A Self Made Monster Read online

  Other Boson Books by Steven Vivian

  Flunky

  Prelude to Hemlock

  __________________________

  A Self-Made Monster

  by

  Steve Vivian

  __________________________

  BOSON BOOKS

  Raleigh

  Published by Boson Books

  3905 Meadow Field Lane

  Raleigh, NC 27606

  ISBN ebook 1-886420-58-0

  ISBN print 1-932482-36-9

  An imprint of C&M Online Media Inc.

  © Copyright 1999 Steven Vivian

  All rights reserved

  For information contact

  C&M Online Media Inc.

  3905 Meadow Field Lane

  Raleigh, NC 27606

  Tel: (919) 233-8164

  e-mail:[email protected]

  URL: http://www.bosonbooks.com

  For Theresa Vivian

  Many thanks to Nancy M.

  Chapter One: A Monster, Half-Made

  He lit his cigarette and tossed the spent match into his mouth, as a child tosses a peanut. The sulfur tasted good, and the Dunhill was a fine chaser.

  The night was cold, but he did not button his jacket. He smiled as the students walked by in groups of two or three, their breath rising like puffs of steam. He suppressed a chuckle. He imagined the kids chancing to see him pressed against the cold brick of the library. They might be startled, might even drop their books and spiral notepads. But they did not see him, crouched ten feet away behind the shrubs. They hurried to their dorms and apartments. Tonight was Friday, and the parties had already started.

  Above him, the library lights were being turned off. One by one, the windows went black. He enjoyed the steadiness with which the windows blackened. In a few minutes, he would walk with the same steadiness as he followed his victim. His victim would not see him standing ten feet away behind the shrub. The victim would not hear the steps ten yards behind, then five yards, then one.

  The library parking lot was normally brightly lit, but not tonight. The maintenance crew had not yet replaced the lamps. Still, Lori was not worried. Like other Tailor coeds, she had walked hundreds of times, day and night, across campus.

  She opened the car door, tossed the books into the back, and dropped into the driver’s seat. The car door resisted her pull.

  He gripped the top of the door. “Move over.”

  “Where are you taking me?” She did not recognize the gravel road and flanking cornfields. Old houses and leaning barns were bluish-black silhouettes in the moonlight.

  “Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  He laughed. “They’re bad for you, right?”

  She nodded.

  “They’re good for me.”

  After ten minutes of silence and three more old barns, she gathered the nerve to study him. “I thought you were somebody I knew—” She cursed herself. If he thinks I know him, she thought, he might kill me.

  “You probably do. I’m a professor at the college.”

  “You didn’t tell me where we were going.”

  He faced her. The dashboard lights made his face a faint green. “I didn’t tell you because we aren’t going anywhere. I am going home soon. You are not.” He said something more, but she did not hear him. She heard only her heart, amplified to a deafening volume.

  “It’s surprising,” he remarked, “how quiet my victims get. Must be disbelief, yes?”

  She seized the wheel and yanked. The car swerved to the right. Professor Alex Resartus yanked the wheel to the left, but too late. The car careened into the ditch. The dashboard hurtled toward Lori’s face and struck her.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Alex complained. “Goddammit, the noise might have startled the farmers.” He rolled down the car window, heard the hissing radiator and a distant bark.

  “Let go of my hand,” Lori pleaded. Alex had grabbed her left wrist when Lori seized the wheel, and he would not let go.

  “You’re bleeding,” he accused. “Goddammit it you’re bleeding!”

  He reached into his jacket packet as if to give Lori a tissue, but instead revealed a carving knife. The blade gleamed, and Lori now saw that Alex wore latex gloves.

  “Don’t cut me, don’t cut me, don’t—” She jerked her arm, trying to free herself from his grip. A second jerk propelled pain through her wrist and up her arm to her shoulder. But she was free.

  Lori tried to open the door. It was locked. Her now free left arm reached for the door lock, but she could not grip it.

  Her hand was gone.

  Alex held her severed hand away from his lap, so the blood would not stain his trousers.

