After returning from the pier, I indulged in some art. I never considered myself as a serious artist; I preferred to just let my sub-conscious take over and so on. Those who visited my apartment were shocked at my art... well any human body that is shown to be in pain or worse is bound to worry – or titillate – others. I loved to see their reactions, though I could never match their reactions when I decide they must be punished.
Those who saw my artwork never lived to tell others.
The faint stench of blood hung in the air like a sweet fragrance. I enjoyed the smell; it always made me feel hungry. It was then I chose to see if I had any meat left in my old, burnt out refrigerator. There was. Before disposing of Joan, I had procured some of her organs and mounds of her flesh. Time for lunch.
The whole process took no longer than half an hour. I licked my lips in anticipation. My last date tasted like chicken though she was rough and she was very tough to chew. My friends at the NYPD thought otherwise; they loved my cooking. I always wondered telling them that they were eating the missing persons which they devoted so much time to in their case files. I imagine they would keep eating and forget. They were ravenous pigs who were so gluttonous, it’s a wonder they haven’t retired on disability. I usually bought packages to their station, to keep relations as my Father was a police officer himself. His money every month kept me from having to seek work; though it is only been two weeks and I am running low. Buying those spices and sauces for my meat had not been very sensible of me.
Joan tasted a lot like pork. Plus, her flesh wasn’t rough; it ripped apart easily. I devoured her quickly as I needed to leave the apartment soon. I forgot to mention, despite my good rapport with the police, there was one who seemed to have it in for me. I must admit, he is smart and not empty-headed like the rest of them. His name is Officer Stark; a perpetual thorn in my side.
He promised me a phone call today, which is why I must vacate and procure an alibi.
I must meet with my dealer. Yes, he sells drugs, but I am no addict. My dealer is Mario Escobar; a creepy burnt out hippy who was a roadie for The Doors back in the day. I heard, through word of mouth, that he was the one who sold Jim Morrison the drugs that claimed his life. I could never be sure if that was true, because he rarely talked about his past.
The reason I am meeting him is simple. He plans to sell me a batch of special LSD, which incapacitates the user. It is a glorified rohypnol; developed by the US government during the Second World War. I plan to use it on an old acquaintance of mine. But I’ll get to that much later.
First I must clean up. Joan is beginning to smell rancid.
Or at least, what is left of her.