of her and sat watching. She huddled close to the wall at first. She had stopped talking completely since Carol died. She knew eventually I would turn my sadistic mind toward her.



Eventually her hunger won out and she ate greedily. I left the room to search for another victim. It only took me four hours to find her.



She was standing on the corner of Seventh and Mason when I asked her to give me directions. As she spoke I tried to determine how much of a struggle she would give me. Then she said the words that almost made me forget she was a living female, ‘Would you like me to ride with you? I could show you the way?’



Of course I agreed, she did not seem alarmed that I did not ask her again where to go. She became alarmed when we went the opposite direction a few miles down the road. ‘This is not the right way. I told you back there to go left. Where are you going? What are you doing? Stop the car!’ Without saying a word I hit her in the face with a fist. I felt the cartilage in her nose give way as I made contact. Soon her eyes turned black and her nose swelled. At least she was quiet.



As soon as I brought her down the stairs Susan began to scream. She knew with every word spoken by the new girl her torture would increase. ‘Shut up!’ I snarled as I applied the chains to the new girl’s wrists and ankles. Susan retreated back to her corner covering her face.



The new girl came around quickly. One look at her predicament and she began to scream, in fact, they all did, except Susan. I almost admired her. I took a hammer and drove it into Susan’s shin shattering the bone. Her screams joined those of the other girl. I bit my bottom lip in frustration and took out a very sharp pocket knife. I began to meticulously peel the skin from Susan’s legs. Soon the other girl grew quiet and sat shivering like a frightened rabbit.



I could hear her heart, it beat so loudly. I could hear it threaten to stop as she clutched at her bonds. She knew eventually I would get to her. This one did something none of the others would do. She wrapped the chain tightly about her throat and tried to choke herself to death. Of course she passed out and her grip loosened. I found this scenario amusing. So much so I cut Susan a break.



I fired up the blowtorch to stop the profuse flow of blood coming from her legs. She screamed, an inhuman, agony filled sound echoed through that basement. Then she fell silent.  She was still conscious and watching me. Her eyes were wild and uncomprehending, her mind was gone. I had broken her.



I picked up a discarded piece of wood and inserted it into her jugular. The audible pop just before the blood began to flow brought back the old pleasure. I quickly pulled down my pants and began to relieve myself on her. It was the same as it was with the cat and with Laila. Pleasure exploded within me as semen exploded into my hand, and onto Susan’s stomach.



My new guest had regained consciousness during my, indiscretions, and screamed in horrified revulsion. I was unsure if it was the murder or my ejaculation that gave her such horrors. I felt the corners of my mouth turn into a sadistic smile as I moved slowly toward her. ‘No,’ she said softly, ‘please don’t hurt me.’



I wiped the traces of my semen upon her lips then left the basement. As I went I notice the look of revulsion on her face. Much like the one on your face now.”



The doctor’s face is ashen now. I have achieved my goal. I have told all I intend. They were all the same. They all screamed and I tortured them all. Except that last one. She bit me and her teeth imprints were matched to the marks on my face.



I made her pay. I ripped the skin first from her face, peeling away her lips then her nose, then her eyelids. I took her ears and lastly her eyes. I had sex with her four times. I kept her six days, after a few hours she smelled horrible, but on the sixth day I noticed the smell outside the house.



I rid myself of her at the local dump. No one noticed her for another ten days, by then I had been arrested. Someone had noticed the smell and the bite on my face. The police showed up and began to ask questions. They came with a search warrant. I knew my time to cleanse the world had come to an abrupt halt. The bitch had won after all, but not before I knew pleasure within the folds of cold flesh.