  “You cut me, you cut me, you—”

  Alex gripped her neck and yanked. The dashboard hurtled forward again, striking her over and over. Each strike left more blood on the dashboard. Between my bloody nose and bloody wrist, she thought, I won’t have any blood left. She wondered if she should ask the professor to stop hitting her with the dashboard, but she did not have time. Her neck was being twisted, and now the steering wheel column hurtled toward her.

  He wiped blood from the steering wheel and dashboard; he licked all the blood off the latex gloves and stuffed the gloves into his packet. He made a quick inventory: cigarettes, matches, knife. He had everything. He had to be careful because his memory was getting worse. But tonight had been easy.

  He pulled a packet of cocaine from his pocket, opened it, and spilled the powder into the back seat. A nice little red herring. He walked into the cornfield, gathered himself, and began running.

  Alex got home at 11:30. He had covered five miles in thirty minutes. He tuned his radio to the all-news station. No word of a tragic accident on county road 14.

  The campus would be teeming with talk of the tragedy on Monday. A few friends would feel shock and grief; most of the victim’s acquaintances would feign grief and revel in the exciting mystery: why was she murdered? Who killed her? A drug dealer? A drug crazed hitch hiker? Was she raped first? The autopsy would show that the victim had not snorted cocaine, but the cocaine in the back seat would inspire various drug theories. And the students would exchange gossip and theories ceaselessly between classes, during parties, and as foreplay.

  Alex stood absolutely still in the middle of his living room, his senses on high alert. No discernible change. Satisfied, he walked to the living room window and pulled back the curtain. He could still clearly see his mailbox, twenty five feet away, at the end of his driveway under a street lamp. So far, so good. The student’s blood had not harmed his vision or hearing.

  Nine years ago, Alex had murdered a dozing near-sighted truck driver at a rest stop. Alex did not notice the driver’s thick bifocals. Within the hour, Alex’s vision beyond forty feet was negligible.

  Alex now walked to the bathroom, where he leaned forward and studied his reflection in the vanity mirror. His eyes were still blue, and his hair still nearly black. The darker hair was a relatively new feature. One night, Alex took a long drive and discovered a subdivision under development. Only the streets, sidewalks, and basements were completed. A jogger came loping down the street. The jogger was in his mid-twenties, six foot two, with his black hair in a virile ponytail.

  As the jogger approached, Alex swung open his car door, and the jogger collided with the door. Alex stepped out of the car and told the jogger to be more careful. The jogger jumped to his feet and punched Alex five times. When the jogger paused, Alex slapped him. The jogger rolled like a felled bowling pin and struck a fire hydrant.

  Alex dragged the jogger behind a house, cut his throat, and filled an empty water jug. When he was done, Alex used the jogger’
s shirt sleeve to wipe his bloody mouth and chin. Before leaving, he stuffed a newspaper clipping into the jogger’s throat wound. The clipping described the satanic ritual slayings of cows, goats, and a tax attorney in Los Angeles.

  In one sense, the jogger had the last laugh. Within two hours, Alex’s light brown hair had turned nearly black. Fortunately, the change occurred during summer vacation. When fall classes started, Alex explained that a newly prescribed ulcer medicine had changed his hair color.

  Such superficial changes were only an irritation. The internal changes were more serious. Alex sometimes half seriously wondered if a victim had suffered from Alzheimer’s. His memory and his concentration, once useful for weeks at a time, had worsened.

  Until tonight, Alex had avoided Tailor College students. But he reasoned that college students were usually healthy, which lessened the chance of bad blood. Tonight’s blood seemed fine, and he celebrated with another Dunhill.

  Chapter Two: Murder, It’s Intense

  “Did you hear about the murder?” Jimmy Stubbs filled Holly Dish’s glass with more beer.

  “Something about it.” She took a swig, licked away the foam mustache.

  “It’s intense,” Jimmy promised. He scooted closer to Holly on the couch and shouted over the rock music. “Her feet and hands were cut off.”

  Bob Beck appeared. “Great party for a Sunday.” Bob was the fraternity president, and he gauged his fraternity’s popularity by the size and racket of its parties. Tonight, about forty students lounged in the living room, enjoying the free beer and loud music. Bob now sat next to Holly and asked about Holly’s roommate.

  “Kris is kind of a bitch,” Holly lied.

  “Living with somebody,” Bob cautioned, “you always see them at their worst.” Bob hoped that Kris would show up tonight, but he was not optimistic, as the time was already 10:30.

  “She is too a bitch,” Jimmy agreed, though he barely knew her. His declaration made Holly smile. The smile encouraged him, so he repeated himself. I’m on a roll, Jimmy thought. Jimmy resumed his gossip about the murder.

  As he talked, Holly paid reasonable attention, only occasionally looking away, waving at friends, or suddenly declaring, “God, I just love this song!” After praising a group–”The Hiss is so great!” or “Five Fingers On One Head is so great!”—Holly shut her eyes and gyrated to the beat. After thirty or forty seconds of gyrating, Holly swigged some beer and nodded for Jimmy to continue with the story.

  Jimmy soon ran out of information about the murder, so he told the story again, but discretely exaggerated some details for dramatic effect.

  “Her head was cut off?” Holly stuck her tongue out in disgust. “What an ordeal. You know that’s wild. We read a story about a guy’s head getting popped off in Resartus’s class.”

  “What, you read horror stories in there?”

  “No. It’s Modern British lit. The story is The Prussian Officer, or maybe The Russian Officer. Something about, uh, about Russia.”

  “Sounds good.” Jimmy knew nothing about literature, so he did not know what else to say.

  “No, it was boring. But the guy’s head did pop off. It was symbolism, or a symbolic head.” She paused, waiting for the next song. She frowned. “That song is boring. Hey, I’m out of beer.”

  Jimmy refilled her glass.

  “Thanks,” she smiled.

  She smiled at me! Jimmy realized. And he felt that awkward lust, his penis swelling and his palms itching. She’s perfect for me, Jimmy thought. At feet seven inches, she was only seven inches taller than Jimmy. Her nipples, Jimmy thought, were in easy reach of his mouth.

  Jimmy was summoning the courage to ask Holly for a date when she whistled across the room to a friend. “See ya, Jimmy. Thanks for the beer.” She rose without looking at him.

  Jimmy cursed under his breath. At least she had sat with him for half an hour. Jimmy watched her disappear into a circle of students passing around a joint.

  He had to spool her.

  That’s it, Jimmy promised himself. Tomorrow he would transfer into Holly’s literature class. He would be a week behind and he hated to read, but he would be able to see Holly every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

  Professor Alex Resartus leaned against the lectern. “I forget. What was your homework for today?”

  “Nothing,” a couple students said.

  “Not exactly. ‘Nothing’ is what you got out of your homework.” He snapped his fingers. “I remember. It was to start Lady Chatterly’s Lover. More from our friend D. H. Lawrence.” He glanced at his notes. “Now. What do you make of the gentleman in the wheel chair?”

  Jimmy hid in a back corner. He did not speak or move. He hoped that by remaining still, like a hunted deer, the professor would not call on him. Unfortunately, Jimmy was the second student called upon.

  “I’m new in the class,” he complained.

  “Your excuse is old.” Alex resented students who showed up a week late without announcement.

  “And your name is Mr…?”

  “Stubbs.”

  “Stubbs.” Alex smiled. Perfect for the little smart ass, Alex thought. Sitting there in studied indifference, arms folded across his chest. “Stubbs,” he repeated loudly.

  Jimmy instantly hated the professor. The professor wore tinted glasses and battered cotton slacks. Maybe he’s an old hippie, Jimmy guessed. Although he had never met a hippie, Jimmy hated them. Jimmy next noticed that the professor wore scuffed wingtips. Jimmy concluded that Resartus simply couldn’t dress.

  The professor also yawned, smoked, frowned, and forgot questions in mid-sentence. Worst of all, Jimmy could not understand a single thing the professor said. Metafiction? Mythic archetypes? Marxist subtext? For Christ’s sake, Jimmy thought, he’s just talking about a stupid story.

  The class got worse. At one point, the professor forgot the year Lady Chatterly was published.

  A student with a pasty complexion instantly raised his hand.

  “Yes, Mr…” The professor shrugged amiably. “Your name…?”

  “Edward Head.” Edward enunciated each syllable precisely, hoping the professor would remember. Edward pushed a greasy bang of black hair from his forehead. “Lady Chatterly’s Lover was published in 1928. It was a private edition.”

  Alex raised his eyebrows at this fact, one of many that he had forgotten. “That’s right.”

  “An expurgated edition was put out in London in 1933. No, that’s ‘32.”

  “That’s very good.”

  “The complete edition,” Edward continued, “wasn’t brought out until 1960. That didn’t do much good for Lawrence, ‘cause he died in 1930.”

  The students shifted in their chairs, offended by Edward’s knowledge. Several glanced at their watches. Jimmy cradled his chin in one palm and discreetly extended the hand’s middle finger at the know it all.

  After Alex dismissed class, Edward approached the professor’s desk.

  “Yes, Mr…”

  “Mr. Head.”

  “Right.”

  “I wanted–I’d like to tell you that I really liked The Best Year of His Life.”

  Alex considered Edward anew. Not many students knew about his writing.

  “I think it’s really great. I took your class because of it.” Edward’s voice lowered, as if confiding a secret to a lover. “I found it in a book sale this summer—really, it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read.”

  “Thanks.” Alex lit a Dunhill, grinned through the smoke. He almost ate the match, then thought better of it. “That’s quite a compliment. I do appreciate it,” Alex lied. He was beyond caring about The Best Year of His Life.

  “If you don’t mind me asking—?”

  Alex smiled patiently.

  “Well, why do you write? I mean, what’s your motive?”

  Nobody had asked that question in years. “I write for…”Alex gathered his thoughts.”…for the same reason I read. A desire to be elsewhere.”

  “Huh…yo
u mean, someplace other from here? At Tailor?”

  “No, not Tailor specifically. Just to be…elsewhere.”

  “What about your other novels?”

  Alex removed his glasses and rubbed his hollowed, bloodshot eyes. “There are no others.”

  “But that one is worth ten bad ones, I mean ordinary ones.”

  “Thanks. Nice of you to remember.”

  Jimmy caught up with Holly in the hallway.

  “I didn’t know you were going to take this class,” Holly said.

  “My advisor told me I should take it for humanities credit. Is it tough?”

  “I can’t tell yet. What did you think?”

  “I don’t like the professor much.”

  “I’ve heard he’s OK. Just all over the road. Did you know he’s a writer?”

  “Really?” Jimmy tried to sound interested. Before Holly had a chance to continue, Jimmy suggested they get a coffee at the student union. Holly agreed.

  Jimmy discovered that besides talking about rock music and beer, Holly enjoyed talking about money. After graduation, she explained, she was moving to New York City to work in publishing. She hoped to be an agent. Agents, she said breathlessly, get up to fifteen percent of an author’s earnings.

  “That’s why I’m in professor Resartus’s class,” she said. “He might have connections. If I do OK in his class, I hope he writes a recommendation.”

  “What kind of stuff does he write?”

  “I don’t know. Some sort of, of writing.”

  Talk turned to Resartus’s assignments. Holly placed the class syllabus on the table. Jimmy pretended to study the syllabus and managed to move his chair closer to Holly’s. Being short could be good sometimes, he told himself. From the corner of his eye, he could study the heft of Holly’s breasts.

  An erection forced him to reposition himself. He turned his head, pretended to cough, and repositioned himself a second time.

  “This syllabus doesn’t look too bad,” he said casually. “I think that—” He swore. Holly was three tables over, talking to Edward Know It All.

  Chapter Three: The Dead Too Have Hopes

  Alex worked in his office until the sun was safely in the distant west. He put on his sunglasses, got a cigarette, and walked to his car. Thank hobbled Jesus, Alex thought, it’s only February.